Bronbrons

Il Dottore × God!Reader

— curiosity that borders on worship

You find him dissecting a machine that should not exist.

Dottore doesn’t look surprised when you appear. He only adjusts his gloves, eyes lighting up with manic delight.

“A god,” he hums. “Perfect timing.”

You raise a brow. “You’re not afraid.”

“Fear is unproductive.” He steps closer, gaze dissecting you. “Besides, I’ve always wondered how divinity reacts under pressure.”

You should smite him.

Instead, you let your power leak—reality bending, the lab groaning under your presence.

Dottore laughs. Genuinely.

“Beautiful,” he whispers. “You’re not bound by rules, are you?”

“No,” you answer. “Are you finished studying?”

He pauses. For once, he looks… thoughtful.

“On the contrary,” he says. “I believe I’ve only just begun.”

And in that moment, you realize: Dottore does not want to surpass gods.

He wants to understand you.

Which may be far more dangerous.

Sandrone × God!Reader

— love spoken through machines

She doesn’t look at you when you arrive.

Sandrone sits atop her massive automaton, legs swinging, wrench in hand. The machine hums softly—tuned to your frequency.

“You’re late,” she says.

“You didn’t summon me.”

“I rebuilt an arm,” she replies flatly. “Thought you’d want to see.”

You do. Not because it’s impressive—though it is—but because she made it for you.

The automaton turns, kneels flawlessly, offering you a mechanical flower crafted from pure energy.

Sandrone finally looks up.

“…It listens to you,” she mutters. “Better than people do.”

You smile and rest a hand against the machine. It stills instantly.

Sandrone’s breath catches.

“You could command anything,” she says quietly. “But you come back here. Every time.”

You meet her gaze. “Because you build miracles without asking for worship.”

She looks away, cheeks faintly pink.

“…Idiot god,” she mutters.

But she sits a little closer.

Pantalone × God!Reader

— contracts written in eternity

Pantalone believes in numbers.

Gods, to him, are investments—dangerous ones.

So when you sit across from him, legs crossed, power radiating effortlessly, he keeps his smile polite and his hands steady.

“I assume you want something,” he says.

You lean forward. “I want to know why you don’t pray.”

He laughs. “Prayer doesn’t yield profit.”

“And yet,” you murmur, “you offer the Tsaritsa everything.”

Silence.

Pantalone studies you carefully. Then, slowly, he removes his gloves and places them on the table—an unguarded gesture.

“Because belief,” he admits, “is the one thing I can’t afford to lose control over.”

You reach across the table, brushing his knuckles. His pulse stutters.

“Then let’s make a deal,” you say softly. “No worship. No faith.”

He swallows. “And in return?”

You smile like a god who knows exactly what they’re doing.

“I stay.”

For the first time, Pantalone signs a contract without reading the fine print.

Childe × God!Reader

— love like a glorious, inevitable fight

Childe grins the moment he senses you.

“There you are!” he calls, spinning his weapon. “I was hoping you’d show.”

You descend like a storm.

“Another challenge?” you ask.

“Always,” he says, eyes bright. “But c’mon—don’t hold back. You’re a god. I can take it.”

You clash. Power against fury. The ground shatters. Childe laughs through the pain, exhilarated beyond reason.

“You’re incredible!” he shouts. “Fight me forever!”

You disarm him with a thought. He crashes into the dirt, breathless, staring up at you.

You offer a hand.

He takes it without hesitation.

“Hey,” he says, squeezing your fingers. “When this is all over… stay with me, yeah?”

You raise a brow. “You’re asking a god to settle down?”

Childe grins, sharp and fearless.

“Yeah. Think of it as the ultimate challenge.”

The second rule is:

If you tell him he shouldn’t do something, he will still do it, but he’ll ask you afterward if he did good.

(It’s progress. We take what we get.)

I. “The Matchmaking Incident That Wasn’t”

Ragnarok had barely begun when Zeus decided he needed a consort.

Not a lover. He has plenty. Not a fling. He gets bored too easily. Not a goddess. Annoying politics.

No — a partner, like the mortals romanticize in their dramas and poetry. Someone who could keep up without exploding.

And then he saw you spar.

Lightning cracked without him calling it. Time slowed because he demanded it to. The entire arena disappeared except for the way you pivoted on your heel and put your sword through a training dummy like you were bored of its oxygen use.

Zeus nearly salivated.

“I want that one.”

Hermes didn’t even look up from his scroll.

“They’re not for sale.”

“I didn’t ask for the price, boy, I asked for the paperwork.”

“There is no paperwork.”

“Then draft some.”

II. “Courtship, Zeus Style”

Zeus courts like a natural disaster with flowers.

You receive:

lightning-proof armor (“just in case”)

thunderbird feathers (“pretty, no?”)

a lightning bolt (“you can throw it, I won’t be mad”)

a handwritten love poem that somehow rhymes “orgasm” with “sarcasm”

and a large dead monster (“for dinner”)

You stare at the carcass.

“Zeus, I don’t even know what species that is.”

“It insulted your sword form.”

“It was a goat.”

“A rude goat.”

The mortals fear him. The gods tolerate him. You… argue with him about goats.

He’s obsessed.

III. “And Then You Said Yes”

No one expected you to accept him. Least of all Zeus.

He freezes mid-sentence.

“Wait—really?”

“Yes.”

“YES-yes??”

“Still yes.”

“Like a proper yes? A consenting yes? A yes that won’t come with spears or smiting or paperwork?”

“Correct.”

He grabs you at the waist, twirls you in a circle like a ballerina made of thunder, and screams:

“SOMEONE DOCUMENT THIS!”

Hermes already has fourteen copies.

IV. “Battle Couple Shenanigans”

When your match in Ragnarok comes up, Zeus stands behind you like a guard dog someone fed too much caffeine and praise.

Your opponent sees the King of Olympians hovering behind you with lightning pooling in his hands like casual static.

“Is he… allowed to be here??”

