Synopsis: in sexually liberal Republic of Orgasms, to become a state approved Breeder (aka be allowed to fuck anyone, anytime, anywhere) you must first be assessed by a doctor so you can gain your certificate. and you so badly want to be fucked. lucky for you, you've finally come of age.
and today, you'll be seen by Doctor Nanami, who's more than happy to do his duty and assist an eager citizen ;)
Warnings: smut, porn with a lil plot, p in v, unprotected sex, dubcon/systematic dubcon, non curse au, weird highly sexual world don't question it, pússy slapping, breast play, deepthroating, cunnilingus, virgin!reader, spitting, latex gloves, doctor!nanami making reader use state mandated terms, improper use of medical equipment, talking reader through it, dom daddy!nanami, horny!reader, throat bulging, belly bulging, brief rimming, some anal, creampie, spitting, cúm eating, hair pulling, backshots, pússy inspection, mentions of exhibitionism and voyeurism, squirting and drinking it, pússyjob/outercourse, spanking, orgasm denial, asking for permission, not proofread
Word Count: 5.9k
It’s time for your very first physical examination.
Everyone, once they reach the age of 21, must be checked for their sexual reproductivity value. In a world where reproduction is king, and sex is so highly revered, there is nothing more important than having a body that could spread pleasure and bear children.
You’re excited, to say the least.
Finally, the State will acknowledge your womanhood, will allow you to do your part as a citizen, and determine your place in society.
A little nervous, you walk into the examination room. It’s a sterile place, as any hospital rooms tend to be, but this one is even more so because it’s a room in the country’s most celebrated reproduction facility. How lucky your body gets to be assessed in such a respectable place.
There’s a gynecology chair in the middle and that’s where your eyes gravitate to immediately.
“Good morning.”
You jolt.
“Oh!”
A man in a white lab coat and slacks sits at a desk. He has luscious blond hair, glasses, and a face as stoic as a speculum. You’re taken aback by his handsomeness. Broad shoulders, defined features, chiselled face, and great height. How is it possible that he’s a doctor and not a Breeder?
The demand for his superior genetics would be through the roof.
“H-hi, doctor. Forgive me, I didn’t see you.”
You’re grateful to be paired with someone young and attractive. One of your neighbours had an old man who she claimed should have retired decades ago. It’s a blessing to have nice eye candy.
As though he knows exactly what you’re thinking, he purses his lips. “It’s quite alright.” Then he jerks his chin, encouraging you to step in and close the door behind you. “I’m Doctor Kento Nanami, you may call me Doctor or Nanami or the two combined.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes meet yours. One glance up and down your body is all he needs, and he’s returning to his papers.
Scribbling notes down on a pad, your eyes focus on the slenderness of his fingers and their length. Is he gentle or clinical in his approach?
Your older friend had a very gentle one and she said the process felt quite relaxing, almost therapeutic. Meanwhile, your other friend remarked how cold and unfeeling her doctor was, and that she was on edge the entire time. And another one of your friends said hers was actually rather rough, like a father scolding a child!
Which would you prefer, you wonder.
Doctor Nanami asks, “You have been informed about the due process, yes?”
The State mandated broadcasts are your bread and butter as a young woman; there’s no way you could forget the procedure. For the longest time, you’d been dreaming of this moment and finally it’s here. You won’t mess it up.
“Yes, of course — I must strip all of my clothes, lie on the chair, and place my feet on the stirrups,” you recite, cheerfully.
He raises a brow at you.
Somehow you’re getting the impression that he’s not very impressed with your enthusiasm. Maybe it’s because he’s been doing this for so long. Maybe he’s seen it all, and more, and he’s just looking forward to getting it over and done with. Or maybe he just really doesn’t like you.
Regardless, you’re undeterred.
Humming under your breath, you shrug off your clothes and fold them on the table to the side, like you’ve seen in the videos. It’s cold here, and you fight the shivers threatening to wrack your body.
As an aspiring Female Breeder, nudity is something you’ve had to grow familiar and comfortable with but now that you’re faced with your first time being nude in front of the opposite gender, it feels a little too daunting.
Heat flushes on your skin, embarrassment coursing through your veins, although one shy glance at him reveals he isn’t looking at you at all.
Are you disappointed or relieved?
The nurses had thoroughly cleansed and prepped your body — you’re washed, exfoliated, and waxed from head to toe. You’ve never felt cleaner and softer, like a newborn baby.
You climb onto the chair, the protective paper crinkling beneath you, and spread your legs. It faces him entirely, and you have to rationalise with yourself that he’s probably seen a thousand vaginas in his life and he won’t think yours look weird at all.
Bright, white light shines down upon you, and you squint at its blinding capacity. Then, you hear him put his pen down, and push his chair back.
“Alright, I will begin the examination now.”
Craning to see him, you watch him roll his sleeves up revealing the thickness of his forearms, the light hairs, and the prominent veins that run up the length and bulge with his movement. Doctor Nanami snaps latex gloves on with expert precision, a rehearsed move that’s become a habit.
He carries a clipboard and a pen, and he comes to stand over you, eyes roving over your body.
“I’ll be making notes for your record, please don’t mind me,” he mutters, adjusting his glasses.
You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze; it’s like you can feel the weight of his all-seeing eyes and where they land, where they skim, where they narrow in on, and where they return to. Does he find you attractive? If he saw you in the streets, would he be overcome with the need to breed you, hard and rough on the dirty ground?
“Forgive my touch,” Doctor Nanami says, reaching a hand down to press three fingers on the fat of your breast. He watches it bounce, and notes down his thoughts. “Your areolas seem to be quite average in size, neither too small nor too large per regulations. Its shade is also of interest.”
No one’s ever voiced out their assessment of your body like so. He’s so blunt, so matter-of-fact. Yet, you find that you don’t really mind it. It’s much better than the crude lies boys tell you. Many have tried to get under your skirt but you never let them. You vowed that your first time being touched would be by a respectable man who would accurately know your worth. And who would be better than someone whose whole occupation is dedicated to determining the worth of Breeders?
Doctor Nanami asks, “Do you touch your breasts?”
“Um, touch as in…”
He looks at you over the clipboard. “Do you play with your breasts? Do you squeeze them, grope them, tease your nipples, have you determined their sensitivity?”
“No…sorry.”
The State encourages you all to explore their bodies, to know your likes and dislikes as appropriate, but you never did. It seemed too scary for you. Virgins are not seen as especially good nor particularly bad in today’s climate. In fact, experience and skill is more valuable. That’s why you were hoping you could just leave it to the experts, when it came down to ‘getting down.’ At least then, they wouldn’t accidentally break something, like you fear you would.
