Deeply Fucking Unsettling Things About The Honored One Himself, Satoru Gojo

Okay another stupid Waking up in PJO thought because I want validation and my TikTok’s aren’t doing well

You wanna know when Percy realized he had feelings for you?

Percy’s never really been the type of person to have friends. He thinks he might have, if he was a bit smarter and he knew the right things to say. He’s friendly enough with the other boys, but it’s not friendship, not really.

Then he meets Grover, and the world feels a little brighter. Like the bleak gray fog he’s been trudging through has finally begun to lift, and it’s still dark and wet and gray, but there’s some sunshine now too.

Then he gets attacked by hit math teacher, and he feels like the few people he could trust are gone from him. But at least he has his mom.

A boy with hooves for feet. I Minotaur. A camera ripped to shreds. A boy with no mother. An orphan.

He’s pretty sure he’s dead. He’s never been the type to win in anything, and when he finally makes it out of the darkness, he sees someone so beautiful he forgets how to breathe. You’re feeding him something, it tastes like chocolate chips. And you promise that his mom is okay, she’s just somewhere else right now, and that you’ll help him find her.

That he’s not alone.

And when he wakes up from the dream, everyone seems to want something from him. Answers or talent or friendship or a quest.

Even his father, who could never bother to send a lousy child support check, wants him to clear his name.

Everyone wants something from him.

Except for you.

You don’t want anything from him when you sit across from him at his empty table. “You know you could have told me you were old seaweeds kid.” and then you go on some long tirade about how the gods want you to risk your life but they won’t even indulge you in a little cola.

You’ve got tons of friends, the fact that even Clarisse softens around you is sign enough that you’re well liked. You don’t need his friendship. And from the sounds of it you’ve been on plenty of quests, earning your glory, the pride and joy of your father. Your father, Hades, a great legacy in his own right.

You don’t need him for anything.

So the fact that you’re here right now, trying to make him feel better, is just because you saw someone who felt alone and extended your hand in kindness.

And Percy knows right then and there that even if all the stories about Hades are true, that he’s the greatest villain of this era, and you’re his favorite pawn, that he’ll tie his ship to your dock.

“If you’re going to die might as well go down having Faygo right?”

You scoff. “Faygo? You’ve got awful taste Percy Jackson.”

And that is the beginning of the end.

I like to think that at some point in your/n’s schooling they had to do a project on Greek mythology so they go to hades for reference.

What was originally going to be a small project is now headed sitting them down and spilling all the Olympian tea.

Idk if you guys know, but in these fancy schools that cost an arm and a leg to get into, they cater a lot of the curriculum to what you want to learn so that it aligns to how you want to grow. (Ex: you tell them you’re interested in journalism, they help line up opportunities with their alumni to get you internships with media outlets, and cater your learning so you have the technical skill when you get there)

I do think (Y/N) at first had a lot of their education skewed towards mythology, and was being groomed to become an archeologist or maybe a museum curator. But since the reveal they haven’t been as interested and they’re trying to figure out what they want to do. Truthfully they’re kind of on the unofficial “hero course”.

I do think that curiosity and love for stories hasn’t disappeared though. Hades isn’t like Persephone, he doesn’t know when to withhold information in the name of the greater good, so he’ll tel you anything if you ask him.

That being said. The things you think are important in terms of what you learned through books in the moral realm are not the same things he considers important.

“Hercules? Oh, Zeus’ boy, yes he’s fine, he chose reincarnation a few hundred years ago. Megara was harder though, she was so full of despair when she came to us, being in the Asphodel fields helped a bit, back then it was a meadow you know, it gave her time to come to terms with what happened. We offered her Eysium, but the cheeky thing, you know what she said? “I want to do something with my existence more than be known as a hero’s wife.” She’s been working to manage the fields ever since. Charming girl, I should bring her some of Persephone’s baklava some time.”

ᝰ𓂃⊹ ִֶָ SHE PAINTED THE HIGH RENAISSANCE ONTO HER BLANK CANVAS. . .ft. fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu

৻ꪆ RIASSUNTO. fata viam invenient...you attend a ball, fated to stumble upon two demons in disguise. you don't know whether it is for better or worse that you somehow already know them, all masqueraded as angels, regardless of how laughably far off that would be.

◞ OR ROME WAS TRULY THE PROMISED LAND, and you sought the art of chaos, rivalry, and seduction.

SERIES MASTERLIST. → ii. | PLAYLIST ♫. | wc. 9.6k+

৻ꪆ a/n. it’s FINALLY HERE !! get ready because there’s A LOT. i’ve poured sm heart into this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do :) THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who was patient + reached out telling me how excited they are for this. this series is also my entry for @kentopedia’s love through the ages historical!au collab. thank u sm for putting this together <3

৻ꪆ info. fem!reader. renaissance!au. drama & romance. cursing. some suggestive parts. love triangle. arranged engagement. slowburn. lowk touch-starved. a lot of story buildup/complex character. suicide attempt from dazai. historical inaccuracies. bad poetry. religious imagery/symbolism.

— THE MONA LISA WASN’T REAL. And Vincenzo Peruggia was not, in fact, the person who stole the piece, contributing to the boom of its fame to the general public, but was planned in a way to frame him so that the origins of the painting would be a secret gossip only a group of the most successful artists knew about. 

The gendarmes were close. They were correct in assuming that another artist could’ve stolen the painting during the investigation. But they never suspected it could be the person the portrait was painted of herself—no, obviously not Francesco del Giocondo’s wife—but the original face who remained under the cover-up. 

An artist’s face, who later went under the alias of “Raphael” to conceal her contentious image and entanglements from the public eye—you. 

The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin amidst the summer air. The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders, and an unknown heart who vowed to drown you…

“My, miss, you’re already stirring up tons of drama, and you’ve only been here three days!” 

The past couple of months had felt like a dream. It almost seemed like yesterday when you packed your things into suitcases and moved to one of the most famous centers of the art world, Florence. 

Yet now, you entered through the gates of the ‘eternal city’ itself—Rome, a great privilege granted to you by the Pope himself. You almost cried when you received his invitation, commissioning you to paint the frescos in his private library. Of course, there were some strings pulled, like the person who recommended you…

“It’s all thanks to you, Ranpo,” you giggled mischievously. As the lead architect of the Vatican (but before that, your friend), he had told the Pope, “...she might as well become the best painter in all history. She may not be well known here in Rome, but say her name in Florence, and you’ll awaken the whole city. You’ll realize you’ve found a diamond among all the rubble. Trust me on this one; I’m never wrong.” 

“It was nothing,” Ranpo replied with a smug smile. “His Holiness, Fukuzawa never doubts my word.” He tapped his head with his forefinger and winked. “Not only does he recognize my talent in the arts, he also acknowledges my outstanding intellect! I’d be a detective in another life.” 

You chuckled before he continued. “The rest is all on you, princess. Again, you’re progressing quickly-” he pulled out a letter to summarize out loud. 

“-His Holiness was so impressed that he’s giving you the rest of the rooms to paint,” Ranpo said while you stared at him with widened eyes. “He…fired everyone else who was working on them. On top of that, he invites you to a ball happening in a couple of days to make an announcement on new projects. Other than you, he’s invited only the most influential artisans to attend alongside the aristocrats.” 

“No way!” You grabbed Ranpo’s hands in excitement. 

“Yes, way.” He let you spin him around on the pavement in eagerness, your long dress following along. “Though, I feel like you’re going to have to explain to him how you painted the library’s frescos so quickly.” 

Your turbulence of elation calmed. “Hm, you’re right. 

“I hope the question slips his mind.”

You hadn’t actually told Ranpo, but it always seemed like he would figure out everything about you anyway. There was one reason why you had become so famous in Florence. You created masterpieces in what felt like seconds—it was almost like you were granted the touch of creation itself. No one had ever seen you paint, so the mystery of how you were able to produce your portraits in mere weeks—sometimes days remained a mystery to the entire world, no matter how fast science progressed. 

You called it an ability. To be able to visualize—a mental image in your head you wanted to come to life in the form of a still painting on a canvas was what you did. You conjured the concept yourself, freezing daydream into textile. 

You weren’t sure why you possessed something supernatural, or perhaps there were other artists you didn’t know who could also do the same thing, but firstly, you kept it a secret—it seemed almost inhuman to hold such a power. Yet secondly, it was even more the reason to follow in your father’s footsteps. 

He, too, was a painter in the courts of Urbino and would’ve liked to become a famous artist as well. Now, that dream lived on through you—you had studied and trained under his teachers and other artists until you mastered their techniques from the foundations to geometry. Your father was no longer alive, but you were sure he’d be proud of you for getting this far. 

“Oh, one more thing,” Ranpo said.

“The two angels of art are going to be there.” The brunette closed his eyes and rested his arms behind his head as if he already knew the shocked expression awaiting your face. “Your inspirations. Osamu Dazai of Milan and your fiancé, Fyodor Dostoevsky of Florence.” 

“Pardon me, Fyodor?” 

…

A long time ago, your uncle—your now legal guardian—arranged your marriage to Fyodor Dostoevsky. However, the same would’ve happened even if your father had been in charge due to his family’s good societal position. 

It was just meant to be, you guessed. 

Coincidentally, Fyodor had also taken an interest in art the few times you two saw each other when you were younger, and you eventually saw him go on to become the most talented sculptor in Florence. 

However, your path of similarities ran cold after that. You hadn’t seen him in years, and you weren’t even close. You were obligated to write to each other once a month, but each message almost seemed like business transactions rather than love letters. Fyodor was too aloof a person despite being well-educated and polite—though he checked off every other box (and you were sure any other woman would want him), you realized you would never be able to connect with him. He was just not interested. 

You couldn’t do anything to change the engagement, but as long as there was no set wedding date to look (dread) forward to, you were content with life for now. 

You didn’t necessarily like Fyodor, nor did you go to Rome to finally pursue him, but you admired him from a different standpoint. 

He and Osamu Dazai were truly angels of art; even gods, if the Church was not one’s forte. Everyone across the country knew their names—patrons and civilians alike worshipped them at the feet. Even the powerful Medici family, sought by every artist to be commissioned, held close ties with both. 