Zeus grins.

“I’m not helping. I’m supervising.”

You glance back. “I don’t need supervision.”

“You don’t. Everyone else does.”

A fair point.

The fight begins — steel vs divine muscle, precision vs raw chaos. You are elegance; Zeus is carnage given a gym membership.

You parry blows like you’re dancing; Zeus shadow-fights behind you, making commentary:

“Good! Yes! Take their stance, it’s sloppy—watch the elbow—DON’T LET THEM—YES, THAT’S MY LOVE, FINISH—FINISH—”

You do. Spectacularly.

Zeus is so proud he kisses you while you’re still holding your opponent’s defeated form by the collar.

It’s very romantic. And highly disrespectful to the loser. Zeus likes it that way.

V. “Post-Match Therapy (For Others)”

After the match, gods crowd around asking how you tamed him.

Hermes: “Is it hypnosis? Magic? Sex? Be honest.”

Apollo: “If it is sex I need notes.”

Ares: “Fight me next actually—no wait I take it back—wait no I’m in—WAIT NO—”

Even Odin just stares at Zeus in horrified amazement that he is sitting politely next to you and not:

flexing

screaming

wrestling something

or in the process of inventing a new category of blasphemy

Zeus catches the staring.

“What?”

“You’re… behaving,” Odin says carefully.

“Of course. My beloved is talking.”

You blush. Hermes faints. Ares screams into the floor.

VI. “What No One Expected”

Later, when you rest in Olympus, thunder crackles across the marble ceiling as Zeus braids your hair clumsily.

His voice, soft enough to make thunder feel shy:

“You know… I used to think love was about conquering.”

Your hand finds his wrist.

“And now?”

Zeus lifts your palm to his lips.

“Now I think it’s about not wanting to win alone.”

For once he doesn’t grin after speaking. For once he doesn’t need to.

Poseidon x Reader — “The Sea Does Not Kneel (Except Once)”

characters: poseidon x reader

There are gods who love loudly.

Zeus, who announces it. Ares, who fights for it. Dionysus, who serenades it badly.

But there is only one god alive who loves in total silence.

Poseidon, Lord of the Seas, Sovereign of the Tides, the God-killer, the Untouched.

I. “The One He Didn’t Drown”

It begins when you insult him.

Not intentionally — at least, you think — but no one insults Poseidon and lives. Mortals drown. Demigods drown harder. Gods get glared at until they wish they drowned.

You had simply muttered during a council debate:

“Oh for the love of saltwater, stop sulking. We all know you’re going to volunteer anyway.”

Silence hit the room like a warhammer.

Zeus choked on grapes. Hermes dropped a pen. Hades whispered, “oh no,” very quietly.

Poseidon turned his head. His eyes were the color of trenches where sunlight dies.

“Repeat that.”

You did.

The room prepared for murder.

Poseidon instead said:

“…Noted.”

Zeus didn’t recover for forty minutes.

II. “Courtship by Hydrodynamics”

Poseidon doesn’t court.

He observes.

And you become the anomaly he cannot model.

He watches you spar, listens to you speak, notices how you stand when you lie and how you breathe when you’re amused. He sends no gifts. He sends no poems. He sends no storms.

Instead, the tides change.

Storm routes shift away from mortal coasts you favor. Ships survive seasons they shouldn’t. The ocean grows strangely merciful.

Mortals call it a miracle.

The gods call it a warning.

You call it—

“Subtle.”

Poseidon’s lips twitch. For him, that is equivalent to Zeus building a statue and declaring eternal devotion.

III. “Ragnarok: Precision & the Blade”

You enter Ragnarok not as decoration or claim, but as a weapon the pantheon intends to deploy.

The mortals cheer. The gods whisper. The Valkyries grin like wolves.

Your opponent is fast — divine, brutal, dirty with tactics that draw blood quickly. The arena floor becomes a map of crimson geometry.

Poseidon watches from the dais, expression unreadable, fingers tapping the armrest exactly twice — once when you take a blow, once when you give one far worse.

When you finally sever your opponent’s guard and put them down, clean and decisive as a guillotine, you do not celebrate.

You merely look up.

Poseidon stands.

A hush crawls across both realms.

He descends the stairs — slow, inevitable, as if gravity itself obeys him. The ocean accompanies him without water: a pressure, a hum, a depth.

He stops in front of you.

Every god on the field expects a critique, or a command, or judgment.

Instead—

Poseidon kneels.

Not fully. Just one knee, one hand on the hilt of his trident, head bowed a fraction — but the gesture is titanic.

Spectators choke.

“THE SEA DOES NOT KNEEL—” “HE DOESN’T EVEN BOW TO ZEUS—” “IS THIS—MARRIAGE?? DID WE JUST WITNESS A MARRIAGE??”

Zeus: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE NEVER KNEELED TO ME??”

Poseidon ignores the multiversal crisis unfolding above him and says, plainly:

“You honor us.”

You breathe.

“Do I?”

He lifts his gaze, and the entire ocean looks out of it.

“Yes.”

IV. “The Aftermath (Atlas, Bring the Smelling Salts)”

Back in the divine corridors, Atlas genuinely passes out from shock. Athena updates three war strategies based solely on your existence. Hermes sells pamphlets titled How to Earn Sea God Respect in Only 600 Easy Steps! (Step 1 is: Don’t die.)

You confront Poseidon privately.

“Kneeling? Really?”

“I acknowledge strength when I witness it.”

“And that was acknowledgement?”

“Restraint,” he corrects. “Acknowledgement would have shattered half the arena.”

You stare. “That was the restrained version?”

He doesn’t answer.

Which is how you know the answer is yes.

V. “Not Love. Not Yet.”

Poseidon doesn’t ask for you.

He allows proximity — seated beside him during briefings, sparring in quiet courtyards, walking along the docks while other gods pretend not to watch.

He stands close enough that the air tastes like salt.

Close enough that the silence is not empty, but loaded.