Shaking his head, he says, “It’s nothing to apologise for. It simply means I will have to determine for myself.” He flicks to a different page on his clipboard and signs something. “Do you consent?”
“I consent.”
Board placed down on a metal table, he leaves both hands free.
You gulp as they approach your breasts.
A finger brushes lightly against the underside. You stiffen. It ventures up, circling your nipple but not touching just yet. Voice deep, he asks, “You know the breeding term for your breasts, yes?”
Suddenly feeling like you’re back in school, you answer, “Tits, sir— sorry, I mean, Doctor.”
His lip twitches. “That’s quite alright.”
His finger flicks your nipple, the bud already hard due to the chill of the examination room. You gasp.
Doctor Nanami nods, and does the same to the other. Now, both of your breasts are being groped. You writhe beneath him. “You have above average sensitivity,” he notes. “Are you partial to the sting of pain?”
“I-I don’t know,” you confess, distracted by the sensation of your nipples being flicked and rolled by latex-covered fingers.
“Well, let’s see, shall we?” That’s all the warning he gives you before he pinches both nipples hard. You wince, body ever so slightly jerking away from his merciless touch. The doctor hums. “It does not appear to be your thing. I’ll have to conduct more tests to determine for sure you do not have masochistic traits.”
Quietly and with a drop of fright, you ask, “Tests? What kind of tests?”
He presses a button on the chair, and the top half of your body is lowered down until your eyes are at his crotch level. You avert your eyes.
“Full-body tests. As per your records, you are a virgin and with little to no sexual exploration of yourself, correct?” He waits for your nod. He continues. “It means there is much information about you the State will be missing. It is my duty to fill in those blanks. You may revoke your consent now, but do be aware that you will have to rebook, and there is a backlog, so you may have to wait months before gaining your certification.”
You shake your head. “No, no, I don’t want to wait. You’re free to do whatever you’d like with me, Doctor.”
“Careful,” he rasps. “Those are Breeding words, Miss, and you are aware that, as per regulations, upon your consent to please, I have every right to take you up on that offer.”
Licking your lips, you allow yourself to eye the bulge that’s steadily growing in his slacks. Heat rushes to your pussy. You hadn’t meant to say those words, especially because you’re not yet qualified to do so, but you’re only one step away and, S.M.S.E. (State Mandated Sexual Examiners) have the privilege of being able to examine anyone they’d like — women who are not yet 21 but are at least 18, already married women, mothers, strangers on the street who wear the yellow pin to show they’re certified to fornicate in public.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to learn all about yourself before you step out into the wider world a real woman.
Plus, it’d be nice if your first time could be taken by someone as hot as him.
“I’d like a full body examination please, Doctor. I understand the implications of my word and consent to leaving my body to your full scrutiny,” you recite the prepared speech. “Please take care of me.”
Doctor Nanami sighs and picks up the clipboard. He signs another random page and hands it over to you. The page is titled ‘Virginity Removal Consent Form.’
At the bottom line, you sign too.
The dull thud of it placed back on the table signifies the finality of the contract.
Your heart beats faster, palms sweating, and core tingling to life.
“Alright, let’s start with your vagina.”
He drags his chair over to where your legs are spread on the stirrups, and sits there. You know he can see everything, and you know he’s properly looking now. You hope he’s not weirded out by how wet you are. His gloved hands rests on your knees, sliding down your inner thighs, rubbing warmth there, before they push them wider.
“Do you know the correct term for your vagina?”
“P-pussy,” you answer.
He nods, patting your thigh. “Good. Will you describe for me what I’m doing right now?”
“You’re looking at my pussy, Doctor.”
His fingers stroke your puffy lips, assessing the shape, size and colour, you’re sure. He spreads them open then, revealing you fully to his watchful eyes. “And now?”
“You’re spreading my pussy lips open, Doctor.”
“And if I have an erection in my pants, it means?”
You’re breathless at the question, and you’re aware that, at the twitch of his lips, he saw the twitch of your clit. You want to hide from him, but you can’t. And he wouldn’t let you. Despite your nervousness, you reply, “It means you like what you see?”
“And if my mouth is watering?”
A gasp tears out of you.
Countless videos have prepared you for your lines, but they’ve never prepared you for the real thing, never prepped you to be so openly desired by someone older and more experienced. How can he so easily say something like that? Doesn’t he know the effect he has on women?
His voice is so deep, so raspy, and his touch is warm despite the layer that keeps him from really touching you. Having such a hot doctor wasn’t a blessing, you realise; it’s a curse.
SMACK!
You yelp, thighs shutting around his hand. He’d slapped your pussy.
Growling, he shoves them back open and says, “I will repeat myself once, and only once — what does it mean if my mouth waters at the sight of your pretty pussy?”
“You want to taste it.”
Doctor Nanami’s breath fans across your sopping cunt. His hands tuuuuug you down so you’re even closer to his face. He doesn’t touch you there yet. No, he’s taking his time. First, he tests you again. “What’s this action called, hmm?”
“C-cunnilingus?”
“Are you asking or telling me?”
His curt tone leaves no room for argument; he’s not the kind of man who’s playful during sex, or even before nor after, it seems.
Eager to feel his mouth on you, to know what it feels like to be eaten out, to know for yourself if it feels as good as the couple you always see on the park bench on your way to school makes it seem, you whine, “Telling you, sir. Please taste me, please, Doctor.”
The scruff on his jaw rubs your inner thigh as he mutters, “You must be top in your class in Begging 101.”
Then, he’s tasting you.
A lap of his long, flat tongue covers your entire slit from hole to clit. He collects your wetness and gulps it down. Doctor Nanami mulls the taste over and says aloud, “Sweet. A 9.2 out of 10. I can tell you keep a healthy diet. Very good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
You feel his smile on your clit, lips mouthing against the pulsing thing. “Such a polite girl you are. You’ll make for a very good Breeder.”
That’s all you’ve ever wanted — to be taken so readily in the streets, to be watched as you’re fucked so good by a big, strong man who only wants to pump his cum inside your pussy, and be stretched out enough for another to slip in easily. You want to make your country proud.
Doctor Nanami laps up your juices precisely.
He doesn’t hesitate to circle the rim of your other hole too, if an errant drop were to escape him. In fact, he lingers there for a moment, waiting until you’re absolutely squirming and whimpering for it.
His tongue flicks your clit over and over again, sucking on the bud so you’ll hear the squelches! and feel the incredible pleasure of being eaten out by a pro.
Your hips rock towards his face, seeking the friction. The doctor’s gorging himself on your creamy juices, tasting you as if you’re just so delicious, so intoxicating. Tongue lashing through your cunt, he slithers it through, all while massaging your ass, kneading the flesh to comfort you.