Clientages saved their money to have the two paint for them, upcoming artists aspired and envied their success, ladies came with their names rolling off their tongues to the horror of their husbands’ faces—they were rumored to be devilishly handsome, too. Self-portraits of the prodigies were yet to be made, but you didn’t doubt it one bit. If Dazai was anything like Fyodor, he had to be fanciable too. 

They had the world and heavens as masterpieces in their hands; one could say their names traveled as far as the badlands. You arrived in Florence right after they departed for Rome, and you studied the creations left behind to figure out how they made crowds swoon and create such huge impressions on people.

And you found their pieces were indeed the pinnacle of the renascene summer. You silently made them your mentors, incorporating what was successful for them into your own works. 

…

“And you’ll be there, right, Ranpo?” 

“Of course, so don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,” he tapped his head with a smile. “Though, I have some work to finish first, so I’ll leave thee to explore Rome.” 

“Don’t take the wrong wagon this time,” you giggled. Ranpo was late to meet you on your first day because he kept taking the wrong passenger coach to get to you. For some reason, he was knowledgeable at everything but navigating transportation. 

“I’m taking a horse this time,” Ranpo replied. 

“Even worse! You better not fall off!” 

There was a tailor you had been recommended to by your aunt before you departed. You decided to head to his shop first to find a dress to wear for the evening. 

“Good day, my lady,” the couturier said with a kind smile. “I have multiple options of gowns for you tonight. Please do take your time selecting.”

“Gramercy,” you replied with a smile in turn. Your measurements had been sent to him a few weeks ago, so that you wouldn’t have to wait for your garments to be made. 

He brought out at least four cioppas. You didn’t even care to figure out how many in total because among all the regal reds, greens, and royal blues stood out a silk, off-white dress with gold accents. Your eyes were immediately drawn in, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. It wasn’t the most showy in the bunch, but that didn’t matter to you. It was like a rare gem among common stones—though you would need a good eye to really appreciate its uniqueness. 

You ran your fingertips across the fabric, closely observing its craftsmanship. You became fascinated with the opulent designs on the flowy skirt and the long sleeves. You guessed that if you didn’t take it, you’d instead dream of it for the rest of your days in regret and freeze it in one of your paintings for eternity.

“I think I’ll try this one first.” 

Your first choice proved worthwhile when you tried on the gown in the separate dressing room. You exchanged the simple front-laced bodice and plain cotton attire for the new, elegant piece sewn just for you. The fabric hugged and complimented your curves in all the right places, creating the most flattering look as you turned in front of the mirror. 

You imagined yourself with your hair styled and matching jewelry to accompany it—you felt like a princess. Perhaps this confidence was the only thing that would help you get through the ball this evening and perhaps your entire time here. You hadn’t been around so much aristocracy in years—though you grew up privileged, you preferred to live humbly and simply focus on your hobby (and you spared your change on those in need). You were lovely yourself, no doubt, and maybe that’s why you charmed many people of different social classes as you grew more popular. 

You studied yourself through the mirror again, and it was like the polarity of your dresses reflected the fate of this new chapter of life set against the one you left behind.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and an unknown heart that vowed to drown you…you suddenly felt cold. You rushed to get out of the room. 

“It’s perfect on you,” the tailor said, unable to disguise his awe when you asked him for his opinion and to ensure all the sizing was correct. You nodded in curiosity when he asked, “Now, would you like to know the inspiration behind the dress?” You always looked forward to seeing how your tailors incorporated your personality and family style into their design. 

“It’s a play on a singular topic,” he said. 

“Angels. A dual purpose signifying both the type of art you create and how you give off an entrancing allure—they will be curious about your enigmatic yet enchanting importance. That will be your statement tonight among the darker colors.” 

The earlier thought of comparing your two inspirations to angels came to mind. You decided right then—you found no need to try on any of the others. 

“I’ll have this one sent for me tonight,” you said. “Thank you again.”

Rome was alive and busy with action at every corner you turned. You strolled down the streets with no set destination, admiring the liveliness of the city. There were markets and shops everywhere and merchants with all sorts of foreign goods. 

You discovered a ruella at the corner of one street, and the door was widely opened. You peered in to see a group of women inside, probably discussing various intellectual topics. 

You decided to go inside and socialize, having nothing better to do. As you stepped into the salon, they all turned to greet you. 

“Good day, miss,” a few of them said. 

“Oh, aren’t you the Florentine artist?” one of them asked. She moved to the side so you’d have a spot to sit.

I got recognized, you thought, and you couldn’t hide your smile. 

“My husband was there awhile back,” she continued as you sat beside her. “He couldn’t stop talking about how enamored he was with your style and was sure you’d make it here next. Looks like he was correct!” 

“I’m very flattered,” you responded, a warm tint in your cheeks. 

“Did you recently arrive?” she asked. “I hope your journey here went smoothly.” 

“Yes, it went alright!” you said. “The weather wasn’t too bad, and I enjoyed the views on the way. I even passed by some lakes…” 

You felt it again. A shiver ran down your spine. The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin that stood perpendicular to summer’s balmy weather. The intense feeling to stay alive—to save yourself and the soul you did not know…

Your journey had gone smoothly up until you passed by one of the lakes near Rome. It had been a peaceful day, and your coach driver suggested that you look outside. You lifted the curtain and were received with one of nature’s blessings—verdant grass and plants that thrived around clear blue waters. 

You could’ve painted it if you remembered the sight. You truly could have if the memory of the scene wasn’t tainted by what you saw seconds after. 

“Hey, is that a person?” you asked your driver, squinting your eyes—unblemished, untouched picture shattering in your head. The land on one side of the lake was vastly elevated, creating a cliff on that end, and a figure stood in the distance.

A moment passed. 

“…Yes, my lady.” 

Your eyes weren’t betraying you—there was a man dangerously close to the cliff’s ledge, and you weren’t born yesterday to not know what he was thinking of doing. 

“Stop the wagon,” you said, a slip of panic in your tone. Your driver looked back at you hesitantly, but you ordered once again. 

“Please stop the wagon. Don’t come after me. And don’t tell anyone about this.” 

The horses carrying you came to a halt, and you rushed out of the chaise. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you at that moment—there was a random person you happened to catch making more than a terrible decision, why get involved—but you couldn’t stop now as it was like your legs were carrying you themselves. You immediately took off east towards the cliff. It would take you a few minutes until you got to the man. 

What would you even tell him? Would you try to talk him out of it? Gaslight him into stepping away from the edge? Offer to paint him a custom piece for free?—“Oh, I’m actually a famous artist in the country, I can paint you whatever you wish. But I can’t really do that if you kill yourself.” You dashed past grass and rocks as you hurried up the hill.

You would definitely have to change once you got back—the bottom of your dress was already soiled, and you were sweating.

Splash!

Your face was struck in complete horror at the loud sound. You peered over the edge to see huge ripples cascading across the surface of the lake. 

Oh shit! 

You ran back down and then towards the shore. You thanked God that you weren’t using any heavy layers under your dress that day and prayed you weren’t going to end up killing yourself as well. You knew how to swim, but the man was far from the bank. 

Am I really going to do this? 

This might’ve been the most spontaneous thing I’ve done. And the worst.

You liked to think that if you saved him, you would be rewarded in some other way. A good Samaritan—you thought. It had to be worth it. You couldn’t die before your new life even began. 

You submerged yourself into what felt like frozen water, your clothing suddenly feeling uncomfortable around you. Still, you wasted no time swimming toward the man who jumped in. 

He was already sinking—of course, this lake has to be deep. You immediately grabbed onto his waist when you got to him, but not before you took a good look at his face. He was probably of the working class because he only wore a simple white shirt. You also noticed he was covered by an absurd amount of bandages. Soft waves of brunette hair framed the man’s profile, and he looked far more content and at peace than he should’ve been. In any other situation, you would’ve thought he was taking a pleasant nap by the way his eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted. 

You’d never seen anyone so pretty underwater. If you hadn’t seen him as a human above land, you would’ve thought he was a mermaid or some other foreign creature. 

Your thoughts and observations were interrupted when you realized you couldn’t hold your breath any longer. Trying not to panic anymore, you first tried to drag the two of you up above the water, but you weren’t strong enough to battle the weight of it against the two of you. 

You would have to swim to shore and didn’t know if you had enough air to return. 

Well, I need to make it work anyway, you thought. You wouldn’t let this mysterious guy you didn’t know cut off everything you wanted to pursue. 

You took ahold of one of the man’s loose arms and, with determination, tried to propel yourself the way you came from, kicking your legs through the water. You were more than correct in assuming it would be complicated—the energy in your body drained quickly. 

You were only halfway from where you started when you accidentally choked. But that caused you to completely seize up—water poured into your lungs like open floodgates, and you were unable to breathe. You tried to push yourself up to get air, but you were already too weak to carry even yourself.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and trying to save an unknown heart that had led to you drown—you wondered if he was still alive. He would have to be resuscitated at this point, and you realized, you too. If anyone came in time to save you, that was. You shouldn’t have had ordered your driver to not follow after you. Or rushed into the lake unprepared. 

Or involve yourself with this man. It was his decision to jump off the cliff…and now you had tied his own weight onto your life. Maybe it was all too heavy to carr—

“I’m happy to hear,” the woman replied, oblivious to and interrupting the encounter you were replaying in your head. “I wish you the most success here.” 

“Thank you,” you replied. “You are very kind.” 

“I am a bit nervous,” you whispered. “I’ll be meeting His Holiness for the first time and other artists. Do I even compare to them?” 

It was evening now. You had spent the last couple of hours preparing for the ball after exploring town—you had on the classy cream-colored dress you selected earlier from the tailor, accompanied by a couple of necklaces. Your hair was put up in a complex style and fastened by a few pieces of jewelry. 

Your mind utterly conflicted with your appearance, though. Your thoughts were in chaotic peril—you tried to hide the fact that you had been pacing around your room in anxiousness right up until Ranpo picked you up. 

“Thou art second to none, miss,” Ranpo replied with a wink and a tight squeeze of your hand. It had only half the same effect as his bear hugs the viridescent-eyed would give you when you weren’t in public, but it was enough. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You fascinated him long ago—you might’ve even been his favorite if I wasn’t here!” 

“Maybe so.” You giggled at his lighthearted smugness. “Well then, let’s get going.”