Then, one night before the next tournament round, you ask:

“Why me?”

Poseidon replies without turning.

“Because you do not fear me.”

“Should I?”

He finally looks at you, truly looks, as if measuring your density against the ocean floor.

“Everyone should.”

You approach him anyway, and Poseidon — god of storms, breaker of empires — yields two inches backward without realizing it.

You smile.

“I don’t want to fear you.”

“Good,” he says. “I prefer you don’t.”

VI. “The Thing Everyone Was Afraid Of”

When your opponent for round two attacks you off-schedule — cheap, dishonorable, cowardly — Poseidon moves before thought can form.

Zeus stands. Hades straightens. The Valkyries swear.

Poseidon’s trident stops inches from the attacker’s throat, ocean roaring in the arena like it’s trying to climb out of the marble.

“Touch them again,” Poseidon says softly, “and I will salt the earth with your pantheon.”

Nobody doubts him.

Not even their pantheon.

VII. “Power Couple Status: Confirmed”

Later, in the ruins of the observation hall, Poseidon speaks without his trident, without performance, without depth pressure.

Just him.

“The ocean has no equal,” he says. “But it has found a partner.”

For him, that is the confession.

For you, that is enough.

Buddha x Reader — “Enlightenment is Overrated, You’re More Fun”

characters: Buddha x reader

The first time Buddha sees you, he’s eating a lollipop.

He’s supposed to be meditating for formality’s sake, projecting serenity, giving the mortals hope or awe or whatever Zeus claimed the PR objective was.

Instead, he’s lounging against a pillar, candy in cheek, bored out of transcendence.

Then you walk into the arena to test your weapon.

Buddha pauses.

Lollipop stops.

Eyelids actually lift.

His third eye, annoyingly perceptive, flares just a fraction.

“Huh.”

Hermes notes this with horror. Zeus notes this with curiosity. Thor notes this with the emotional constancy of a boulder.

Buddha pushes himself up, flicks his candy stick into the void, and grins like someone just handed him a new universe toy to dismantle.

“You’re interesting.”

You look at him, unimpressed.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t even pretend it’s not true.

I. “The Courtship of Annoyance & Velocity”

Buddha doesn’t court. He bothers you into love.

He shows up everywhere:

during weapon checks (“ooo that’s sharp, you planning to stab someone or me?”)

during breakfast (“don’t eat that, try this, it’s better, also give me a bite”)

during strategy briefings (“I meditated on it and the strategy you should use is: win harder”)

during Zeus screaming somewhere in the distance (Buddha: “if we don’t look at him he’ll stop”)

The Valkyries take bets on how long before you snap at him.

You never do.

Instead, you match him.

He teases — you parry. He pokes — you poke sharper. He tries to fluster — you smirk like you invented flustering.

He LOVES it.

He leans closer one day during training and says:

“Be careful.”

“Why?”

“I might get attached.”

You arch a brow. “Might?”

He bites into his candy.

“Fine. Did.”

II. “Ragnarok Round: Sharing Enlightenment (and Violence)”

When your Ragnarok fight comes up, Buddha insists on watching from mortal seating.

Zeus tries to forbid it.

“You’re a god!”

“So? Mortals have better snacks.”

Poseidon stares at his audacity. Hades respects it. Hermes develops an ulcer.

You take the field, weapon gleaming, stance steady. Your opponent is fast and ruthless, using cheap tactics and psychological provocation.

Buddha doesn’t blink.

If anything, his third eye narrows and his grin sharpens—like he’s already seen forty-seven outcomes and is rooting for the most entertaining one.

When you cut down your opponent’s strategy and force them into a corner, Buddha speaks under his breath:

“Yeah… there it is…”

The dangerous part.

The part he likes too much.

And when you win—clean, decisive, without ego—Buddha claps slow, smug, and overly loud.

“That’s my type.”

III. “Aftermath: Mortals Are Losing It”

Mortals adore you. Gods grudgingly respect you. Buddha? Buddha walks through the hall with you like he invented the concept of flexing.

Halfway through the corridor, he offers you a lollipop.

You take it.

Every Valkyrie present ascends because sharing candy with Buddha is functionally a proposal.

Pandemonium breaks out in the betting rings.

Zeus is screaming, “WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP DEVELOPING SEXUAL TENSION DURING MY TOURNAMENT??”

Buddha smirks.

“It makes it more interesting.”

IV. “The Philosophy of Attachment (He Lies Badly)”

Later that night, atop the outer balconies where lanterns sway and mortal prayers drift up like incense, Buddha sits with you, legs dangling, looking like a delinquent deity on a rooftop.

He asks:

“Do you want to know the future?”

You tilt your head. “Do you?”

His third eye glows faintly.

“I see a path where you die.”

You don’t flinch. “There always is.”

“I see a path where you win.”

“Good.”

“And I see one where you don’t fight at all and run away with me.”

You laugh. “You planning to elope mid-apocalypse?”

“Just weighing options.”

A beat.

Then quieter:

“Love makes attachments. Attachments make suffering. Suffering makes enlightenment. Annoying cycle.”

You lean back on your hands, gaze leveling with his.

“You could always stop.”

“Loving you?”

“Suffering,” you correct.

He stares for a long moment, then his grin returns—slow, crooked, blasphemously warm.

“Nah. Suffering’s optional. You aren’t.”

Shiva x Reader — “Burn Bright, or Don’t Burn at All”

characters: shiva x reader

Everyone fights for something.

Mortals fight for survival. Gods fight for pride. Zeus fights because it’s Tuesday. Buddha fights because it’s entertaining.

Shiva fights to feel alive.

He has burned down pantheons just to see what was left standing afterwards. He’s toppled empires because they were ugly, and defended mortals because they danced beautifully in the rain.

And then you walked into Ragnarok’s selection hall and ruined him.

I. “He Sees Your Flame”

The first time Shiva watches you spar, he doesn’t cheer or whistle or comment like Zeus. He just… goes still.