He’s paying so much attention on your clit, it has you panting like a dog, and fighting to scramble away from him. “Ngh! Not there, please doctor.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” he scolds, yanking you back, and slapping your clit in punishment. You squeal. “The clitoris is where you’ll feel the most pleasure. Do not run from it.”
Squirming and blubbering, you confess, “It feels too scary.”
“Then I highly recommend you rub your little clit when you get home until you’re cumming all over your sheets. Grow very familiar with your pussy. I don’t want any arguments about it. You think a Breeder would go easy on your cunt?”
Of course the answer is no. You’ve seen from demonstrations in your college how relentless and cruel dominant Breeders can be — they’ll have you crying and begging and saying things you’d never say in any other situation. And by god, were you always so jealous. Like the other girls, you’d squeeze your thighs, soaking through your panties when piercing eyes would land on you, and scarred lips would curl into a smirk, as though vowing it’d be you next.
Delirious with the roughness of his slurrrping!, you can only nod and promise, “I will. I’ll rub my clit so hard later, Doctor.”
“Good girl.”
A dollop of spit lands with a thwack! right on your clit, sliding down your slit and mingling with your sloppy juices. Two fingers rub it in. He holds up his soaked hand, spreading the long digits to show you the translucent web it creates. Almost monotone, he quizzes you again, “What is the purpose of your pussy juices?”
“Lubrication.”
“Lubrication of what.”
“Of anything you want to put inside me, Doctor,” you mewl.
Doctor Nanami nods, pleased. “Clever girl. Most women answer with ‘cock’ or ‘fingers’ but the accurate answer is, the lubrication is to ease the entry of anything. Of course, there are a number of things you should not penetrate a pussy with, but in theory, anything goes. Now, relax for me.”
He pushes those two fingers in, pinning your hips with a heavy arm thrown over your belly so you can’t run away from the pressure.
They stretch you out, immediately curling upwards and finding that spot inside your gummy walls the broadcasts taught you was called a ‘g-spot’. It has you creaming even more on his fingers.
The feeling of latex against soft skin is odd, though it doesn’t bother you. It’s not a very thick material at all. You can still feel the callouses on his fingers, albeit weakly. Still, you wish you could feel him bare.
A thumb rubs your clit in tight circles, all while his fingers press in from inside, thoroughly stimulating all around and you feel it building and building. The doctor clamps his mouth over your clit, resistant to shoving hands.
“S-shit, I think I’m going to pee!”
“No,” he says, dragging the word out like you’re a child. “It’s not pee. You know what it is. Say it.”
Your cunt clenches around him. “Cum! Doctor, I’m gonna cum.”
“Yes, yes you are. But you must hold it.”
Eyes widening, you stare down at him, bewildered. “No, I can’t. I can’t hold it in!”
His cold eyes pin you to the chair, and with challenge in those eyes, he doubles the speed and intensity in which he’s sucking your clit and curling against your g-spot. “You can, and you will. Do not come until I count to one, do you hear me?”
A strong wrist pistons his fingers in, never missing that sensitive spot inside you, never breaking eye contact and never letting your clit get a second to rest.
“Three,” he says.
The obscene squelches he’s wringing from you reach your ears, filling the room, and you have to wonder if anyone could hear what’s happening here from outside. They’d probably be so jealous, waiting for their turn.
“Two.”
They’re imagining your lewd body played mercilessly by Doctor Nanami, and be incapable of deciding who they wanted to be more.
You being fingered to your first proper orgasm or him, having the honour.
“One.”
You cum with a scream. Hot juices spring out of you, splashing and coating his arm and labcoat with the liquid. As the State recommends, he guzzles down as much of your cum as he can, even as it dribbles down his chin. Your whole body spasms.
You’ve had orgasms before — accidentally realising you can feel good from humping your teddy bear in your bed, sitting on the washing machine as it was running, riding the crease of your jeans — but they’ve been weak in comparison to this.
The convulsions eventually slow. He gives your pulsing cunt a few final licks.
Limp, you lie there, panting from the remnants of a mindmelting cum.
Doctor Nanami pats your pussy, and leisurely strolls over to the other end. “Well done. You did well. It’s a good sign that you can squirt so easily. 60% of Breeders value that in their partners; you’ll be quite a popular thing.”
His wet, gloved fingers drag over your naked body, circling your clit for the last time, climbing up your belly, the valley between your breasts, flicking a nipple and making it glisten with your spend, before finally arriving at your mouth.
He smears your own juices across your lips, humming with approval when you lick his fingers clean.
Soon, he rips his gloves off and a second later, cold, calloused hands are rubbing your cheek. Looming over you, he pulls your bottom lip down to watch it bounce back in place, and says, “Open wide for me, dear.”
Shining a flashlight pen inside your mouth, he inspects that part of you too. Satisfied, he stands up, and begins to unbuckle his belt. The sound of leather scraping and metal clinking has your thighs clenching tight together, feet no longer on the stirrups.
His cock is freed and your mouth drools at the size.
It’s bigger than the average penises they show on the broadcasts, in the school textbooks and live performances. Long, clean, thick, with two veins leading up to a pretty, pink tip. A Grade 1 cock for sure!
Doctor Nanami taps the cockhead at your lips, and like the videos you’ve watched, you stretch your lips out into as big of an O as you can and readily swallow him in. You’ve practiced on dildos before, and even cucumbers, but none of your past experiences can compare to the feel of an actual cock.
The heat, the ridges, the salty taste of skin and pre…
It’s quite wonderful.
“No teeth,” he warns. “It will not reflect well on your record if you cannot blow a man properly.”
“I understand, Doctor.”
You shut your eyes tight, focusing on not gagging and throwing up all over him, like the textbooks warned against. To his credit, he’s going slowly, not shoving it all in one go. It’s an odd gentleness that contrasts with his usual harshness.
And when he’s about halfway in, he pulls out just enough to keep his tip inside your mouth, and inches back inside. Your hands clench into fists.
“Breathe through your nose,” he advises. “As soon as you are -hah- certified, there will be men wanting to take –mm, what a tight little mouth– t-take advantage of you. Be sure you warn them ahead of time you’re new and should not be deepthroated so casually, yes?”
You try to answer, but it comes out muffled, and when he groans, you realise maybe that was his intention all along.
Doctor Nanami cradles your neck. His thumb runs up and down the column of your throat, and you know he must be admiring the bulge of his cock. “I have no doubt you’ll be a Special Grade whore very soon.”
A couple seconds later, he pulls out again.
He doesn’t thrust back in.
Instead, he keeps his tip inside and says, “Lick it, sweetheart. Around, and on the slit. Slow but firm, that’s how I like it.”
You do as he says — you tongue his slit, digging the tip of your tongue inside and swallowing the salty taste he leaks out. The doctor grunts, clamping down on his base, and then he’s pulling away completely.