Ranpo nodded and led you through the large doors of the ballroom. Immediately, you were greeted with the celestial light from the chandeliers contrasting the dark evening sky outside. 

Your eyes drifted in awe among the artigiani and aristocratici of Rome. It was almost chimerical—you hardly remembered you were still holding Ranpo’s hand. The scene looked like it came straight out of a painting. 

“Appealing so far?” Ranpo asked, guiding you down the stairwell. “Can it stand against the Florentine carnivals?” 

You slowly nodded, still focused on the liveliness surrounding you. “It feels divine.” It was more prestigious than any event you’d been to so far—most likely because this was held in one of the Pope’s courts itself. 

“You haven’t even experienced it yet,” Ranpo laughed before leading you into the waltzing crowd. “Shall we dance?”

You and Ranpo followed the movements of the other couples. When you were sure of the pattern of the steps, your eyes wandered again to admire the setting. Everyone was dressed to the nines—although, as your tailor said, they all wore darker colors. You pretended to not notice the looks you received from strangers—however, they were not insulting. They were out of captivation and marvel.

Multiple pieces of artwork were hung around the hall, too, and you wondered if the chosen artists who created them were here now. You considered if they knew of your name too, just as you recognized theirs. 

However, your heart almost stopped when you were reminded of a completely different topic. Ranpo noticed a moment of shock flash through your eyes but did not proceed to question you. (Thankfully, he knew when you would prefer him not to be nosy.) 

You saw the back of a man’s head dressed in pure white—his brunette hair in slightly messy, soft waves. 

There is no way. 

However, you could not confirm your suspicions because he approached a lady in a beautiful, deep red gown to ask for a dance. His face and figure became completely hidden as he waltzed with her at the opposite side of the room. 

“See someone you know?” you heard Ranpo ask. 

Of course he didn’t need to be nosy, because he figured out everything about you anyway. 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you responded quietly, still trying to get a glimpse of him, but before you could say anything more, a guard standing next to the entrance silenced the entire crowd. 

“Enter, His Holiness, Fukuzawa!” 

You immediately turned around, and once more was someone dressed in white—the Pope, Yukichi Fukuzawa. You glanced at Ranpo, who gave you a nod of reassurance before politely applauding with everyone else. 

“Thank you for attending this event today,” Fukuzawa started. “Our city has made much progress due to the collaboration and contribution of our artists, so I would like to take tonight to celebrate all of them. Ultimately, I want to reveal the next upcoming project.” 

After a few more words, everyone applauded again, and the party resumed activity. You and Ranpo moved away from the dance, him deciding it was finally time to do the thing you were dreading. 

“Look over there.” Ranpo urged his head towards two men in conversation standing a few feet away. 

If the ballroom really represented the heavens, surely these two were the angels. Even without Ranpo telling you, you knew them to be Osamu Dazai and Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing side by side, white suits further proving their empyreal position.

But your eyes widened, and if you hadn’t been careful, your jaw would’ve dropped, too. Obviously, you recognized Fyodor—tall, jet-black hair—handsome and intimidating as ever, but you didn’t dwell on him for too long. Your eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a woman from earlier with dark curls, dressed in deep red, and when you found her, she was no longer dancing with the brunette dressed in white. 

You looked back at the man beside Fyodor.

It’s him. 

And as if hell—fate, whatever wanted to taunt you further, Osamu Dazai noticed you and Ranpo first, pausing his share of thoughts with the ravenette. You locked eyes with him, and you immediately became embarrassed. 

What the hell? First, one of them is my fiancé, whom I don’t even say a word to, and then the second is…him? 

Perhaps we shall meet again, were the brunette’s words to you by that lake. You truly didn’t believe him then, but it wasn’t the first time you choked on your assumptions. 

In a split second, you pulled Ranpo out of sight. “Ranpo,” you pleaded. “I can’t meet them now!” Your fingers hastily ran through your hair, making sure everything was in place. “I’m not even sure what to say-”

“You’ll have to rip off the bandage sooner or later,” he said, tugging on you. “And I say the sooner, the better! I’ll introduce you to them!” You felt even more displaced at the fact that he offered to introduce you to your own fiancé. However, before you could even object (or say, “Ranpo, somehow I already fucking know both of them!”), he dragged you back—toward the two painters. 

“Good evening, my lords,” Ranpo said as you approached them. 

You didn’t miss how Dazai’s face lit up in a curt smile. Meanwhile, Fyodor had on a neutral expression—probably the only appearance you ever saw him wear. 

“Good evening, Edogawa, the darling of His Holiness,” Fyodor said, the slightest spite in his tone. He did not glance at you at all. 

“Still as cold-hearted as ever, Il Divino-Painter,” Ranpo replied with a chuckle, but it was apparent that he did not like the man.

“I am a sculptor,” Fyodor corrected, a bogus smile still plastered on his face. 

“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, patting your friend’s shoulder. “He’s just jealous you’re in charge of planning out the entire Vatican palace. And also at the fact His Holiness had to force him into a suit!” When Fyodor gave him a look, Dazai turned to you. 

He had eyes of the sunset, paving the way of something between hell and earth—though in a perfect world, it should’ve been the other way around because he looked as if he had just come down from heaven. You felt your cheeks warm and an uncertain feeling in your stomach. 

“Good evening, my lady,” Dazai said, knocking you out of your reverie. You blushed again as he knelt to take your hand and kiss it, bowing before you—the single minute felt longer than nox itself.

Was this the same man you met at the lake a few days ago? 

He was the artist you admired all along? 

“Apologies for not greeting you first,” he continued as he stood up. “I did see you earlier. How could anyone not notice the angel of Florence who creates masterpieces in days, especially when she looks like one tonight?” You became even more flustered by his sweet words. 

He was familiar with my name all along.

“Ah, so you already recognize her?” Ranpo asked. 

“Of course I do!” You suddenly tensed—half expecting him to reveal your previous encounter with him that you did not want anyone else to know. (If Ranpo knew, you hoped he would keep his mouth shut for your sake.) It would cause too much trouble if someone decided to spread it, and even worse if your uncle found out. He was very strict on image.

But to your relief, he did not. 

“I am very fond of your style, my lady,” Dazai said, resting his hand under his chin. “Madonna del Granduca,” one of your paintings. “You capture human sentiment and emotion so well, even in the most simplistic pieces.” 

Finally, you were able to respond to one of his compliments without becoming a mess. “Thank you.” 

“...And sfumato, your technique,” Fyodor added. “Perhaps you like her style so much because she takes it from you.” 

It was only now Fyodor finally acknowledged you. 

He may just be the son of Nyx. His intentions were tucked away behind amethyst eyes, slumbering in the peaceful twilight he allowed mercy to while all else was caught up in chaotic darkness. Maybe no one else noticed that—if anyone did, Fyodor would not be as beloved as he was now—but you did. You saw through the three strands of malice that laced his following words. 

“Good evening,” he said softly. He kneeled in front of you with your hand, tormenting you with eye contact.

“It’s an honor to see you again, miss. Though I must ask, was Florence not enough? 

“Is grasping originality so tough?

“Are you here to copy more artistic concepts to boost your own depictions of seraph?” 

He delivered a deadly kiss to your hand before you could respond, and before he could see the puzzlement on your face. 

“Excuse me?” 

But you did not falter before him as he stood back up. He did not intimidate you. 

“I’m flattered.” 

For once, the slightest sign of curiosity seeped onto Fyodor’s face.

You gave him a poisonous smile of your own. 

“Sfumato—the blending of colors to create smooth transitions between them,” you explained, giving a nod toward Dazai. “I’m honored that you immersed yourself so much with my painting that you could observe such a detail.”

Ranpo pretended to look around the hall as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, while Dazai couldn’t keep a snort from escaping his throat. 

You kept your eyes fixed on your fiancé’s violet gaze, trying to figure out whether or not you’d be dead after the night was over. Actually—he seemed like the type that could seduce someone into death. Stygian black hair framed against his pallid complexion—ethereal, no doubt, yet you would not be surprised if he turned out to be the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man. (And you were supposed to marry him!)

“I’m here because His Holiness summoned me to paint the frescos in his house. I feel that if he sensed plagiarism in my work, he would’ve not trusted me with this project. 

“What about you, my lord?” 

There was a pause; he was thinking. 

“I am simply searching for something important,” he replied. “An inspiration, if you want to call it. I need it to complete a piece I have been working on.”

“And you’re sure you can find it here?” 

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

The foreign word rolled off of his tongue like honey. He dressed his voice to sound like a lullaby, and you remembered why you thought of him as an angel before he decided to insult you. 

What a juxtaposition. 

“What did you say?” 

“Did you not hear me?” 

He wasn’t going to tell you what he said, nor what he meant in entirety. “Nevermind. I did. Good luck trying to find it.” 

…

“May I have this next dance, my lady?” 

The charming brunette extended his left hand out to you. You had become irritated with Fyodor after his apparent distaste for you—So this is how you treat me after years of not seeing each other? You thought you could at least try becoming acquainted with him to make your inevitable fate a bit easier for both of you, but it seemed like that wasn’t happening anytime soon. You left the conversation at the nearest opportunity and moved to the other side of the room, unaware that your other dilemma was following you. 

“Lord Dazai?” 

You noticed something new about him as he stood in front of you. Those sunset orbs also harbored a concept as far as the sun. There was something distant in them that felt like half of his mind was immersed somewhere else. You wondered where. 

“I don’t like Dostoevsky at all either,” Dazai chuckled. “Even though tonight’s given me another rival on my list, I like you way more.” 

“Don’t speak so soon,” you scoffed. “You’re going to hate me when I take all your customers.” 

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, bella.” You frowned at his attempt to flirt. “And besides, many of them are very loyal to me.” 

You hesitantly took Dazai’s hand as he led you to the floor, joining the circle of couples who had already lined up to dance the almaine. 

“I’m still annoyed with you,” you said quietly as the two of you lightly skipped across the floor on your toes, never breaking eye contact with his tawny eyes. That same look was there—it was like he was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. “I’m only agreeing to this so I could boost my status. You just caught me off guard back there. That’s why I acted nice.”

He dramatically pretended he was offended. 

“Why, tesora?” Dazai took both of your hands. You circled around each other gracefully before reversing to step in the other direction. “I saved you! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be dancing here tonight and finally knowing the name of the poor soul who jumped into the lake!” 