Motion ceases. Rhythm halts. Even the universe holds breath.

You dodge an attack with a glide of movement so fluid it borders on choreography — clean arcs, fast pivots, blade flashes like comet tails.

To everyone else it’s martial technique.

To Shiva?

It’s dance.

He breathes out one word:

“Beautiful.”

Parvati hears it, raises an eyebrow. Kali hears it, smirks like she knows exactly what that means. Ganesha hears it, scribbles notes because that boy is observant and nosy.

Zeus whispers to Hermes, “oh no, he’s doing The Look.”

Hermes, horrified: “He only did that once — for Kali.”

II. “Courtship By Combustion”

Shiva’s courtship is… very Shiva.

He doesn’t flirt. He sparks.

He challenges you to spar every time he sees you. Not to win — gods no — but to measure you, to learn your footwork, to time your rhythm against his.

Your first bout ends with you panting, weapon trembling, arm tingling from shock, and Shiva grinning like wildfire lit inside his ribcage.

He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Again.”

You gape. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah,” he beams. “You’re amazing.”

He asks again the next day. And the next. And the next.

You stop asking why. Eventually, you start demanding rematches before he can.

The gods gossip. Mortals place bets. Kali threatens to join just to escalate things.

Shiva practically vibrates at the idea.

III. “Ragnarok: Dancing In The Ashes”

When your Ragnarok match arrives, Shiva secures frontline seating — not in the elegant observation balconies, but sitting half inside the barrier wall like a delinquent demigod who refuses to be told where chairs are.

The moment the fight begins, Shiva watches not the carnage, not the tactics, not the opponent.

He watches your feet.

The way you twist, advance, retreat, counterspin — every motion precise, savage, and mercifully alive.

When you finally corner your opponent and drive them into defeat with a finishing strike that cracks the arena stone, Shiva inhales like someone tasting oxygen for the first time.

He stands, hair wild, eyes bright, and shouts:

“YES! THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE FIRE!”

Mortals scream. Gods freeze. Zeus claps purely out of peer pressure.

Shiva doesn’t care about decorum or politics. He leaps onto the arena floor before the medics even arrive.

You raise a brow.

“You’re not supposed to be down here.”

“Can’t help it,” he says, circling you like a predator with too much affection. “You light up the stage.”

IV. “The Dance of Intimacy (Don’t Get Burned Unless You Want To)”

Later, in a private training hall, Shiva unspools his upper arms and offers you a hand.

“Ever danced with a god?”

You snort. “Is this flirting or a literal question?”

“Both.”

He pulls you into a rhythm — not slow, not sensual in the mortal sense, but fierce. He twirls you, dips you, redirects force through your hips and spine like he’s teaching your body a language older than speech.

You strike at him mid-spin. He blocks it without breaking rhythm.

Teeth bared.

“Good.”

Another spin.

“More.”

A lift, a twist, your weapon slides past his ribs close enough to cut fabric.

He laughs — loud, delighted, unrestrained.

“YES. THAT.”

No one has ever praised you like that. No worship, no fear, no polite admiration.

Just recognition.

V. “Attachment Is Fuel”

After hours that feel like minutes, you stand chest to chest, breath tangled, sweat streaking skin, heartbeat matching his flawlessly.

Shiva looks at you without smugness or arrogance — just certainty.

“The universe burns out eventually,” he says. “So you either flicker… or you blaze.”

You swallow. “Which am I?”

His grin softens into something dangerously close to reverence.

“You’re the kind of fire that makes me want to stay.”

That is a confession. A rare one.

Shiva does not chase beauty. He chases continuance — something worth coming back to after destruction.

He takes your wrist gently.

“Fight with me,” he says. “Or dance. I don’t care which. Just don’t dim.”

Loki x Reader — “Lie Better, Love Louder”

characters: Loki x reader

The first time Loki sees you, he’s lounging against a balcony railing, one boot propped up, lollipop in mouth like he invented boredom.

“Well, well, well…” he drawls, eyes narrowing. “Look at you. Trying to act all… competent.”

You glance at him without moving your hands from your weapon.

“And you’re trying to look like you know what you’re doing. Not bad for a god who can’t sit still.”

He snorts, flicking the lollipop into the air and catching it with his tongue.

“Touché. But admit it, I caught you noticing me.”

“I noticed the smirk. Big deal.”

“Big deal,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Because, my dear, that smirk tells me everything. And I like secrets—especially the ones I can unravel.”

“Unravel me? Hard pass.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’m just curious.” He tilts his head. “Curiosity is practically sacred in my line of work.”

I. “Interest Is Always Dangerous”

Later, he appears everywhere. Literally everywhere.

During your morning practice:

“Hmm… I see a flaw there.”

“You’re judging my form?”

“I’m observing. There’s a difference.” He grins. “But yes, I judge. Slightly.”

“You mean a lot.”

“Details, details. Should I show you how I would do it?”

“No.”

“Why not? Afraid I’ll outperform you?”

“Absolutely not. I’m just… modest.”

“Modesty! I should frame that word and hang it on my wall.”

During meals:

“You’re eating that?”

“Yes, Loki, I’m eating it. Do you want some?”

“Maybe. Depends. Are you sharing, or is it a trap?”

“It’s chocolate. Hardly a trap.”

“Chocolate… hmm… very tempting. I might need a taste test for safety.”

“Fine. One bite. But don’t get used to it.”

“One bite, and now I’m hooked. You see how dangerous you are?”

You roll your eyes.

II. “Ragnarok: His Spectator Sport”

When your fight starts, Loki lounges on the balcony:

“Ah, look at you. So poised, so deadly. Delightful.”

“Don’t commentate. I don’t need hype.”

“Oh, but you do need hype.” He leans forward. “That move! Yes! Twist! Perfect!”

“Stop narrating my fight, Loki!”

“Can’t help it! It’s beautiful! You make destruction graceful. And you always… always land the last strike.”

“Flattery now?”