It wasn’t the most comfortable experience, but you have to admit, there’s something rather addictive about having your mouth preoccupied.
Back between your legs, he stands, tugging on his still-hard cock. It’s leaking precum and you almost want to lick it up again.
Doctor Nanami drops his heavy cock right onto your pussy, and your sticky juices grab on immediately. Back and forth, he begins sawing your cunt, drawing back so that his tip will nudge against your clit on his way up. Each thrust of his hip has you gasping and moaning.
“What do you call this act?”
He’s testing you again, and you don’t want to disappoint, so you answer, “Outercourse, sir. Or, pussyjob.”
“Good.”
Holding his cock down with a thumb, he makes sure the pressure and friction is just right. The squelches are coming back, so loud and so wet. He doesn’t make fun of you, doesn’t point out that you’re acting like a bitch in heat, he simply rubs his cock between your lips over and over again, until he’s smearing his pre on your lower belly.
Oh god, it’s so hot. His cock’s scalding against your pussy. You can’t believe you had to wait so long to be fucked.
The back of your knees are held. He pushes them back so that they’re grazing your chest. The position is uncomfortable, muscles creaking in complaint, and what’s more uncomfortable is the fact that he can see everything more clearly like this, even the puckering of your asshole.
“You will be bent in all sorts of positions,” he muses. “This is a personal favourite of mine, and soon you’ll have your own.”
That makes you smile.
You wonder what position men will put you in most, and which you’ll find the most pleasurable. Maybe doggy, since men love it so much. Maybe missionary because you can stare into your partner’s eyes and know that they’re rolling to the back of their heads. Maybe you’ll love all of them equally.
“Show me why it’s your favourite, Doctor. I want to feel you.”
Doctor Nanami leans forward, stretching your legs out even more, until his nose skims yours. “Open,” he huskily mutters. And when you do, his spit lands on your tongue. You swallow it down with a moan. “What a good girl you are. It’d be my honour to be your first. I promise to make you feel very good. Hold on to my arms, if you need. It might sting a little.”
His fat cock prods your opening. He inspects your face for hesitation, and when he finds none, only the eager drool of a whore ready for cock, he pushes in.
A whine leaves your lips.
“Mm fuck! It’s too big!”
Tutting, he doesn’t stop. “Breeders don’t complain. Breeders are grateful to be fucked by big cocks, yes?”
Tears in your eyes, you peer up at him, panting and feeling like you might pass out. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I -ngh- really don’t think I can take it.”
He shakes his head. “You can. You can absolutely take it. Be a good girl, won’t you? Breathe and relax this pussy for me. Just bear with it for another second, and soon you’ll be begging for more.”
The doctor’s stretching you out so wide, spearing you whole with his cock, that you think he might break you. But you have to trust him. He wants the best for you. With no other choice, you have to cling onto his strong arms, digging your nails for purchase.
Soon, he bottoms out. His pelvis presses against your clit. Absentmindedly, your hips grind in circles, aching for friction there.
“I’m going to start moving now. If you need to cum, you will tell me and ask for permission. Repeat it.”
“If I need to -hah- cum, I’ll ask for permission."
Doctor Nanami starts slowly, rutting his cock an inch at first, then two, then three, and soon he’s building up a clinical pace. His rhythm is consistent, unwavering, and it’s just what you need.
The pain disappears, and you have to think hard to remember if it even existed at all.
Just like he said, you begin feeling good. Too good.
Wantonly, you start moaning. Like something’s been awakened in you, you fuck back into him, eager to feel as much of him as you can.
“Your body was made to be fucked,” he rasps, hips slamming into yours now. Skin slaps against each other, making a fwop! fwop! fwop! sound you can’t escape from. “Your body was made to take cock. A good little cockwhore. Say it.”
“I’m a good -hngh!- cockwhore,” you moan out. Your tits are bouncing with the force of his thrusting. It can’t even be called that anymore — he’s effectively ramming his cock in, ploughing you.
His cockhead massages your inner walls, fighting against the pleats that try to hold onto him. He slides past your g-spot, constantly teasing the poor thing as he impales you on his fat, throbbing cock over and over again.
Doctor Nanami orders, “Look down. Tell me what you see.”
Your eyes fall to where you’re connected, and you clench hard on him. He grunts, hips speeding up.
“I see how deep you are, Doctor. I see my pussy taking you so easily now. Oh, fuck! Y-your cock, Doctor. I can see it pushing through my belly. You’re so big!”
“More,” he says.
You have to fight to keep your head steady, to make your glassy eyes clear enough to really see. “My juices and yours, they’re mixing a-and there’s a ring of cream at your base.”
Like he’d been waiting, he thumbs that cream and shoves it inside your mouth. It’s sweet, salty and tangy. You don’t hate it. You suck on it, bobbing your head up and down like it’s his cock. The doctor looks almost furious and he suddenly grabs your throat, squeezing hard enough to make you feel lightheaded. “God, you’re a filthy thing, aren’t you?”
Sweat layered over your skin, you know you’ve soaked through the paper beneath you. You slip and slide on the chair, kept in place by his firm hands. He’s ravaging you, rendering you a complete mess. No longer a woman, and just a slut for his cock.
It’s the best feeling in the world.
Just as he had done before, you play with your tits, squeezing and pinching your nipples.
So caught in the pleasure, you don’t notice he’d moved until something cold touches your clit. You shriek, hips grinding up towards it. You look down and see he’s picked up a stethoscope from somewhere. He rubs it in circles on the bundle of nerves, watching drool leak out of your lips at the slight sting of the coldness..
He lifts his glasses out of the way, and licks your drool up. The doctor shoves his tongue inside your mouth.
For the first time in the appointment, he kisses you. Your tongues tangle together, and you think you’ve never tasted anything more amazing.
His rough hands gather you up, bringing you to a sitting position. “Wrap your arms around me,” he commands.
Carried in his arms, he bounces you up and down on his cock, using gravity to do most of the work for him.
“Ngh! Y-you’re in so deep, Doctor!”
He huffs, glasses foggy with the humidity you two have created. You hold onto it, so it doesn’t rattle off. “You’re clamping down on me so hard,” he hisses. “You like this position, don’t you?”
“Yes! Yes! It’s so fucking good!”
Like this, he can push in even deeper. You swear you can feel him in your lungs. All the while, you’re still kissing him, sucking on his tongue and drinking up as much of his saliva as you can.
One of his hands is carrying you up by the ass, and he repositions it enough so that his finger can circle your asshole. You moan into his mouth. “Doctor, n-no!”
“You signed the form,” he growls out. “Behave and take it.”
That finger pushes in, knuckle deep, and it’s enough to make you feel so impossibly full.
“I’m going to cum,” you warn.