“If it weren’t for you, I also wouldn’t have nearly drowned, idiota,” you glared. 

“Keyword: nearly!” 

You continued sulking at him while the dance went on, ignoring the rest of his defensive sentences and the friendly endearments he added to the end of them. 

“Ow!” 

Dazai had stepped on your foot during another turn. 

“What was that for?” you asked, silently observing how he made sure he did not catch your dress along too, so it would not ruin. 

“Hm? What do you mean?” Dazai spun you again; this time, he stepped on your other foot. 

“Lor- Dazai!” You disliked how much fun he was having with this. Now, he wore a mischievous gleam in his eyes that coupled an unmistakable, playful grin. 

He spun you one last time, and this time, you purposely stepped on his foot. 

“Hey—why did you do that!?” he pouted. 

“Thou did it first,” you replied dryly. “You’re a bad dancer, my lord. You can’t even keep up with the slow ballroom almain.” 

He smirked as the number concluded, and then he brought you to the center of the floor. 

You looked around to see at least half of the couples moving off, either to watch or go elsewhere. 

“Let’s see if you can keep up with this one,” he chuckled lowly. 

“What dance is this?” you asked.

“A galliard. The La Volta.” 

Your lips slightly parted to say something, but you didn’t know what. 

It made sense now why so many chose not to participate in this one. The La Volta was a bit obscene—first, the women were lifted up in springs and jumps, even though that was usually improper. It was also very fast—it would require skill to do it comfortably, especially with the long, heavy gowns you wore. 

Finally, it required close contact between the couples, which was…scandalous. Like a forbidden fruit. 

You had never danced it before. Nor had you planned to. You were engaged, after all.

I bet noone in this room, but Fyodor himself and Ranpo even know we’re to marry, though, you thought to yourself, even though you shouldn’t even be considering excuses. …And he probably couldn’t even care less.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dazai said, a bit more seriously, leaving it up to your decision, but his eyes alleged something else. Like he was pleading to let you indulge. 

The forbidden fruit and its serpent. Why was this man always tempting you to things that could sabotage your name? It was as if his heart vowed to drown you to doom…

“No, I’ll do it,” you decided. 

…yet you had let him, again and again. The descendants of Eve never learned. 

“They call you the Renaissance Man, my lord? I’ll steal your title when I show everyone I can do more than paint…and outdo you in dance.” 

“Dance is a form of art, too, y’know,” Dazai smiled before he parted from you. “How about instead, you think of it like we’re creating our own special piece together.” 

“Competition,” you disagreed in one word, curtsying before him as the drums cued.

“Collaboration,” he bowed. 

You two rose, and a new tension was ignited in the room. Your eyes locked with his again, but this time more determined—more passionate, as you gracefully swept to the left while the brunette the opposite way. You continued that movement while also gravitating closer. 

Closer, until he was finally able to lay hands on your waist. 

“Look up, miss,” Dazai softly reminded you. “Too flustered that you’ve forgotten etiquette?” 

You didn’t even realize your eyes chased down to where he was holding you—no man had touched anywhere near your corset before. You felt nervous; it was supposed to be so wrong, so why did his hold feel so right? As if his fingers were always supposed to be wrapped around you, the final touches to a masterpiece of intimacy. 

You were falling for it—the serpent’s art of seduction. This wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration. 

“What happened to your confidence?” Dazai teased, whispering in your ear; you felt his breath tickling your skin.

Your eyes drifted back to his in embarrassment, but you couldn’t give your rival the entertainment of winning against you in something you proposed. Fighting against your nerves, you wrapped one of your arms around Dazai’s broad shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He lifted you by the hips to aid as you lept and turned around him, his left thigh pushing you upward, and that same nervous excitement returned to your stomach. It was as if pools conjoining both everything and oblivion at once lay physically on you. His gaze resembled hands—he caressed your shoulders; he traced your face like he wanted to paint every angle of you. 

He was gentle with his actual hold on you, too; Dazai carried you as delicately as the brush strokes he made on canvas. He carefully set you down with ease after every jump while still treating you like a porcelain doll, and there you made the mistake of wandering your eyes down to his lips, lightly parted—you realized this was the second closest time this man had come near enough to kiss you. 

His body was so warm, he could pull you flush against him if he wanted to. His breath was minty, the coolness of his mouth addicting, and if Eden smelled heavenly too, he had truly just slithered down, carrying the sweet, earthly scent along with him. All your senses were overloaded by the man standing before you like alcohol; you wondered if you’d even end up home by the end of the night. 

“You’re enjoying this way more than to simply boost thy status.” 

In that moment, you snapped out of your haze of dopamine, and the music faded into a new routine. You also realized that an entire audience had been watching you. That was not ideal. 

You scooted back right after Dazai released his hold on you, looking down in coyness. “Maybe I’m just a good actor.” 

“You’re a terrible one,” he chuckled, following you out of the crowd. “You can’t even look at me to sell your lie!” 

You glared at the brunette once more. “I don’t have to look at you to tell you the truth.” 

“So cold-hearted,” he sighed. “Even after a dance to loosen you up. Guess I need to work harder to ask you out.”

“For what, a double suicide?” You once again recalled some other things he had said during your weird, fated meet at the lake. 

“Exactly! You remember!” 

“Well, sorry, that’s not happening,” you responded. “Go find some other lady to ask. I’m sure you do this all the time anyway.”

Because how did he touch you so perfectly? How did he dim out every other person in the room to make it seem like it was just you two?

He paused. “No, I don’t. You’re the first person I danced this galliard with. You realize we were even in skill, right?” 

“Didn’t seem like it. And I don’t understand why you chose me.”

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence,” Dazai said. “You did save me in a way. Sure, we’re rivals. But one day, I’ll paint you myself. 

“You’re too beautiful to not.” 

…

“I hope you all have had a lovely night,” Fukuzawa spoke over the room. “To conclude the gathering, I would like to announce what the Vatican’s next project will be.” 

Artists all around you waited in anticipation, for good reason. You and Dazai looked at each other too. You’d already experienced it for yourself—a commission from the Pope himself guaranteed immediate, enormous success (and money; your job from him was your biggest pay so far). Whatever he proposed required another artist, and it could be anyone in the room. 

“The Sistine Chapel,” Fukuzawa said. “The large crack that has formed along the ceiling is to be repaired in the upcoming year.” 

There were a few chatters after that. The chapel was insanely impressive—the interior of the large building was covered in stunning frescos by some of the great artists who had come before you. Even though the Pope hadn’t even said what the job was to be, anyone working on things concerning it would have to be just as good as its predecessors. 

“Along with reparations, its panels shall be painted.” 

There were a few gasps from the patrons. Was that even possible? How could someone even paint the ceiling without it being taken off of the roof? And it was so large, too, like a mega-sized canvas. 

It was unheard of. 

“I have already selected the person I would like to work on this,” Fukuzawa continued. There was silence again. 

“It’s probably Dostoevsky,” Dazai said to you. 

Fyodor? “Why do you think so?” you asked. 

“He completely stole the spotlight with that statue of David he finished this year,” he dryly chuckled. “Well deserved, I’m afraid. You saw it too when you were in Florence, did you?” 

“Yeah,” you replied. You had to acknowledge how impressive it was for yourself. It was like the man turned hard stone into pliable clay. 

“But that’s sculpting, not painting.” 

“Oh? Do you think you’d be a better candidate?” 

He was smiling again. “No, I never said that,” you scoffed. “I was going to say maybe you’d have a chance-”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Fukuzawa said.

Oh.

You paused, scanning the room to see where he was. 

He was on the other side, intently making his way to the Pope. 

“I request you to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.” 

Fyodor stood in front of him and then bowed. 

“...I offer my sincerest gramercy for this opportunity, Your Holiness,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“…I would like to discuss the rest of what this entails in private.” 

Your brows furrowed. That was almost a bit…rude. Sure, he hadn’t declined the offer, but for whatever reason, he also didn’t accept it. 

“Very well,” Fukuzawa replied without a change in his tone. “I adjourn this party. Bonam noctem.”

There was a final applause for him and the city’s next project, and then everyone began filing out. 

However, you and Dazai stayed in place until Ranpo suddenly tugged on your arm. 

“There you are! Let’s go!” 

“W-Where?” you asked as he started to drag you away. 

“Goodnight!” you heard Dazai say before disappearing into the crowd. His small smile remained in your memory, and a part of you wished you could give him a proper goodbye.

“To eavesdrop, duh,” Ranpo replied as he sifted you through everyone moving the opposite way. “Don’t you also want to hear what Fyodor has to say?” 

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just accept the proposal,” you said. “Anyone else would do it in a heartbeat!” You were sort of jealous; that job was given to someone so ungrateful! If you were the one who recieved it, you would’ve put your entire effort into transforming the ceilings right away. 

“I don’t know how he’s so beloved,” Ranpo continued. “Not even His Holiness likes him that much; he just doesn’t show bias when choosing people to paint his architecture. Did you know Fyodor was supposed to produce his tomb?” 

“What happened with that? I thought it was being worked on by a few other artists.” 

“He kept clashing with His Holiness about it,” he said. “Until the plans got so messed up, Fyodor called it a ‘tragedy’ and left Rome for a while. Quite literally abandoned it.” 

What an asshole! Especially in front of His Holiness!

“I don’t like him at all,” Ranpo squeezed your arm. It had become quite apparent to you that Ranpo admired Fukuzawa—not just because he was his so-called favorite or because he was the Pope, but something else. You had seen them together during the party earlier, and you were reminded of father and son. “He has a nasty ego, and I can’t figure out his intentions. I feel off every time I meet with him.” 

“Intentions? For what?” 

“Don’t be stupid, miss,” Ranpo said. “He told you himself, he’s here for something. It’s just so annoying! He hides it all behind those stupid, purple eyes…” 

You approached the entrance to a hallway at the very back of the room, and you heard two familiar voices outside. 

“...I carve marble, not paint.” 

“You discredit your skill with a brush too much.”

“Your Holiness, we had very different views during the last commission you gave me,” you overheard Fyodor say. “I simply don’t want to cause another commotion with this.” 

You only peeked through the large doorway to hear more clearly, but Ranpo continued walking right in as if they wouldn’t notice. 

“R-Ranpo!” you whispered harshly.