“Observation, darling. Very different. Also flattery, yes. But mostly… awe.”

III. “After the Fight”

You return from the arena, weapon bloodied, hair disheveled. Loki meets you at the corridor.

“Impressive,” he says, smirking. “You made them look foolish. And I liked watching every second.”

“Did you cheer?”

“I clapped in my own head. Cheering out loud would have been excessive. Maybe.”

“Excessive is kind of your thing.”

“Only around you. Around others, I’m perfectly restrained.”

You stare.

“Around me?”

“Yes. You break all my rules, you know that?”

“Good.”

“No, seriously. I mean it. I’ve studied every trick, every misdirection, every clever escape… and you, you just… ignore them.”

“I’m not ignoring, I’m careful.”

“Careful… hmm… boring.” He grins. “No. You’re infuriatingly, unpredictably… interesting.”

“That’s your polite way of saying you like me?”

“Polite? Oh, no. Not polite at all. I like you. Very much.”

You freeze.

“You just… said that.”

“I just did.” Loki leans closer. “And I mean it. I like you. The problem is… you see right through me.”

“Problem?”

“Yes. Because I can’t lie to you. And I’m addicted to lying.”

“Addicted to you, maybe.”

He freezes. Then laughs, softly, dangerously:

“Perhaps. Perhaps.”

Hermes x Reader — “The Messenger Who Can’t Stop Sending You”

characters: Hermes x reader

I. “The Training Mishap”

The next morning, Ragnarok has you in the training hall. Hermes decides he’ll help “motivate” you — which, in practice, means zooming around like a caffeinated god and shouting instructions, compliments, and occasional threats all at once.

“Left foot, no! Right foot! Now spin! Spin faster! Ahhh! Don’t trip over your own sword, darling!”

“Hermes, slow down!”

“Slow down? Impossible. You’re moving too fast!”

“I’M NOT—”

He zips in front of you in the blink of an eye, stopping your weapon with a light tap.

“Oh, yes you are. You’re moving in slow-motion in my perception. It’s very… adorable.”

“Stop calling me adorable!”

“Nope.” He leans casually on your spear. “Adorable. Very much adorable. Not just your face—your battle style too. It’s… cute chaos.”

“…I’m not cute.”

“Cute chaos,” he repeats, grinning as he steps back, leaving you glaring at him.

He laughs, that high, bell-like sound that makes mortals tremble and gods groan.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be quiet… for now.”

You glance at him suspiciously. You know that “for now” is never now.

II. “The Ragnarok Match”

When your fight arrives, Hermes is… predictable. Only in his own way.

He’s everywhere. One second he’s in the stands, one second perched on the edge of the arena, one second beside you whispering strategies you may or may not follow.

“Watch their right flank—no, their left—yes, wait—ahh! Too late, adjust!”

“Hermes! STOP!”

“Impossible. You’re too good at evading without me narrating. My pride can’t handle it.”

You roll your eyes and charge. Your opponent, a god of cunning and speed, smirks, thinking they can overwhelm you.

“Impressive… but predictable,” they taunt.

“Not if I have help,” you mutter.

Hermes swoops down, whispering precise advice in your ear while also creating distractions: illusions of weapons, misdirections, and occasionally tossing candy at the enemy because, yes, he thinks it’s a valid strategy.

“Did you just—throw a candy?”

“Yes. Tactical. Sweet chaos. Works every time.”

The opponent falters just long enough for you to land a final decisive strike. Victory is yours.

Hermes claps, dancing in midair:

“Yes! That’s my favorite human! Oh, look at you! Beautiful, clever, unstoppable!”

“…I almost died.”

“Almost died = spectacular. And now you’re alive to celebrate with me! Win-win!”

He swoops down, tugging your arm to spin you around mid-air. You nearly topple him.

“Hermes—”

“Shh. Spin. Celebrate. Smile. Did I mention you look cute while winning?”

“…Stop.”

“Never.”

III. “Post-Match Chaos”

Later, in the palace corridors, Hermes refuses to let you walk alone.

“I will not allow it. Too dangerous. Too boring. Too… lonely.”

“I survived the match. I can survive the walk back.”

“Nope. I’m faster. You can’t escape me.”

“That’s not a threat?”

“Maybe. Depends if you run.”

“Hermes—”

“I’ve delivered my point. Loud and clear.”

He zips around you in impossible loops, leaving small sparks from his winged sandals, laughing like he’s discovered the world’s best game.

“…You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me for it.”

“…Maybe.”

“Victory!”

IV. “Quiet Moment (Impossible, But Here)”

After the chaos, when everyone else is resting or plotting, Hermes finally sits beside you.

“You know,” he says quietly, almost sincerely, “I could be anywhere. Watching, running, delivering messages… but I’m here. With you. Because… well, it’s fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yes. Fun. Exciting. Terrifying. You’re… thrilling. And somehow, I want to stay in your orbit forever.”

“You’re saying that like it’s casual.”

“I mean it like it should be casual,” he says with a grin that makes your chest hurt in a good way. “But… I care. A lot.”

“A lot?”

“Yes. A lot.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper: “Enough to follow you into the apocalypse, if you asked me.”

You reach for him, catching his hand.

“Then maybe… you should.”

“Oh, I already did.”

He laughs, squeezing your hand gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

This took forever 😭

now I’m gonna binge watch RoR again 😤

His robe falls open first, silk sliding off his shoulders and pooling like ink on the stones. Beneath it he’s warm, defined muscle and sharp control, and when he pulls you against him you feel the rigid press of his cock through the thin layers between you.

“Take it off,” he mutters—no title, no flourish, just need.

You obey, loosening your own clothing until his palm slides across your bare skin. He groans at the contact—quiet, like a man unused to letting desire breach the surface.

He turns you, pushing you gently back until you hit the garden’s carved stone bench. Your thighs part for him instinctively, and he sinks to his knees between them—a conqueror kneeling only for appetite.