He shakes his head. “Wait.”
But you can’t. You cum again.
As you’re spasming in his arms, he doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you, splitting you with his throbbing cock. Only when you stop does he drop you back down on the chair, spinning you around so you’re face down on the soaked paper.
He thrusts back in, holding your hips and dragging it back and forth. “I told you to wait, didn’t I?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor! I couldn’t help it.”
“Oh, but you could. You just didn’t want to, did you, you little cockslut?”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Heat blossoms on your ass cheek, where he’d slapped the rippling flesh. He grunts with every clench of your cunt because of the pain. You don’t hate the pain. You almost beg him to spank you harder, but you don’t. Too much is already happening. You don’t think you can take any more.
You can only moan and moan and moan some more as he uses you like a fleshlight. The doctor spits on your puckering hole and hooks his thumb inside.
“Hngh! N-not -hic!- there.”
“Not here?” he repeats, mocking now. “But your pussy’s pulsing like crazy. It’d be wise if you learned to be more honest.” The doctor bends down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, and he whispers, “Like you should be honest with me and say you’re about to cum again.”
Drowning in your own wetness, his hand shoving your face down right where your pussy juices had pooled, you scream loud enough for the whole hospital to hear, “I want to cum again!”
“Go ahead, darling.”
You howl, hands ripping up what’s left with the paper and threatening to break through the foam padding of the chair. You’re beyond sensitive now after the numerous orgasms he’s given you, and the slapping of his balls on your clit is enough stimulation to have mini orgasms suffocating you from inside.
Doctor Nanami bundles up a handful of your hair, and he yanks. Your back arches, and your ass slams back onto his hips. Your gargled gasp echoes in the room. He’s in so fucking deep and you think he might never leave you again. Oh god, you hope he never does.
“You want to be creampied? Hmm? You want this dirty pussy filled with my cum?”
“Yes!” you cry. “I want you to cum inside me!”
“How kind,” he growls out.
Doctor Nanami spurts inside with a low grunt, hips still rutting. The force of his orgasm sends you over the edge again. You cum another time, yelling his name, and thinking you might actually die.
When he pulls out, jerking his cock to wring out the last spurts on your back. He groans out, “Such a good girl, you took my cock so well.”
Eventually, silence returns to the examination room. You wonder how long it’s been, if someone’s waiting to take your place, and then decide you don’t really care.
Your knees give up and you fall to the floor.
With a sigh, he picks you up and lays you back down on the chair.
Running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, he releases a breath and readjusts his glasses. As he fixes up his slacks, tucking his softening cock inside, he smiles warmly for the first time.
Doctor Nanami pecks your lips, fingers fucking the cum oozing out of you back inside your cunt, and keeping you plugged up.
a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic
pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader
summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?
warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii
a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3
general masterlist
You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.
Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.
Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.
For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.
The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.
The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.
You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.
Silence, then a low chuckle.
When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.
Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.
Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.
"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"
You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.
"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"
Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.
"—grant me the honor of—"
"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.
The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.
"Pardon?"
You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."
His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."
A pause.
His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"
You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."
His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."
You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."
You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."
He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."
You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."
At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"
You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."
He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."
"As they should," you replied smoothly.
To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."
A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.
Yet, he remained.
You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.
You paid it no mind.
He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.
"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"
A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."
You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."
His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."
You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."
"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."
You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"
His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.
"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."
You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."
He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"
"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."
He smirked. "Explains what?"
"Why I’ve never heard of it."
A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.
You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."
"Not yet," he said, far too easily.
You didn’t look up. "Why?"
"Because you haven’t given me yours."
You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.
"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.
"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.
You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."
You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."
"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."
You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.
Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."
You didn't dignify that with a response.
But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.
He had yet to claim your name.
No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.
Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.
Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.
He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.
But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.
Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”
A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.
Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."
“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.
“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.
Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”
Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."
Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."
Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."
"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"
Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."
Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.
Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.
"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"
Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."
Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."
Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"
"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."
Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."
Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.
His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"
But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.
"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."
And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.
The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.
Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.
Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.
You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.
Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”
You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?”
Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”
“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.
However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?
But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.
It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.
Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”
“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”
Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.
The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.
That suitor.
The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."
The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."
Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."
Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.
Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."
Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.
Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."
A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.
As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.
Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”
You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.
The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.
Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”
You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.
“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.
Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.
“Did you see him?”
You resumed braiding. “Who?”
Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”
You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.
“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”
Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”
Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”
You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.
And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.
The thought settled in your chest like a stone.
It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.
Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.
You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”
Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”
You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”
“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”
You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”
Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.
“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.
You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”
Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”
“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”
“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”
You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”
“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”
You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.
“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.
Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.
But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.
Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.
Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.
But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.
Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.
So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.
The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.
Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.
They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.
It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.
Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.
"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."
Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.
"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."
His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."
You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.
It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.
For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.
Perhaps the gods were toying with him.
"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.
Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."
"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."
"Not a chance."
You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"
Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."
He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.
"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.
"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"
For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.
It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.
And gods, it was beautiful.
Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.
"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."
Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."
He did not say so. He knew so.
Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.
And he had no intention of stopping now.
But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”
Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.
You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.
In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.
You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.
It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.
That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.
In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.
His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.
It is sharp. Focused.
It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.
It darkens.
Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.
Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?
His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.
But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—
His eyes.
Still watching.
“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.
But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”
Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”
Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”
This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”
Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.
But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."
Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"
Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."
"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.
Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."
Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.
Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.
You do not want to be here.
All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.
“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”
“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”
You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.
"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"
He does not notice the shadow behind him.
“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”
The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.
Gojo.
The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.
“You—”
“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”
With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.
Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.
“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.
You hesitate, unsettled.
“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.
Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.
His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”
He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”
“That’s not—”
“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?
You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”
His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.
“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”
His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.
“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”
Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”
Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”
You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.
His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.
The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.
His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”
The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.
“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”
You swallow. “No.”
A lie.
Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.
For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”
You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”
He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.
You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”
Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”
You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”
His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”
You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.
Until it isn’t, obviously.
He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.
“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”
You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”
Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”
“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”
Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”
“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”
“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.
His head snaps up. “Wait—”
You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.
Silence.
Gojo blinks at the board.
You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”
Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”
You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”
Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”
That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”
Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.
You don’t trust that look.
“What?” you ask warily.
He hums. “Just thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”
Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”
“You act as if I owe you something.”
His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”
You narrow your eyes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hear me out.”
“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”
Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”
You arch a brow. “Fair?”
He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”
“You most certainly did not.”
“And I helped with your wrist.”
Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”
Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”
You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.
“The gardens?”
He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”
“Why?”
Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.
“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.
“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”
Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.
"There you are!"
Helen.
You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.
"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"
Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."
Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”
You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”
“A bruise?!”
“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.
Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”
“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”
Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.
“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”
You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.
She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.
“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”
You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”
“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”
You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.