Immediately, Fukuzawa and Fyodor looked at you both, and you scrambled behind Ranpo. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Holiness,” you replied, accidentally locking eyes with Fyodor, who looked at you unfazed as if he had already noticed you two a mile away. You couldn’t even think of an excuse to explain what you were doing there, but then Fukuzawa resumed the conversation without a care. 

“I see then,” he replied and then gave it some thought. “I felt you were the only one who was fit for the matter, but perhaps I could just hand it to-” 

Fukuzawa looked at you, and Fyodor looked at him before looking at you. 

“Ah, what I said was just a concern,” Fyodor interrupted to your dismay. “I’ll accept your commission on one condition.” 

The three of you waited. 

“On the contract, it shall be stated that noone shall view the inside of the Chapel until it is completed,” Fyodor stated. “Including yourself, Your Highness.” 

He thought for another moment. 

“Very well, Fyodor. It will be arranged.” 

What a rat!

It had been a few weeks since that eventful ball. You had started work on painting the rooms in the Pope’s chambers—there were sketches of concepts scattered all over your desk. Coupled with your thoughts—thoughts reliving all the situations you were thrown into that night. 

You hadn’t seen the two angels since then. Well…would you even call them that anymore?

Knock, knock, knock!

“Hey! Let me in!” You heard Ranpo’s voice from outside your house. You were still half-asleep, trying to make breakfast, but you immediately rushed to open the door. 

“Ranpo!” You were startled. “What are you doing here so early?” 

“Stop complaining. You’re going to love this.” 

He stuck his hand into his pocket and then revealed a set of shiny keys. 

“Sitting in my palm are the keys to the Sistine Chapel.”

“No way.” It was like the sight fully awakened you, like caffeine. “Ranpo…how?!” 

“Hmph!” He shook his head. “You underestimate me so much when you quite literally depend on me!” When you laughed, he continued. “Lord Fyodor’s on a business trip until next week. Do with that info as you wish.” 

“You’re a genius,” you replied with a mischievous grin as he threw you the keys. 

“Of course I am! I despise him, but I’m too lazy to mess with him right now, so I’ll just leave it up to you. After all, he didn’t want to do it initially because he thought you set it up.” 

“By me?” you asked, shocked. “He hates painting so much that he thought I had a hand in it? Imagine giving away the Sistine Chapel.”

He was really something else. Was dead set on declining the offer right until His Holiness debated giving it to me…

…

Ranpo sat at the dining table eating the remaining tarts left over while you finished washing the dishes in the kitchen after your meal. Your move had gone smoothly, and you were pleased with the home you created for yourself—the windows in front of the sink were opened, letting air and the sounds of nature in as you looked outside. 

“His Holiness instructed me to paint over the previous works in the Palace when I first walked inside because he deemed what I could produce more important than what was already up there,” you told him with your own dash of pride. You couldn’t contain the bright smile that flashed on your face. 

“Just as I suspected,” he replied, pleased. 

“...But social-wise, I think I dug a hole for myself.” 

“Definitely!” Ranpo said with no hesitation, popping another dessert into his mouth. He already knew what you were going to talk about. You gave him a look before sighing, realizing that he probably was right.

“A few days ago, I overheard people in the salons saying that…I have a special thing going on with Lord Dazai. It’s not true! I don’t know why he was being so friendly with me!” 

You hadn’t even seen him after that night. Maybe you were a little disappointed, but you should’ve seen that coming anyway. He was known as a charmer, but he hadn’t committed to anyone. And regardless, you were to marry Fyodor one day. 

Ugh, Fyodor.

“And you were friendly to him in return,” Ranpo replied. “You could’ve shrugged him off like normal rivals do. But it looked like you were completely enraptured with him.” 

Enraptured?! He was completely enraptured with me! However, you couldn’t describe to Ranpo how exactly he was—how the brunette’s eyes pleaded with yours to follow him into the eventide, how he made you feel like the only person that existed in the large crowd of people…maybe Ranpo would have his point proven.

“Well, other than that, I’ve got thee settled in Rome well enough. I’ll be here for the rest of the unwise decisions you’re going to make, but from here on out is on you, princess.” 

“Thanks, Ranpo,” you sarcastically replied. “Seriously? Unwise decisions? Rome is just different from everywhere I’ve been to before. I’m learning.” 

“Exactly, there are arts of everything,” he said. “Thou better grasp them quick or fall behind.” 

Dance. 

Deceit.

Dreams. 

Only a few you had discovered so far. 

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence. You did save me in a way.”

You couldn’t even grasp,

Dazai.

You didn’t know how long you were out. All sense of time was lost when you gained consciousness again, and you realized you had been washed up on land. 

Did God stay true to your pleas? Did an angel really come down to rescue you?

That was certainly what it seemed like in the first few seconds because you were blinded by light when you opened your eyes. You heard insects buzzing off in the distance and maybe even a bird chirping as you lay on lush grass. Perhaps you were in heaven instead, and this was your first taste of peaceful paradise. 

But all was ruined when your eyes finally focused, and a face obstructed your view. (Why was he always ruining your flawless moments?) He hovered on top of you, and the first thing you became aware of was that his mouth was dangerously close to yours. 

You immediately coughed—out of both shock and the need to. Lake water gushed out of your mouth, causing you to sit up without warning. The brunette was flung off of you, landing harshly on his bottom.

“Ow!”

You paid no mind to him as you coughed again. And again. 

When all the water was finally out of your lungs, you looked at him in utter confusion.

“Why the puzzled look?” he asked as if he wasn’t the one who was drowning and you weren’t the one saving him (and less importantly, it hadn’t looked like he was about to kiss you).

Now he sat beside you, almost perfectly fine if it weren’t for his clothes that were soaked. 

“But…you—we were drowning?” You turned to see if anyone else was in the distance because who was it that saved both of you? 

“Yeah, I was drowning,” the man replied, and you now noticed the honey color of his eyes that had been shielded behind closed eyelids and pretty eyelashes earlier. “And this time, it almost worked! Until you decided to rescue me!” 

“Um, what?” You asked sharply, even more bewildered at the way he tried to make your efforts sound negative. 

“At first, I thought maybe thou were a lovely lady who wanted to commit double suicide with me! But I realized that wasn’t the case when you started fighting to get some air…” 

“Are you crazy?” you asked, not caring whether you were speaking impolitely or not. “Double suicide? Why else would I dive into a cold lake to join a stranger? And you were aware of what was happening all along?” 

“Maybe! Women have done a lot to try to get close to me.” You didn’t believe him. “And, well, yeah! Obviously, I couldn’t continue because of two things. The first was you because I couldn’t let an innocent involved be harmed along with me! I had to save you, of course.” 

You became even more irritated. “You wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t pretend you were drowning! I had to use all my strength to rescue you, y’know! I could’ve died as well!” 

“But you didn’t!” the brunette replied. “There was no way I was going to let someone so beautiful drown.”

You scowled at him before you stood up. “You’re ridiculous. What’s your second reason?” 

“Drowning in a lake ended up becoming uncomfortable.” You wanted to punch him in the face—uncomfortable was an obvious understatement. “I didn’t like the feeling of suffocation that set in, so I just decided to give up.” 

“It didn’t even look like you had any air left in you,” you muttered, facing your back towards him, remembering his placid expression earlier. “How were you conscious if you weren’t even holding your breath?” 

“Party trick,” he responded, and when you dared to glance back, he wore a smug grin. 

“Oh…are you leaving me then?” he asked as you started walking away, saying no more. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” you scoffed, not stopping. “I’m completely soaked, and I don’t know about you, but I have important things to get to.” 

You heard a chuckle from him. “Is that so?” he asked. His voice was getting farther, meaning he was no longer following you. “Where are you headed?” 

“Rome.” 

“I live there. Perhaps we shall meet again. And then, I could ask you—properly—if you would like to commit a double suicide with me.” 

“I doubt it,” you replied, assured you were never going to see this man whose face looked kissed by Aphrodite herself again. Perhaps you would’ve found him handsome if he was in a less disheveled state. 

As if you did not already. 

“Why do you seem so sure? Anything can happen.” He chuckled once again. 

Well, I am a painter, and you don’t look like someone who would even have an eye for art, is what you wanted to say. But you didn’t want to open more doors to curiosity and stay there even longer. 

“Maybe you’re right,” you stopped. “Okay, then.

“If you think you’re going to see me again, can you promise to not kill yourself until then? Until I agree to you?” 

You figured you would just give him some hope so that your efforts to save him would not be in vain. If he would actually keep your word, anyway. 

When you turned around, the brunette was still standing on the shore, and he had a smile on his face. 

He really did carry the setting sun in his gaze. It was still midday, but the man’s soul seemed to prefer the softer shades of light that appeared just before the cool shades of night. 

And you felt his eyes tenderly cupping your face, even though you were feet away from each other. You weren’t sure if you were so lost that you were imagining things—but he looked at you as if he’d known you a hundred lifetimes, longing to touch your soul once again. 

“I pinkie promise,” he said. 

You thought that finally ended the conversation, but he asked one more thing. 

“Your name?” he asked. 

“Do you really need it?” It was unlikely, but you didn’t know if he would recognize your name. You didn’t want to risk anyone knowing about this encounter. 

“I saved you,” he said. “I almost thought you were done for. You still weren’t breathing when I performed chest compressions, so I had to—” 

“Okay, stop right there!” you interrupted, becoming flustered. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You imagined the stranger’s mouth on yours—trying to give you oxygen, of course, but his mouth on yours regardless. 

You told him your name. “Don’t bother with yours. I’ll figure it out if we run into each other again.” 

His grin was smug. “Fare thee well, mia belladonna.

“Until we meet again.” 

…

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

ur man of choice (or both if u’d like) dances with u during the ball if u rb; reblogs are incredibly cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

WE DID ITT !! i hope this was decent, tbh i’m rly nervous HAHA ᡣ𐭩 dazai rly got most of the love here, but i promise there’s waay more to come.