His mouth traces up your inner thigh, wet heat and slow teeth, until he reaches the slick center of you. His tongue parts you and tastes you—deep, deliberate strokes that make your head fall back and your breath break on a curse. He holds your hips down as he works you open with his tongue, flicking and circling until your thighs tremble against his cheeks.

When you start to come apart on his mouth, he doesn’t pull away. He drags the pleasure out, savoring it like something earned, until you gasp his name—half moan, half plea.

Only then does he stand, lips wet, eyes dark. He frees his cock from the last bit of fabric, stroking himself once, slow, with the leisure of a man who knows he’ll get what he wants. The head brushes against you, heat meeting heat.

“Look at me,” he orders, voice thick.

You do, and he pushes into you—deep, steady, filling you until your nails dig into his shoulders. His breath stutters at the feel of you wrapped around him, tight and wanting.

His pace starts deliberate, each thrust measured like strategy, but the careful rhythm cracks fast. His hold tightens on your waist and he fucks you harder—sharp, hungry, hitting that spot that makes your body clench around him. The bench behind you grinds against stone with every movement.

Your climax hits fast and messy, back arching, thighs locking, pulse fluttering against his mouth when he kisses your throat. The way you squeeze around him drags a raw sound from his chest—between a groan and a confession—and he pushes through it, thrusts turning rough, desperate.

When he comes, he presses you down and buries himself all the way, teeth against your jaw, breath ragged as heat spills deep inside you. He holds you there through the final shudder of it, like victory isn’t real until he feels you take it.

After, his forehead rests against your shoulder; a rare, stolen softness. His fingers trace your spine, grounding you both in the dark garden that smells of silk, sweat, and spent lantern smoke.

Dottore (The Doctor)

You should have known better than to wander into his lab alone.

The air smells of antiseptic and ozone, machines humming like they’re breathing. You’re halfway through cataloging data when the door locks behind you with a soft click.

“How fortunate,” Dottore’s voice echoes. Amused. Curious.

He emerges from behind a partition, mask tilted slightly, eyes alight with interest that has nothing to do with kindness. He circles you the way a scholar circles a hypothesis.

“You show no fear,” he notes. “Or perhaps you simply hide it well.”

You tell him you trust him.

That makes him laugh.

“Trust is an inefficient survival strategy,” he says, stepping closer. He lifts your wrist, examining your pulse like it’s a fascinating malfunction. “But I do admire your consistency.”

Dottore does not love in any way that resembles safety. His affection is attention — invasive, consuming, relentless. He remembers everything about you: your reactions, your habits, the way your breathing changes when he stands too close.

“You are not replaceable,” he says casually, as if discussing spare parts. “I’ve tested the theory.”

When you ask what that means, he only smiles.

Later, when an experiment goes wrong — violently wrong — you’re pulled behind him without warning, his body shielding yours from debris and flame.

He doesn’t comment on it afterward.

But the next day, your name is etched into a restricted-access file, red-stamped DO NOT TOUCH.

No one else ever dares.

Sandrone (The Marionette)

The workshop is her sanctuary — and now, somehow, yours.

Clockwork limbs hang from the ceiling like suspended thoughts, metal shells half-assembled across long tables. Sandrone sits among them, small compared to her creations, eyes distant as her automaton looms behind her like a silent guardian.

She doesn’t look up when you enter.

“You’re late,” she says.

You apologize. She hums softly, adjusting a gear with delicate precision. You watch her hands — steady, confident, capable of building things that could crush cities.

“You don’t fidget,” she notes suddenly. “Most people do.”

You shrug. Say you like being here.

That makes her pause.

Sandrone’s affection is quiet. Observational. She shows it by making space for you — by allowing you to sit beside her, by handing you tools she doesn’t trust to anyone else. Sometimes she asks you to hold a piece steady, your fingers brushing hers, sparks jumping not from machines but something far more fragile.

One evening, you find a small automaton on your desk. Crude compared to her others, but unmistakably personal.

“It watches,” she says, not meeting your eyes. “If you’re harmed, it will alert me.”

You ask if that’s concern.

She hesitates. Just a fraction.

“It’s… efficient.”

But later, when you’re tired and resting against a worktable, you feel something gently draped over your shoulders — her coat, still warm.

She never takes it back.

Pantalone (Regrator)

Power follows money, and money follows him.

Pantalone’s office overlooks the city like he owns it — because, in many ways, he does. Ledgers are stacked like fortresses, contracts signed in ink that might as well be blood.

You stand beside him as he negotiates, watching opponents fold under his smile.

Afterward, he offers you a seat. Wine. Time.

“You see the world clearly,” he says, studying you over the rim of his glass. “That is a rare talent.”

Pantalone’s affection is indulgent. Calculated generosity. He buys you things not to impress you, but because he likes seeing his influence reflected in your life. Every gift is a reminder: I can provide. I can protect.

When threats arise — political, economic, personal — they vanish quietly. Debts forgiven. Names erased.

“You are an investment,” he tells you one night, fingers brushing yours as he passes a document. “And I never allow my assets to depreciate.”

But in rare moments, when the masks drop, he lets you see the exhaustion behind the ambition. The fear of losing control.

And when you reassure him — genuinely — he holds onto that far tighter than any coin.

Childe (Tartaglia)

With Childe, everything is loud.

The sea crashes. Laughter rings. Fights break out and end just as quickly. He drags you into his world with a grin and doesn’t let go.

“C’mon,” he says, grabbing your hand. “Just one spar. I’ll go easy.”

He doesn’t.

But afterward, bruised and breathless, he’s laughing like it was the best day of his life. Like you are.

Childe loves fiercely and without strategy. He worries about you even when he pretends not to. Checks your injuries. Brags about you to people who definitely shouldn’t know you exist.

When danger comes — real danger — the shift is immediate. Playfulness gone. Eyes sharp.

“No one touches you,” he says, stepping in front of you, voice low. “That’s not negotiable.”