It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.
You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”
“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”
You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”
Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”
You do not have an answer to that.
And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.
…
The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.
But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?
The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.
Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.
You cannot say why.
A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—
You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.
A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.
You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.
Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”
You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”
He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”
And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.
Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.
You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.
But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.
You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.
If he comes, he comes.
And if not—
Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.
But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.
Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.
You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.
And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.
With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.
Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.
“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”
He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”
You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”
His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”
You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”
“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.
“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”
You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.
“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.
Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.
Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”
You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.
Yes.
It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.
You don’t know what to make of it.
You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.
The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.
You look away first.
Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.
“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.
A beat passes before he answers.
“Because you are.”
You swallow.
He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.
“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”
Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.
“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”
You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”
He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”
“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.
And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.
Does he want to reach for you?
The thought unsettles you more than it should.
He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”
You raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”
Your fingers still.
“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”
You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”
His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.
“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.
“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”
You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”
Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”
“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”
“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”
“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.
And then—silence.
You glance at him, and find him already watching you.
His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.
And then—
A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.
Your heart stutters.
Oh.
For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.
He is very handsome.
The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.
Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.
Gojo moves before you can react.
His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.
You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.
His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.
Your own breath falters.
His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.
Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.
He waits.
A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.
You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”
His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”
You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”
“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”
“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”
Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”
“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.
His gaze flickers to your lips.
Your breath catches, just for a moment.
And then—
His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.
You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.
It is all the invitation he needs.
He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.
The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.
For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.
When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.
“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.
Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”
“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”
“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”
Your heart drops to your stomach.
What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.
Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?
Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.
What a match.
You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.
“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”
“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”
Fate.
What cruel irony.
You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.
And yet—
You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.
The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.
She wants this.
And what of you?
Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”
“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”
Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.
You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.
It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.
Over a man. What a shame.
You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.
Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.
But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.
The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.
Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.
You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—
And there he is.
Satoru.
Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.
Your heart stutters.
You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
The pebble strikes the stone beside you.
“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”
You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”
His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”
“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.
“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”
Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”
But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.
You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”
“And when have I ever listened?”
There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.
He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”
Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”
Your stomach lurches. “She said—”
“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.
He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.
“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”
Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”
Oh.
He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.
“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”
“Ask me what?”
His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”
The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”
His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.
“You.”
Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.
“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.
“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.
It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.
His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.
So you whisper, “Then prove it.”
And that is all it takes for him to break.
His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—
Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”
“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.
But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”
He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.
After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”
But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”
You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”
“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.
You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.
Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.
“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”
Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”
“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”
Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”
He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.
You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.
For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.
Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.
You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”
Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.
It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.
When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.
So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.
And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.
“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.
“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”
“Helen!”
The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.
His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.
What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.
And perhaps he has.
After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—
He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.
Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.
general masterlist
a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....
ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter
thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3
when James Baldwin said to be a pessimist means that you have agreed that human life is an academic matter. So I am forced to be an optimist. I am forced to believe that we can survive whatever we must survive.
♡ sukuna introducing his girlfriend to his nephews !
yuji and choso have known sukuna has been seeing someone for the past few weeks, but what they don’t know is that today is the first time he’s bringing you over… he conveniently forgot to mention it.
you step in behind him, giving them a polite little wave. you look completely out of place next to someone as large and intimidating as him.
yuji freezes mid-run across the living room and choso straightens from the couch.
sukuna clicks his tongue after introducing you. “you better behave.”
you smile at them. “hi.. i’ve heard a lot about you two.”
yuji stares.
stares.
then slowly walks closer.
“…you’re uncle ‘kuna’s girlfriend?”
“yes i am.” you kneel to meet his eyes.
he squints at sukuna. then back at you.
“…you‘re too pretty.”
sukuna‘s eye twitches. “excuse you?”
“you are,” yuji insists, nodding seriously at you. “he‘s big and mean and he yells a lot.”
“yuji,” sukuna growls.
“and he snores!” the small boy continues, becoming more fidgety by the second. “and he steals my snacks even though he says he doesn’t like sweet things but he does, he ate my strawberry mochi and blamed choso—”
“i did not blame—”
“and one time he tripped over the porch step but told me not to tell anyone—”
sukuna grabs yuji by the back of his shirt before he can continue. “that‘s enough.”
you‘re covering your mouth, trying not to laugh.
yuji wiggles in sukuna‘s grip, still talking. “he also stays up late on the couch and thinks i don’t notice but he checks on us before he goes to bed.”
sukuna goes very still.
“…he does?” you ask gently.
sukuna sets yuji down slowly, jaw tight. “brat talks too much.”
yuji walks back over to you, completely unbothered. “you‘re really really pretty. like princess pretty.”
sukuna makes a strangled noise. “stop calling her—”
“and you smell nice,” yuji adds. “uncle ‘kuna smells like smoke.”
“i am right here.”
choso steps forward. “are you sure you‘re fine with him? you can totally tell us if he‘s too m—”
”eh? what’d you wanna say?” sukuna’s about to grab choso by the collar.
“very sure,” you snicker before anything happens.
yuji grabs your hand without hesitation. “okay. you can stay. but if he’s mean to you, tell me. i’ll bite him.”
“you will not bite me.”
yuji beams up at you. “he acts scary but he’s not that scary. only a little scary.”
choso nods. “he is moderately scary.”
“i am extremely scary,” sukuna snaps.
you grin. “i can see that.”
yuji gasps. “oh! and he practices smiling in the mirror sometimes—”
“I DO NOT.”
choso looks amused. “…he does.”
sukuna lunges. yuji shrieks and hides behind you instantly.
“protect me!” he cries dramatically. “you‘re too pretty to let me die!”
you‘re laughing so hard now you can barely stand.
sukuna stops inches away, staring at the two of you like he deeply regrets ever introducing you to them.
“…i’m leaving.”
“you live here,” choso replies.
sukuna pauses.
“…i’m moving out.”
yuji grabs your hand again. “so are you coming over tomorrow again?”
sukuna groans. “hell n—”
“i’d love to!” you interrupt him, as yuji’s already dragging you toward his room, excited to show you his entire dinosaur collection.
how do you just get up and deal with the fact that there’s a last time for everything. there was a last time you sat on your dads shoulders and there was a last time your mom tucked you into bed. there’s going to be a last time you kiss your sister on the head and there’s going to be a last time you hug your best friend. there’s going to be a last time you feel exactly as you feel right now and there’s going to be a last time that person says i love you. i need to lay down
a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic
pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader
summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?
warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii
a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3
general masterlist
You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.
Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.
Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.
For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.
The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.
The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.
You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.
Silence, then a low chuckle.
When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.
Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.
Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.
"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"
You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.
"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"
Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.
"—grant me the honor of—"
"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.
The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.
"Pardon?"