+ check THIS FOR EXTRA INFO/LORE, it’s cool ;) comment on the masterlist to be added to the tagslist !! & ilu if you made it this far, thank you so so much for reading ᰔ

TERMS & DEFINITIONS:

CIOPPA - outermost layer of a dress

RUELLA - salons/social gatherings

ALMAINE - slow court dance; GALLIARD - fast court dance (in the renaissance)

TRANSLATIONS: (not all bcz they wanna be mysterious)

gramercy - “thank you”

artigiani; aristocratici - artisans; aristocrats (italian)

bonam noctem - “good night” (latin)

© AUREATCHI 2024. no reposts or translations. do not steal. support banner + animated line divider by cafekitsune. header + series dividers mine; DO NOT SAVE.

Memory Lane Part 3: Between the Lines

Characters focused on: Adeuce, Grim, & GN!Reader

Word count: 3.9k

Summary: You're an innocent isekai victim, but was there something more to you that not even you were aware of until now...?

Or: You wander into another world and meet reincarnations of cartoon villains (who were REAL and also your friends in a past life). Exposition chapter ft. Brain cell Trio.

Masterlist

AO3 Link

"Myaaah! Get out of my room, explodey-hair!"

"Oi! There isn't gonna BE a room if you keep throwing fire all over the place!"

"Myahaha! What's wrong? Scared of'a little fire? Why don't'cha use your wind? Oh, that's right; you can't! Myahahaha!"

"H-Hey, cut it out, you two! Or else I'll make you!"

You open the door, already wide-eyed upon hearing the commotion as you came down the hall, and blanch at the chaos you see inside. Ace is ducking and weaving around jets of blue flame as Grim hisses and growls at him from on top of the bed. The young squire counters with his own taunts, making no effort to douse the little monster cat's fiery rage. The only reason the room hasn't burned down yet is evidently thanks to Deuce, who you can see is scrambling to extinguish the flames using his own spells.

For a moment, you can do nothing but watch in both fascination and horror at the scene in front of you. Of course, after a long day of non-stop events—from accidentally wandering into a fairytale world, being chased by monsters, and then meeting friends who are apparently from a past life—you should've known better than to assume that you'd be able to finally catch a break from all the excitement in your room. You begin to rethink thanking Riddle for generously providing you with a place to stay and instead consider if you should ask him to behead you after all.

That might seem like an exaggerated reaction, but even before you came in here, you already had the feeling that the events in your life are only going to pick up from here if the way your discussion with Riddle and Leona had gone was anything to go by.

----

"Reincarnation and past lives are complicated stuff," Leona drawled, lounged carelessly on one of the misshapen sofas in the sitting room. Across from you, Riddle's smile is strained and you even catch his eye twitching, but he remains seated. "But basically, not everyone can remember the memories of their past lives. Guess you can say that kinda makes us special."

Leona sighed, heavy and weary. He leaned over and skewered a piece of meat from the tray on the table with a claw.

"Makes for a special pain in the ass, if you ask me."

Leona nonchalantly popped the piece of meat into his mouth, unphased by the stern gaze Riddle had trained on him. All this "reincarnation" stuff was making your head spin, but if you understood it correctly, then you might be right to assume that these two (and maybe even the others they mentioned?) had some beef that went back to way before everyone in this room had been born. Riddle's eyes seemed to hold distaste beyond Leona disrespecting basic rules and etiquette and a curious (read: nosy) part of you was intrigued to know the source for it.

"As Leona had said," Riddle continued, his eyes lingering on Leona before settling on you as he faced you, "The ability to recall past lives isn't widespread. While we may encounter people who used to be affiliated with us once upon a time, fellow inheritors are set apart from others."

"So you and Leona are different from everyone else, and because of that you know that each other is different?" you mused, the gears turning in your head as you put this information together in between finger snacks.

The corner of Riddle's mouth lifted slightly and he nodded.

"Correct. Our own inheritor status allows us to identify fellow inheritors. It's how we're able to consistently be associated in other lifetimes."

"Unfortunately," Leona grumbled.

"You mentioned sensing my "essence" earlier," you said thoughtfully. "That's how you do it?"

Riddle nodded again.

"Leona can feel it too."

"Yeah." The lion man—beastman, you think Riddle had called him—yawned, stretching out over the sofa and settling his chin on the back of his hands like a lazy housecat. He peeked at you out of one eye as he continued, "I can feel your essence too, clear as day, but Riddle's sayin' you can't feel us or even remember us."

You shook your head helplessly and Leona grunted, closing his eyes as his pretty features twisted up in a scowl.

"Figures," he growled. "Tamer up and takes off without warning and when they show up again their inheritor doesn't know shit."

It was obvious that Leona was mad at you, and you can do nothing but shift in your seat awkwardly. Riddle was unexpectedly more level headed, but even his own expression was one of dismay and disappointment. You suddenly felt very put on the spot, and you hadn't even done anything! But you guess you technically did in a past life? Regardless, whether or not you did, it shouldn't mean you'd have to deal with all these problems that past-you left behind! You didn't sign up for this!

All you'd wanted to do was get yourself a fancy antique, not... whatever all this is.

Riddle suddenly spoke up, drawing your attention back to him. Leona remained still and quietly seething, but you saw his ear flick in the corner of your vision.

"There's no point in focusing on the drawbacks." There was resignation in Riddle's voice and a determination in his eyes. A part of you wanted to feel concerned for your own well-being, but another part of you also couldn't help but be stirred by his sudden resolve. "Tamer's inheritor may not remember their memories or be able to sense other inheritors, but we can sense them, can't we?"

A deep hum rumbled from Leona's throat. He stayed relaxed where he was, but the quirking of his ears conveyed his interest.

"True," the lion mumbled thoughtfully. "The herbivore doesn't remember us, but they're still an inheritor."

Slowly, his eyes drew open and he looked at you with a lidded gaze. Despite his casual, relaxed, drowsy air, his deep green eyes sparked with undeniable intellect you couldn't possibly fathom.

"Which means... we've got a chance."

----

Grim's next breath of fire breaks off into sputters of blue flame when you suddenly pick him up off the bed.

"Fgna!! Unhand me, henchman!" The cat yowls as he squirms in your hold. Your fingers slip on his silky fur, but you re-adjust your grip and continue to try wrestle him into submission. "Yrow! Let me teach that jerk a lesson!"

The aforementioned jerk retreats from the bed and sighs with relief. His demeanor quickly shifts to one of triumph at Grim fighting against you (and losing).

"Serves ya right, you stupid cat!" Ace laughs. "That's what you get for trying to pick fights with me."

"Grrr, I'm not a..." Grim's retorts trail off into a low growl as you gently run your fingers through the fur at the top of his head. He stops squirming and lets you hold him, but his glare still promises Ace a crispy death. You face him yourself and your eyes immediately land on the heart-shaped collar around his neck.

"Says the guy who got collared because he messed with a "stupid cat"."

Ace sputters a surprised protest. Next to him, Deuce snickers, and he shoots the other squire a glare.

"Grim, when I asked Riddle to let you use your magic again, I didn't mean to burn our room down!" you admonish, but your fingers continue stroking through the wayward cat's fur.

"Mya... I was just tryin' to chase out these intruders!" Grim proclaims with puffed-up fur. "They were hangin' out in here when I got back. I thought this was our room!"

You're not sure when exactly you adopted a stray monster cat, but you find that you don't mind the declaration that this room is in fact yours and Grim's. You guess you're a cat parent now.

"Now that you mention it, what are you guys doing here?" You narrow a quizzical glare at the two boys and Deuce holds up his hands defensively.

"Don't look at me!" He points to Ace. "It was Ace's idea to come in here. I was just making sure he doesn't break any more rules or steals anything."

"Like I'm the one who needs a babysitter," Ace scoffs. Deuce's glare goes ignored as he continues, "Alright, listen; I wasn't tryin' to steal anything, alright?"

You raise your eyebrow skeptically.

"It's the truth!" he retorts quickly. "I was just looking for a place to get away from His Royal Bossiness and the door was unlocked—so I didn't break in!—and since you seem kinda important for whatever reason—" as he says this, his gaze flits over you searchingly and he seems curious but also unimpressed, "—I figured that he wouldn't look in here and bother you."

You tilt your head at him. You don't think Riddle and Leona have told anyone about your "inheritor" status. Since the moment you arrived at the castle, Riddle had been occupied drilling answers out of you and Leona had acted as if just talking about the matter with you and Riddle had taken every ounce of effort in him so you can't imagine him bothering to tell anyone, nor can you think of a reason he'd want to.

"What makes you say that?" If Ace could sense inheritors like Riddle and Leona, you think he'd have said something. You don't normally come off as someone very important in your opinion, and since Ace himself had seen you run out of the woods like a headless chicken just today and seems sceptical of his own deduction, you're curious. Was there always something about yourself that you'd missed?

Ace cocks an eyebrow as if you'd just asked something so blatantly obvious.

"Because Riddle acted all weird when you showed up this morning?" Next to him, Deuce nods thoughtfully in agreement. "And let's not forget that important and expensive-looking box you've got sitting over there."

Ace gestures with a tilt of his head and your gaze follows to—

Oh, that.

"This thing?" You cross the room to a study area where, sitting unassumingly on the study table, is a worn, wooden chest decorated with intricate designs. Grim's ears perk up and he hops onto the table's surface to investigate it more closely.

"Oh yeah, I was wonderin' about this too." Grim eyes the carvings curiously and paws the latch. "You were carrying this around when I ran into you in the forest earlier." His eyes light up and his tail stands up into the air. "Is there treasure in it?!"

"There's gotta be, right?" Deuce's voice is eager and hopeful as he approaches with Ace, his eyes brightening like Grim's. "With how it looks?"

"Yeah, whether or not it has anything inside, the box itself has gotta cost mega marks." Ace's grin has a scheming feel to it that you don't like. "You could probably even score a crazy deal if you gave it to Leona or Riddle."

"Huh? Why?" You pick up the chest and turn it over in your hands. It looks just as old and dusty as when you first saw it. "I found it just lying around in an antique shop. Nobody else wanted it, so I got it for free."

Both boys spring up in surprise and startle you.

"You got it for free ?!" Deuce exclaims. "Man, luckyyy."

"Yeah, that's nuts!" Ace adds hysterically. "Anyone with half a brain cell knows that Great Seven relics are worth a fortune . Museums and historians all over the world are always scrounging around for 'em and sometimes even the Seven's inheritors themselves are willing to pay good money to get their hands on their old stuff. No way you got that thing for free!"