Later, when the adrenaline fades, he’s quieter. Sitting beside you, shoulder pressed to yours.

“I don’t know how to be careful,” he admits. “But I’ll try. For you.”

With Childe, love is chaos — but it’s honest.

You noticed, as you often did, how careful he was around you.

Not distant.

Careful.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Hades said at last, voice low and even. “This is a place where even gods fall.”

You glanced up at him. “So is the Underworld. Yet you rule it.”

That earned the faintest curve of his lips—something only you ever saw.

“You always answer danger with defiance,” he murmured.

“Someone has to remind the gods we’re not fragile.”

His gaze softened, just slightly. “You are… more fragile than you know.”

That was Hades’ fear.

Not losing a battle. Not the fall of heaven.

But losing you.

A horn sounded. Another round of Ragnarok was about to begin. The crowd erupted, demanding blood.

Your name echoed in whispers among the gods—some curious, some resentful. A demi-god powerful enough to be considered as a future fighter for either side.

A living contradiction.

“If they call your name,” Hades said quietly, “do not answer.”

You turned fully toward him now. “And if they do?”

His gauntleted hand tightened at his side.

“…Then I will.”

For the first time, you saw it clearly—the truth no god dared speak.

Hades, the unyielding king, feared nothing in existence.

Except a world without you in it.

You reached out, fingers brushing against his armor. The metal was cold, but the god beneath it was not.

“Hades,” you said softly. “I don’t belong solely to the gods… or to humans.”

His eyes met yours.

“I belong to myself.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then—slowly, deliberately—Hades knelt before you.

The crowd gasped. Gods rose from their seats in shock.

The King of the Underworld bowed his head.

“Then allow me,” he said, voice steady but reverent, “to stand beside you. Not as your ruler. Not as your judge.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“But as your equal.”

The arena faded away. The war between gods and humans meant nothing in that moment.

You placed your hand over his heart.

“Then rise,” you whispered. “And face Ragnarok with me.”

Hades stood.

“…Fine,” you said. “I accept.”

You forced yourself to hold his stare. “If it means I live—and humanity gets to keep its hope—then I’ll marry you.”

The words were heavy, bitter, and yet resolute. They carried dignity, sacrifice, and defiance.

Poseidon’s expression didn’t change at first. He merely blinked, calm as a god who expected nothing else. Then—

He tightened his grip around your hand, just enough to remind you that escape wasn’t an option.

“Wise.”

He turned from you toward the gods’ side of the coliseum, voice booming with divine finality:

“I forfeit.”

Pandemonium.

Mortals exploded into cheers, tears streaming down faces. Flags were thrown, drinks spilled, strangers embraced in wild relief. Even the divine spectators erupted in outrage, whispers, and scandal.

Gods had never forfeited for mortals. Gods never sacrificed victory for anything less than cosmic gain.

Hermes fanned himself, breathless laughter escaping. “Well now… that’s certainly one way to win a war without killing anyone.”

Zeus leaned forward with a wicked grin. “Never thought I’d see the day Poseidon chose wedlock over bloodshed.”

Thor crossed his arms but said nothing—only watched you with the quiet respect of a warrior bearing witness to a different kind of courage.

Valkyries clustered among themselves, stunned and whispering:

“A marriage… with a god?” “Is this even legal under Valhalla law?” “Can mortals do that?” “Poseidon actually forfeited…?”

Meanwhile, Poseidon offered no commentary. He pulled you close, as if shielding you from the chaos—or perhaps staking his claim more blatantly.

His voice dropped low, for you alone:

“You chose correctly,” he murmured. “Mortals rarely do.”

“You gave me two terrible choices,” you shot back under your breath.

His lips curved—cold, amused, arrogant. “And you selected the one that pleased me.”

The implication sent heat and dread crawling down your spine.

The arena parted as gods escorted you both out. Humanity cheered until their throats burned—until the image of a mortal living, not dying, carved itself into history.

Later — Behind Closed Gates

Valhalla’s corridors drowned in opulence—pillars sculpted from sea foam, chandeliers dripping with pearls and coral. Servants bowed as Poseidon led you through, still not letting go of your hand.

“Is this really happening?” you whispered.

Poseidon’s gaze slid toward you, expression unreadable. “You accepted. The vow will be honored.”

“…You really would’ve killed me?”

“There was never doubt.” His tone was simple fact. Cruel in its truth. “Mortals die easily and often. It would not have troubled me.”

Your stomach twisted. “Then why offer marriage at all?”

That stopped him. He turned fully to face you, eyes narrowing—not angry, but calculating.

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “death is predictable. You are not.”

His fingers brushed your cheek, light as seafoam but cold as deep water.

“Your defiance… your persistence… your refusal to kneel. These are traits wasted on mortality.”

You swallowed. “So I’m… entertainment?”

Poseidon scoffed, offended. “Entertainment is what one seeks from jesters and fools. You are… something else.”

He didn’t elaborate. Gods never explained more than they needed to.

The Announcement

Soon after, a proclamation shook Valhalla:

“By decree of Poseidon, the Sea God, a binding union between god and mortal shall commence.”

The reactions were instant and polarized:

Mortals rejoiced, viewing it as protection.

Gods gossiped, scandalized that Poseidon—Poseidon—would bind himself to anyone.

Valkyries panicked because this absolutely was not in their battle playbook.

And a few Olympians prepared wedding gifts with violently smug grins.

You stood at the center of it all, caught between survival, politics, and a god who refused to let go of your hand for even one moment—not out of affection, but possession.

Poseidon leaned down to murmur against your ear:

“Do not mistake mercy for weakness, mortal. You are mine now—and gods do not relinquish what they claim.”

Your heart stuttered. Whether from fear or something else, you didn’t dare analyze yet.

But humanity lived. You lived. And a stormy future had just begun.

⚜ “Continuation — The Mortal Bride of the Sea”

The coronation hall of Valhalla thundered with voices the moment the announcement spread. A marriage was not a battlefield victory, but it was still an act of war—just a different kind. Turbulent, political, and infinitely more scandalous.