You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."
His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."
A pause.
His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"
You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."
His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."
You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."
You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."
He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."
You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."
At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"
You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."
He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."
"As they should," you replied smoothly.
To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."
A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.
Yet, he remained.
You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.
You paid it no mind.
He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.
"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"
A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."
You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."
His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."
You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."
"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."
You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"
His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.
"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."
You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."
He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"
"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."
He smirked. "Explains what?"
"Why I’ve never heard of it."
A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.
You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."
"Not yet," he said, far too easily.
You didn’t look up. "Why?"
"Because you haven’t given me yours."
You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.
"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.
"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.
You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."
You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."
"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."
You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.
Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."
You didn't dignify that with a response.
But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.
He had yet to claim your name.
No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.
Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.
Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.
He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.
But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.
Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”
A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.
Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."
“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.
“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.
Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”
Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."
Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."
Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."
"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"
Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."
Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.
Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.
"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"
Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."
Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."
Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"
"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."
Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."
Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.
His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"
But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.
"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."
And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.
The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.
Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.
Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.
You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.
Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”
You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?”
Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”
“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.
However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?
But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.
It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.
Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”
“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”
Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.
The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.
That suitor.
The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."
The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."
Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."
Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.
Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."
Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.
Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."
A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.
As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.
Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”
You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.
The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.
Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”
You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.
“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.
Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.
“Did you see him?”
You resumed braiding. “Who?”
Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”
You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.
“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”
Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”
Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”
You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.
And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.
The thought settled in your chest like a stone.
It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.
Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.
You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”
Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”
You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”
“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”
You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”
Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.
“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.
You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”
Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”
“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”
“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”
You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”
“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”
You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.
“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.
Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.
But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.
Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.
Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.
But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.
Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.
So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.
The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.
Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.
They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.
It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.
Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.
"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."
Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.
"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."
His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."
You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.
It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.
For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.
Perhaps the gods were toying with him.
"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.
Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."
"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."
"Not a chance."
You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"
Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."
He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.
"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.
"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"
For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.
It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.
And gods, it was beautiful.
Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.
"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."
Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."
He did not say so. He knew so.
Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.
And he had no intention of stopping now.
But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”
Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.
You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.
In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.
You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.
It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.
That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.
In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.
His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.
It is sharp. Focused.
It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.
It darkens.
Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.
Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?
His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.
But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—
His eyes.
Still watching.
“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.
But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”
Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”
Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”
This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”
Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.
But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."
Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"
Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."
"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.
Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."
Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.
Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.
You do not want to be here.
All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.
“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”
“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”
You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.
"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"
He does not notice the shadow behind him.
“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”
The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.
Gojo.
The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.
“You—”
“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”
With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.
Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.
“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.
You hesitate, unsettled.
“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.
Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.
His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”
He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”
“That’s not—”
“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?
You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”
His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.
“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”
His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.
“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”
Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”
Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”
You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.
His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.
The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.
His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”
The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.
“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”
You swallow. “No.”
A lie.
Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.
For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”
You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”
He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.
You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”
Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”
You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”
His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”
You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.
Until it isn’t, obviously.
He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.
“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”
You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”
Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”
“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”
Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”
“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”
“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.
His head snaps up. “Wait—”
You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.
Silence.
Gojo blinks at the board.
You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”
Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”
You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”
Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”
That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”
Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.
You don’t trust that look.
“What?” you ask warily.
He hums. “Just thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”
Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”
“You act as if I owe you something.”
His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”
You narrow your eyes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hear me out.”
“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”
Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”
You arch a brow. “Fair?”
He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”
“You most certainly did not.”
“And I helped with your wrist.”
Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”
Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”
You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.
“The gardens?”
He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”
“Why?”
Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.
“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.
“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”
Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.
"There you are!"
Helen.
You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.
"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"
Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."
Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”
You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”
“A bruise?!”
“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.
Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”
“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”
Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.
“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”
You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.
She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.
“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”
You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”
“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”
You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.
It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.
You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”
“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”
You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”
Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”
You do not have an answer to that.
And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.
…
The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.
But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?
The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.
Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.
You cannot say why.
A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—
You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.
A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.
You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.
Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”
You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”
He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”
And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.
Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.
You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.
But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.
You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.
If he comes, he comes.
And if not—
Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.
But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.
Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.
You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.
And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.
With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.
Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.
“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”
He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”
You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”
His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”
You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”
“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.
“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”
You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.
“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.
Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.
Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”
You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.
Yes.
It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.
You don’t know what to make of it.
You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.
The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.
You look away first.
Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.
“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.
A beat passes before he answers.
“Because you are.”
You swallow.
He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.
“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”
Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.
“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”
You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”
He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”
“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.
And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.
Does he want to reach for you?
The thought unsettles you more than it should.
He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”
You raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”
Your fingers still.
“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”
You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”
His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.
“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.
“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”
You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”
Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”
“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”
“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”
“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.
And then—silence.
You glance at him, and find him already watching you.
His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.
And then—
A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.
Your heart stutters.
Oh.
For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.
He is very handsome.
The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.
Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.
Gojo moves before you can react.
His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.
You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.
His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.
Your own breath falters.
His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.
Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.
He waits.
A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.
You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”
His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”
You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”
“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”
“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”
Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”
“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.
His gaze flickers to your lips.
Your breath catches, just for a moment.
And then—
His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.
You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.
It is all the invitation he needs.
He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.
The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.
For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.
When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.
“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.
Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”
“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”
“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”
Your heart drops to your stomach.
What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.
Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?
Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.
What a match.
You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.
“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”
“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”
Fate.
What cruel irony.
You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.
And yet—
You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.
The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.
She wants this.
And what of you?
Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”
“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”
Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.
You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.
It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.
Over a man. What a shame.
You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.
Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.
But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.
The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.
Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.
You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—
And there he is.
Satoru.
Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.
Your heart stutters.
You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
The pebble strikes the stone beside you.
“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”
You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”
His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”
“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.
“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”
Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”
But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.
You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”
“And when have I ever listened?”
There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.
He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”
Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”
Your stomach lurches. “She said—”
“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.
He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.
“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”
Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”
Oh.
He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.
“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”
“Ask me what?”
His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”
The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”
His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.
“You.”
Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.
“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.
“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.
It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.
His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.
So you whisper, “Then prove it.”
And that is all it takes for him to break.
His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—
Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”
“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.
But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”
He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.
After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”
But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”
You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”
“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.
You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.
Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.
“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”
Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”
“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”
Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”
He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.
You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.
For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.
Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.
You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”
Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.
It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.
When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.
So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.
And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.
“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.
“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”
“Helen!”
The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.
His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.
What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.
And perhaps he has.
After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—
He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.
Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.
general masterlist
a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....
ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter
thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, irritatingly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, gently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, clement and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, more purposeful.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
gojo & geto fucking their pretty bestfriend (you guessed it, you<3) in the eiffel tower position <333
contains: fem reader, threesome, the boys are gay for each other, choking, hair pulling, dirty talk ofc, kinda rough, gojo is a brat, satosugu are switches, sub reader tho
MDNI
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔
"fucking christ this pussy is killing me," geto has a strong hold on your hips as he pulls you back on his dick, similtaniously knocking gojos cock deeper into your throat, making your eyes water as you gag around him
"hahaha don't tell me ur about to cum already Suguru, we jus started," gojos hand is resting on the underside of your throat, so he can feel his dick every time geto fucks you into him
"shut the fuck up satoru," geto hisses and gojo infuriatingly laughs in response, "how are you doin princess?" gojo directs his attention to you
there is no way you were responding while in the state you were currently in, coughing and sputtering spit around gojos cock while geto expertly fucked straight into your g-spot
"whats that? gotta speak up baby, cant understand you" he coos, whiping the tears and spit off your cheek with his slender fingers
if you had half a mind, you would've slapped gojo for being such a bully, but luckily for him, you didn't have half a mind, geto stuck up for you though; ever the sweetheart he is; "such a fuckin bully satoru, maybe I should fuck you next while they sit on your face, see how you fucking feel then huh?"
you couldnt lie that the thought of suffocating gojo between your thighs and having him suck on your clit while geto fucked high pitched whines out of him didnt sound like the worst idea in the world, but that was for another day
reaching down between your legs you rubbed quick circles on your clit while digging your nails into gojos thigh to stabilize yourself,
"oh, i think someone likes that idea" geto smiled, feeling you squeeze and pulse around him, "you wanna help me fuck the brat outta gojo princess? bet we'd make such a g-good team" he punctuated with a particularly deep thrust, almost making you lose yoru balance, resulting in you digging your nails impossibly deeper into gojos thigh
and gojo fucking moaned like a bitch, tipping his head back, both his hands instinctly gripping your hair as he hunched over you biting his lip, taking a deep breath and slowing his hips down, it took every once of his strength not to fill your mouth with his cum at that second
you choked at the rough treatment but were grateful when gojos hips slowed, the opportunity arose to swallow air into your lungs again and you greedily took it
geto's rough treatment of your poor abused pussy bouncing you a little on gojo's cock still, but the loss of gojo also assisting was a nice change of pace
gojo looked up through his lashes at the raven haired man, he was fucking smirking
this had now become a competition, as most things did between them
abandoning one of the hands he had gripped on your hair and reaching out in front of him instead, his target? geto's hair
gripping suguru's signature bun and pulling his face close to his, lips grazing each other as he smiled against the ravens lips, geto's smile now wiped completely off his face, his jaw now slack as he stared into gojos eyes, knowing exactly what gojo was getting at
"i know kissin gets you all hot huh, you wanna kiss me suguru?" his jaw opening slightly, tipping his head back and forth as he looks between sugurus eyes and his lips
you felt geto's cock twich inside you, his pace stuttering a bit at gojo's words, gripping your hip a little harder, for his own sanity, he would apologize for the bruises later
"what do you think baby, should I let him kiss me, huh? he'll probably fill you up the second I get my tongue in his mouth."
the speed at which the roles between them keep reversing is giving you whiplash, bringing you closer and closer to your own release
you try to speak around him, wanting to tell him 𝒚𝒆𝒔𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒕, opting to just nod as your mouth was filled to the brim with gojo's thick cock
"yeah, think i will, good call baby," he rubs his thumb on the top of your head soothingly as his attention is now back on geto
"what do you say suguru?" the mans mouth is so close to suguru's own, his eyes now staring at the place theyre about to be connected at
"thank you, thank you princess." he says as gojo finally lets their lips crash together
and its soooo messy, the kiss; if you can even call it that; is all teeth and tongue, both the men moaning into the others mouth, their moans rising in pitch
geto feels like he could cum at any second, but what kind of man would he be if the one who allowed him to cum in the first place didn't get to squirt all over his pretty cock first?
he blindly reaches down between your legs, pushing your own hand out of the way as he quickly finds your clit and rubs is back and forth at a speed that has the coil in your tummy to wind faster than it ever has
"squirt on me baby," he whines into the blondes mouth obscenely "need to feel you cum all over- m-my dick, please baby" he’s whining
suguru's kisses becoming less and less reciprocating as his jaw goes slack and gojo's keeps tongue slides into his mouth
your legs snap together as your cum squirts out all over geto's toned thighs, moans muffles, choking on gojo's cock bordering on blacking out from air deprivation and sheer pleasure as you have the longest and hardest orgasm of your fucking life "m gonna cum, o-oh my god oh my god, fuck gojo fuck, 'm gunna cum, m gonna fill her up" gojo moves his hand to geto's throat, squeezing his throat, hard, tipping his head into sugurus
"m right there with you baby, gunna cum inside her pretty pussy, yeah? gonna cum inside her while I mess up her tight little throat?" hes talking geto through it
and youre trying to keep yourself awake as they fuck you from both ends into overstimulation, squeezing your pussy and swallowing around them both as you try to milk them for all theyre worth
ome of suguru's hands leaving its place on your hip to grab gojos wrist as the white-haired man tightens his grip, knowing just how to bring him to his climax
geto stills before he hunches forward over you and into gojo as he fucks rope after rope of his hot cum into your abused pussy, moans broken up by gasps as gojo tightens and loosens his grip on suguru's throat
quickly pulling out his cock from your mouth gojo pumps his cock at an inhumane pace, your heaving but you still instinctively stick your tonge out, like the good girl you are as his thick cum covers your face, he would feel bad about covering your hair and long pretty eyelashes with his cum but.. who is he kidding, he doesnt feel bad at all, his favorite girl with his seed all over your face, its the prettiest sight hes ever seen
letting your head fall against gojos thigh as your chest rises and falls rapidly, wincing as geto pulls out his softening cock from behind you, biting his lip stairing down at your ruined hole
"heh, i-," "shut the fuck up and come look at at this" suguru cuts off his best friend, gojo pouts but gently slides your head off his thigh to crawl to the other end of the bed and check out the veiw the raven-haired man is so adamant on showing him
your so red and your pussy is so puffy and angry, geto's cum has been steadily dripping out of you and down your thigh
gojo whistles as he pulls your lips apart to get a better look, he swipes his thumb on you, collecting some of your combined cum together, you whine at how sensitive and sore you already are
gojo pushes your shoulder back twords the bed so your chest is facing the ceiling as he leans over you and slips his thumb in your mouth, making you taste you and suguru's combined mess, "what do you say, pretty?" he watches your lips wrap around his finger befoer he pops it out of your mouth
"t-thank you" you say, voice hoarse
gojo giggles, starting to get up from the bed to get some towels to clean the three of you up
"so," you start "when were you guys gonna tell me you’ve fucked before?"
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