"It even looks like it might've even been from the original Seven's time," Deuce muses, his eyes trained on the chest with deep interest. All you can do is continue looking between them cluelessly.

"I... don't really get it." You look down at the ancient object in your hands that had ensnared your companions' attention. "It's pretty, sure, but... it's just a box."

Deuce looks at you in disbelief while Ace exaggeratedly heaves an exhausted sigh.

"You really don't know anything, huh?" he says in a very put-upon way, earning him an unappreciative expression from you in response. "Look at the carvings on the chest."

You lift the chest to your eyes. Grim rises up on his hind legs to get a look himself. You trace your fingers carefully over the impressions in the wood where you can make out the most distinct shapes, just like you had what seemed like forever ago.

The chest had been tucked at the back of the shelf, hidden behind several other dusty, old-looking antiques. When you'd pulled it out and blew off the dust coating the top, the particles seemed to glitter in the sunlight streaming through the window.

Immediately, your eyes were caught by the detailed carvings on the chest. Following the dips and curves in the wood, chiseled with a precise practice and attention to detail you could never hope to comprehend, you manage to parse out the figures that'd been shaped so carefully:

The first of them was a queen donning a massive gown and a small crown. Next to her was a prowling lion etched with scars. Standing in front of it was what looked like a woman with curling tentacles for legs and bedside her, a tall man in a turban holding a staff styled to look like a snake. Beside them was a second queen, dressed in an impressive gown adorned with peacock feathers. Across from her stood a flaming robed man and finally, on the center of the chest; an elegant, horned woman with dragon wings.

"I bought that during an estate sale years ago," the store owner had said when he saw you looking at it. "It has all these characters on it but seems so much older than when these movies came out. I've never been able to get the lock on it open, though. If you can do it, you can have it and whatever's inside."

"See? It's the Great Seven." Ace points to each of the figures one-by-one. "Here's the Queen of Hearts. There's the King of Beasts, and then the Sea Witch, the Tactician of the Sands, the Fairest Queen, the King of the Underworld, and—"

"Ooh, I know, I know!" Grim hopped up and down excitedly. "The Thorny Fairy!"

"It's actually the Thorn Fairy," Ace corrects with a mocking grin. "But it looks like you've got a brain after all under all that fur."

Grim begins to growl at him, but you smooth down his anger and the hairs on his back with your hand.

"Anyways, yeah. A chest like this that has old magic on it has gotta have been important to the Seven in some way," Ace finishes. He looks at the chest more closely with a thoughtful expression.

"Too bad we can't open it," Deuce sighs. "I'd kill to know—"

Click.

You would've laughed at the way the boys' eyes were bulging out of their heads if you weren't so confused.

"What?"

"Wh— What do you mean, "What"?!" Ace screeches. "How did you just—?"

"Um, you just push it?" To emphasize your point, you click it closed and open it again. Deuce shakes his head in bewilderment.

"No way. That can't be it," he says in a befuddled tone. "It's an enchanted chest! It can't just..."

You shrug. "Dunno. That's just how it works." You reach inside the chest and pull out its sole contents. Or, well, content .

"Whoa." The boys gasp as you carefully place down a large, leather-bound book on the table. Keeping it closed is a single thick strap with its own latch.

"That definitely looks important." Ace leans over to pick up the book and get a closer look.

"Careful! It's really old," you say warily.

"Gotta wonder what's in...side..." He grunts as he pulls on the latch, but it doesn't give.

"Here, let me try." Deuce walks over to take the book from him, but Ace pulls it away.

"I've got it!" He continues to strain with the latch unsuccessfully as Deuce keeps reaching for it.

"You're not pulling hard enough!"

"Yeah I am!"

"Let it go, Ace!"

"No, you let go!"

"Hey, give my henchman back their book!" Grim yowls from the table, blue sparks jumping from between his bared teeth.

The boys continue to bicker as they grapple for the book, grabbing and pulling at it in an increasingly rough fashion. You heave a sigh and push between them, snatching the book out of their hands.

"What are you guys, 12?" The boys once again gape at you as you push down on the book's latch and, just like the chest's latch, it easily gives way beneath your thumb. You hand it back over with an eye roll, but you can't help the amused smile that's paired with it. "Seriously, you can cast magic spells but you can't work out simple physics?"

A slight hint of pink tints the boys' cheeks as Ace snatches the book back from you bashfully.

"It's not that! Maybe it's just... Maybe the book likes you, that's it!" Deuce says with such conviction that you're actually not sure if he means it or not. Ace snickers under his breath. He opens his mouth to say something, but his expression morphs to one of puzzlement. He flips a few of the book's yellowed pages, eyes glossing over the inked words completely before he speaks up,

"It's blank."

" What? " you say in a surprised gasp. Deuce leans over to look as you take the book back from Ace. You feel your entire body slacken at a release of tension you hadn't realised had even gathered in your limbs when you have the book in your hands again. You see for yourself that it was still filled with the scribbles of handwritten words as it had the last time you opened it. "Very funny. You really scared me for a bit there."

Ace, not for the first time that day, unabashedly looks at you like you're crazy.

"Huh? There's literally nothing there," he says again, his eyes flicking from the pages to you as you once more look at him with confusion.

Deuce lifts the pages to look at the ones beyond. "Yeah. It's completely blank, from what I can see."

"What?!"

This entire day, ever since you walked into this magical world, has been a bombardment of unfamiliarity and perplexity and questions one after the other, but you don't think you've felt as mystified as you do now—not even when you saw a walking, talking, fire-breathing cat.

Because, on the pages in your hands, right before your very eyes, are lines and lines of words and paragraphs, all together building coherent messages that in turn tell of the complex, captivating correspondence between two people within the now-yellowed pages of a single book.

"I..." you turn your head to look between Ace and Deuce. "Nothing?"

Deuce shakes his head while Ace shrugs.

"Nothing," the latter says.

"Myah?" Grim scampers across the floor and climbs up your legs onto your shoulders to get a look himself. You examine him closely as he peers at the pages with his wide blue eyes. He tilts his head, but unlike Ace and Deuce his eyes are focused when they look at the pages. "What're you two talking about?! There's a ton of words on there!"

The two squires exchange mirroring puzzled expressions before seeming to come to a sort of conclusion as they both look back down at the book with wonder.

"That solves it then," Ace says with finality. "This book's enchanted."

----

Enchanted. Well, at least you aren't crazy.

Your eyes travel over the collection of words etched into the paper; unassuming and unremarkable, except for maybe perhaps the unusual way the contents are written.

There are two writers. Not only is it said explicitly in the first pages that there are two writers, but also in the writing itself. The script in the book—written in the form of letters, as if the two people were talking to each other this way—has two distinct handwritings and speech styles. One of the writers was more formal and eloquent, their words written in a complex flowery cursive, while in contrast their correspondent's language was more callous and casual and their handwriting mirrored it; less perfect and more crude and uneven.

There was a strange sort of life in this book that you hadn't expected when you had first pulled it out of the chest. Initially, you had expected a sort of journal or historical record, which you're sure can be interesting, but what it actually possessed was something much more beyond your expectations, allowing you not only a glimpse into the long-forgotten lives of these two individuals, but also their friendship. There was just something so compelling about it; slowly learning the characters of and connection between these two old-timey pen pals that you couldn't have the privilege of being privy to otherwise.

And, apparently, you're being given the magical privilege of seeing.

You would never have known that the book was enchanted if Ace and Deuce hadn't looked at it. Now, beyond the lives of the two people tucked within its pages, you wonder what else it's hiding. Why is it enchanted? Why can't Ace and Deuce see it? Why can you and Grim see it?

Most importantly... what was it doing in an old antique shop in your magicless world?

You ponder these thoughts late into the night, even until Grim had gotten too tired to entertain your musings and had fallen asleep, curled up on one of the pillows. Ace and Deuce had long left, but not without convincing you to share the hidden contents of the book with them in the morning.

You'd gotten deep into reading after that, but as engrossing the conversations between the two writers were, you'd barely made a dent in the book's contents and there didn't seem to be a single clue in sight as to the magical properties of the book itself.

A powerful yawn forcing its way out of you finally compels you to look at the bedside clock. It reveals to you that it is in fact the ungodly hour of 1 AM and going into 2 AM.

"Shoot... I'm gonna die tomorrow, aren't I?" you murmur to yourself, remembering that the other inheritors were planning to take you somewhere to possibly resolve your little amnesia situation.

The smart thing to do would be to turn in, but just as you're about to close the book, the page underneath your right thumb suddenly folds inwards. Startled, you pull your hand back, and the book erupts into a cacophony of fluttering pages. Hundreds of pages and words bypass your vision in a blur until suddenly the flipping stops, leaving the book open on the surfaces of two empty pages near its end.

Except, it's not completely empty.

At the top of the left page, slowly etching itself into existence before your bewildered gaze, are words.

Like one of the writers', the writing is neat; the letters almost perfect imitations of each other, except with less swirls. Instead of a full essay of words though, the ghostly writing only forms a single sentence, but it still sends your mind whirling with thoughts.

Are you there?

I'm sorry.

Hello! My current hyper-fixation and maladaptive daydreaming scenarios center around Epic the Musical, created by the amazing Jorge Rivera-Herrans!

However, because I have a female main character bias, I tend to imagine the songs as if they were sung by best girl Penelope.

Thankfully, two artists have went ahead and drew this into reality! @vioofc and @too-much-flynnolium (please check out their art, it is really good!)

Inspired by their works of perfection, I have went ahead and wrote the first of many vignettes based on this AU! There is also a version on Ao3, if you prefer that platform over Tumblr:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59221033

More will be coming soon, so be on the lookout for that if you enjoy this kind of thing!

Some important notes before you begin reading:

In this AU, Ares and Artemis have worked together over the years to train a bunch of Greek women and make them formidable warriors. After Ares break his promise to Hera to support the Greeks during the Trojan war, he offers his favorite student and her closest sisters-in-arms to fight in the war (as Hera is in favor of women gaining more power and influence in the Greek world).

This is what leads to Penelope being forced to fight in the war. Odysseus and the men of Ithaca are not allowed to take the places of these women, as Athena (on Hera's orders) orders him to stay in Ithaca.

Telemachus is also a girl in this AU, because I say so!

