Aphrodite's Curse [Yan!DSMP x Reader]

X | Last morning of the Festival

Soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.

The gods are watching down at the two of you, as the strong scent of flowers enters your nose, enchanting you as if it's the garden of Persephone herself. The eyes of Atlas' curse are floating next to the second Sun, lighting up the poisonous plants luring your soul. With the king of this land next to you, you've been in a calm silence while enjoying the peace of mind you've been gifted. Silence, sometimes broken by a few words of conversation, that Schlatt would never be able to give you, though you're not surprised the grandson of Hades would be familiar with it.

Both you and Wilbur had awoken in the middle of the night. You'd gone for a stroll through the hallways of the castle, in an attempt to offer your conscience some distraction. During this walk, you'd come across Wilbur, scratching the skin in his neck away and smoking opium like his life depended on it. Considering it was clear the king too needed to clear his mind, you'd asked him if he would mind taking you into the garden, stating how you'd be pleasured if he were to lend you a piece of his own mind, so a philosophical debate – or any other kind of conversation, for that matter – could now take place without any nonsensical points to be made by the drunken heart.

And like that, you've just been walking around, the sounds of crickets creating a musical ambiance and the whispers of the night distracting you from the eyes you constantly claim to see in the distance. According to Wilbur, these are not uncommon. "It's most likely just an animal, that tends to come and go. I've had many slaves and guests mention them before, but it's never caused us any trouble. I doubt it will this time." He himself, however, had not seen the lights, so he had to take your word for it like you had to take his.

"The tales claim that you've never had a lover, Musagona," he says, before asking if he's allowed to use your real name. You give him your consent, believing a name to be a mere title, and knowing it'll be what the people shall hear once the leaves of leadership shall decorate your crest. So, allowing the name to roll of his tongue first, he doesn't continue his first statement, for he feels the need to compliment your first. "That's such a beautiful name. I assume you prefer it over 'Musagona'?"

"I don't care for either, to be completely true with you. I carry the name my parents gave me with pride, but that does not mean I dislike the name by which I have been identified as a hero of the people. After all, it's used to emphasize my bloodline: I am a descendant of a muse, which is another thing that I shall always admit proudly. Whichever you prefer using, is the one I'll accept." Besides, you've already heard many other nicknames for you which you did not take any pleasure with. Most coming from Schlatt, of course, who's already been made clear that you do not accept any unprofessional behaviours from.

"In that case, I think I prefer your actual name. I enjoy saying it." For a few times, he repeats it silently, almost as if he's trying to remind himself of it, rather than just liking the sound. Eventually, however, he stop, shaking his head and scratching the back of it with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I must come over rather unprofessional now myself. My dearest apologies," he holds out his hand for you to take, which you do as a sign of respect, when he repeats your name, this time with an odd tone to it. Instead of shaking your hand, like you expected him to, he tenderly brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss on it. And all the while, you're wondering to yourself: does he knows you're the masked one, with whom he believed his wife to be cheating?

You can see in his eyes your apathetic response is not as amusing as he most likely hoped it to be. You don't blush, or awkwardly giggle, or even offer returning the favour. All you do, is stare at him uncertainly, thoughts racing through your mind, as you're wondering if you should tell him about that incident. However, you can't bring yourself to. Usually, you're not one for pity, but as he lets go of your scarred hand, straightening his back and shamefully running his hand through his hair, you can't help but pity him. "I don't mean to be rude, Wilbur," you then say, thinking carefully of how to speak your words, "but I had no problem with your repetition, nor did I believe it to be necessarily unprofessional."