Epic! Swap AU #1 - The King of Ithaca

Odysseus tries to cope with single handedly running his kingdom and raising his daughter without his loving Penelope by his side. Unfortunately, the first of his suitors have made themselves at home in his palace… 

“Odysseus.” 

Odysseus did not respond to the call of his name. He did not want to leave his designated seat: the left side of the klines. It was picked out in collaboration with his wife upon their first week of marriage, with Penelope declaring that the right side belonged to her. Odysseus remembered laughing, saying that it made sense, “considering you are always right”. 

The klines was placed in the side-corner of their bedroom balcony, with a perfect view of Ithaca’s beaches on one side and the villages of the common folk on the other. Penelope always loved this spot, for if she wanted she could see the sky kiss the ocean on one side, or the hustle and bustle of her people, satisfied and content with their lives, on the other. 

He had a ritual for mornings. Every sunrise for the past 12 years, from the moment he wakes the King of Ithaca will spend a few minutes staring at the beaches surrounding his Kingdom; it was not long, but the minutes always lingered with a heavy sense of despair. 

It’s been so long since Odysseus last saw his wife lounging in this seat, beckoning him to join her in the morning whilst the kingdom was in a state of loving calm and peace. 

“Ody…” 

Odysseus flinched, knowing the other only called him by that name when he was concerned. 

Finally turning to look at his visitor, Odysseus saw Eurylochus leaned against the doorframe of his bedroom balcony. His best friend, his brother, was watching him with a sad look in his eyes. 

“They aren’t coming back-”

“You don’t know that.” Odysseus yelled out sternly. Though he immediately regretted it when he saw Eurylochus’ shoulders slump as let out a heavy sigh. 

“Eury… I-I’m sorry-” 

“It’s okay, Ody,” Eurylochus said with a small but sad smile. “I know.” 

Odysseus wanted to kick himself. After all, he and Eurylochus were stuck in the same horrible situation. 

After all, both men were in a state of longing. Odysseus longed from the moment he first awoke alone in his big, empty bed. Eury, who too woke in a lonely bedroom, longed in the exact same way. 

Both men longed for the return of their wives: Queen Penelope of Ithaca and her best friend and second in command, Ctimene.  

It had been 12 years since the God Ares ordered his favored student, Penelope, and her sisters-in-arms (trained by the God of War and Goddess of the Hunt, Artemis) to Troy on his behalf, all to “make up” with Hera after first siding with the Trojans on Aphrodite’s request. 

Odysseus remembered how he pleaded, begging to fight in his wife’s place, pride be damned! Especially since it had only been months since Penelope had given birth to their beautiful baby girl. Unfortunately, not even the King’s friendship with Athena could have spared his wife of her mentor’s decree; nor could it spare the many other women trained in the art of bloody war. 

It took 10 years for the war to end; Helen was reunited with Menelaus and the royalty of Troy were killed off to the last drop of blood. Rumors circulated within the Greek world that Penelope had a great hand to play in their victory, but the specificities were never clarified. 

The people of Ithaca could never forget the look of pure joy in their King’s eyes upon first hearing the news. However, whilst they thought their King’s happiness was because of his wife’s cunning and battle prowess being praised by all who could speak, those closest to Odysseus knew the truth. 

Odysseus was ecstatic that his wife was finally coming home. 

Penelope would once again be inside his arms, her warmth and scent no longer reduced to a distant memory. The people of Ithaca would once again have their queen, and Telemachas could finally meet the mother she had heard so many wonderful stories about. 

That’s how things should have been by now; and yet, 2 years after the war ended, the wives and daughters of Ithaca had still not returned. 

Presumed to now be widowers, the husbands and fathers of Ithaca reacted in very different ways. Many remarried, desperate to once again have their homes filled with the comfort of a wife and care of a mother. The rest could not bear the thought of remarriage, taking up vows of celibacy in honor of their fallen wives and praying to the Gods that their love alone would be good enough for their children. 

The one thing they all had in common: they knew their wives to be dead. 

This was where Odyesseus differed from them all. 

His people, Eurylochus, and now even Polites had tried telling him how likely it was that Penelope perished at sea. They reminded him that as the King of Ithaca, it was his duty to find a new Queen that could help rule and lead their Kingdom to prosperity. This was the standard procedure for Royalty in Greece.

But Odysseus was never one to follow the standard procedure. 

“Some of our… visitors… are making themselves at home in the throne room.” Eurylochus reminded Odysseus of the very thing he was trying to avoid. “They’re asking when you’ll go to see them.” 

Odysseus couldn’t mask his frustration. 

2 years. That’s all those selfish dogs had given him to “mourn” for the love of his life, for the mother Telemachas never had the chance to know. 

And now that the two years were up, they expected him to move on. 

“Already?” Odysseus commented as he rose from his seat, almost impressed with his “guests” desperation. “Helios hasn’t even placed the sun in its morning spot.”

“C’mon, you and I know human nature better than anyone.” Eurylochus scoffed, looking down to see the Palace’s yards beginning to pack with various women and their guards. “Who would ever resist the chance to obtain more power?” 

~

Odysseus, now wearing his royal chiton, walked down the halls of his palace with his head held high. Eurylochus walked by his side, hand strategically placed near the handle of his broadsword in order to quickly protect his King from strangers with ill intent. 

Eurylochus tried to lead Odysseus away from the hall of bedchambers, but the King stubbornly stopping in front of a familiar door forced both men to stop in their tracks. 

“Ody!” Eurylochus whispered-yelled through his teeth, obviously stressed beyond all doubt. 

“One second.” Odysseus had already pulled out a key he trusted only to himself, quietly unlocking the door. “I just want to check on her.” 

Odysseus could feel Eurylochus’ glare, but he knew his brother was not too bothered by his actions. After all, his most proud and precious achievement in life slept peacefully behind the once locked door. 

Telemachas’ chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The princess was curled up in the middle of her bed, smiling in what must have been a pleasant dream. Laying right beside her was Argos, who had awoken the second she saw someone trying to enter her owner’s room. The dog immediately returned to sleep though when she saw it was only her past owner checking in on his pup. 

For a second, Odysseus forgot about the devastating cataclysm that was his life. 

He forgot that Athena was angry at him for allowing his wife to aid the Goddess’ rival brother, despite them both not having a choice. He forgot about the low morale his kingdom now felt, having lost their daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers. He forgot the anxiety he felt at the thought of betraying Penelope by marrying another far less worthy of her title as Queen of Ithaca. 

In that second, he even managed to forget that Penelope was no longer by his side; for a younger, less turmoiled version of her slept so happily within the safe haven of her room. 

A sudden mirthless chuckle, a depressing one, roused Odysseus from his thoughts. 

“Sometimes I wonder what mine and Ctimene’s would have looked like…” 

Odysseus felt his heart twist in pain at those words. He remembered how excited his sister was at the prospect of a child, especially after having met her niece. Eurylochus spoke to him in private about how excited he was to soon be a father and give Telemachas a friend. 

Imagine that: both couples laughing as they watched Polites and Circe play with the children, basking in the warm sun and ocean breeze of a peaceful summer’s day. 

So much they could have had, if not for the will of the Gods. 

“Eurylochus-”

“We really need to go.” Eury’s frown was quick to disappear. “I don’t think they’ll appreciate waiting any longer.” 

Though he could hide the sorrow on his lips, Eurylochus could not mask the despair in his eyes. However, even if Odysseus wanted to stay and probe, all to better comfort his friend, he knew that Eurylochus was right. 

If he wanted to keep the piece in his palace, he didn’t have a moment to lose. 

~

Odysseus and Eurylochus knew the throne room was busy due to the various voices coming from behind the closed doors. 

“What’s the hold up!?”

“We’ve been waiting for two hours!” 

“Why can’t we find the King ourselves?!” 

They all sounded feminine. And very annoyed. 

“Ladies, please!” Polites’ muffled voice sounded from the other side of the doors. “The King will arrive in just a moment! So, in the meantime, why don’t we all conduct ourselves in a polite, orderly fashion?” 

Another chorus of exasperated groans; if there were any words spoken then they were undecipherable due to the sheer loudness of the crowd. 

Odysseus saw Eurylochus toss him a look, one that had “I told you so” written all over it. 

Ody let out a deep breath, praying to the Gods above that he looked much more confident than he felt. With a nod to the other, Eurylochus took the hint and made his way to the double doors of the throne room. 

He threw the doors open, attracting the attention of every guest within the throne room, welcome or otherwise.

Eurylochus’ booming voice could be heard from every corner of the large room:

“Presenting the King of Ithaca, Odysseus!” 

Everyone within the throne room, friend, suitor, or guard, either kneeled or bowed at the sight of the King of Ithaca. 

Odysseus paid them no mind; he stared straight ahead at nothing in particular as he walked to his throne. He sat in the left royal seat, despite royal customs declaring he sit in the right. The right seat belonged to Penelope, and Penelope only. 

He would make sure every suitor in his palace remembered this. 

He took note of the amount of women littering his throne room, 32 in total. So far. 

Odysseus knew he had to find a way to delay this “inevitable” remarriage. If not for his fidelity and loyalty to Penelope, then for the sake of his daughter. Who knows what would happen to her if he remarries, for what Queen would allow the daughter of her predecessor to take the throne? 

No, he needed to be smart and tactical about this. Telemachas was already 12, well on her way to 13. All he had to do was keep his suitors at bay for 8 more years, then the princess would be allowed to ascend to the throne without any complaints from his adversaries. 

He could do this. He will find a way. For himself. For Telemachas. For Penelope. 

~

Odysseus didn’t notice the look one suitor in particular gave him from the moment he walked into the throne room. 

She couldn’t look away from his body; his tanned, lean, toned body. Oh, how his chiton stuck to his waist and showed off his fit figure. The way the fabric couldn’t cover his abs at a certain angle. The way one of his pecs was in full view, teasing the wonderfully flat mound of flesh that was begging to be bitten. 

He was beautiful. 

He was perfect. 

He was hers. 

Based on rumors circulating around the palace, it appeared that he planned to make his remarriage a difficult process for his suitors. 

That was fine.

She can be patient. No matter how long it took, she’d find a way to force him to accept her. After all, she was blessed by Zeus himself. Anything she wanted would belong to her.  

Ithaca. The Right Throne. Odysseus.

One day, all of it will bear her name. 

Calypso.

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