Gods gathered like sharks scenting blood. Mortals huddled at the edges, whispering feverishly, hoping your sacrifice meant humanity would be spared a little longer.

Poseidon did not flinch beneath the scrutiny. He carried himself the way the sea carried storms—effortlessly and with the assumption that everything in his path would yield.

You, meanwhile, were doing everything in your power not to show how overwhelmed you felt.

Hermes approached first, practically gliding. “Congratulations to you both,” he hummed, fan fluttering. “I must say, Poseidon, no one predicted marriage would be your chosen form of diplomacy. How novel.”

Poseidon cast Hermes a cold glance sharp enough to slice coral.

“It is not diplomacy,” Poseidon corrected.

“Oho? Then what is it?” Hermes grinned.

Poseidon’s eyes drifted to you. The response was terrifying in its simplicity.

“It is possession.”

The room buzzed at that word. The gods understood it instantly. Mortals flinched.

You swallowed hard. “Good to know I’m not being confused with a peace treaty.”

Hermes stifled a laugh behind his fan. Zeus threw his head back and cackled from his throne. “Brother, you always did know how to make an entrance! A wife instead of a corpse—now that’s unexpected character growth!”

Poseidon ignored him entirely.

⚜ Private Quarters — Later

When the hall finally emptied of onlookers and gossip-hungry gods, Poseidon escorted you to his private chamber. It was larger than most mortal palaces, built of polished stone and veined with rivers of living seawater. Bioluminescent fish drifted through the currents like floating lanterns, casting the room in shifting blues.

You hesitated at the threshold.

“This is where I’m staying?” you asked.

Poseidon lifted a brow, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Of course.”

You bristled. “We’re not married yet.”

“And?” His tone was arctic.

You gestured vaguely. “Most people don’t—uh—move in together before the wedding.”

Poseidon stared at you for a long beat, then spoke with chilling sincerity:

“Mortals require ceremony and fiction to justify intimacy. Gods are not bound by such rituals.”

Your face ignited with heat.

“I’m not talking about—!” you sputtered. “I mean living arrangements!”

He tilted his head in faint amusement. “Do you believe yourself capable of establishing territory apart from mine?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it. There was no safe answer to that question.

Poseidon turned away, dismissing the discomfort with a flick of divine indifference. “We will conduct the binding in three days. Preparations are already underway.”

Three days.

Your stomach dropped. “That soon?”

“The court is impatient,” Poseidon said, gaze trailing along the currents. “The gods wish to see the outcome. Mortals wish to confirm the sacrifice was not in vain. And I”—his eyes landed on you again—“do not tolerate delays.”

You exhaled shakily. “What exactly does a godly marriage entail?”

Poseidon stepped closer, the air around him smelling faintly of cold saltwater and ancient storms.

“It is a vow,” he said, low and even. “Once spoken, it is eternal. No god breaks such vows. No mortal survives such bonds unless the god wills it.”

“And you will?”

His gaze flashed—a rare, dangerous spark. “I would not bind myself to something I intend to discard.”

You weren’t sure if that was reassurance or warning.

⚜ Nightfall — Doubts in the Dark

When he finally dismissed you, the chamber door sealed behind you with a ripple of seawater. You were alone for the first time since the match ended.

Your legs nearly gave out.

Not from fear—though fear was there, thin and trembling beneath your ribs—but from the knowledge of the stakes.

You hadn’t accepted his proposal because you loved him. You hadn’t done it because you wanted a throne. You did it because if you died, humanity lost hope.

You had chosen survival over dignity. The future over pride.

And Poseidon… Poseidon seemed entirely content with that truth.

As you sank onto the bed, staring up at the shimmering ceiling, you whispered to yourself:

“What did I just agree to…?”

⚜ Elsewhere — The Sea God’s Thoughts

Far from your chamber, Poseidon stood on a balcony overlooking the Valhallan sea. The water obeyed him instinctively, rising in ribbons and waves at his silent command.

Until now, the arena had been predictable. Mortals died. Gods watched. The pattern never broke—until you.

“A mortal bride,” whispered a voice behind him.

Poseidon didn’t turn. Hades stepped into view, darkness trailing him like smoke. His expression was unreadable.

“Unexpected,” Hades continued. “But I see the reasoning.”

Poseidon’s jaw tightened. “You mistake me for someone who requires approval.”

Hades ignored the barb. “You chose preservation over extermination. Rare, for you.”

Poseidon turned then, eyes hard as frozen tides. “Do not romanticize my motives. Mortals who defy me are uncommon. I will not have that rarity squandered by death.”

Hades gave a soft hum of acknowledgment. “You intend to keep them, then.”

Poseidon’s answer was immediate.

“Forever.”

⚜ And Back to You

You slid beneath the blankets, exhaustion finally pulling at you when a soft sound rippled through the room—a voice, deep as the deep sea, resonant and unmistakably his:

“Do not fear, mortal. Sleep. For you belong to me now… and the sea does not lose what it claims.”

The water in your veins hummed as if responding to something ancient.

You shivered.

Because something told you Poseidon wasn’t speaking metaphorically.

He meant it.

In every sense gods could.

And in three days, Valhalla would watch him prove it.

⚜ “The Binding Ritual” (Marriage)

Three days passed in a blur of preparation—none of it yours.

Tailors, heralds, and priestly gods rushed about in coordinated chaos. Weddings between gods were rare. Weddings involving mortals? Unheard of. The city buzzed with the uneasy thrill of impending history.

But when the third night fell, an icy calm settled over Valhalla. The moon hung low and swollen, as if the sky itself was watching.

A Valkyrie guided you to the Temple of Oaths—an open structure carved into a cliff of sea-glass and stone. Beyond it stretched a black ocean glittering with constellations that didn’t exist on earth.

Gods packed the amphitheater-like seating in tense silence. Mortals watched through scrying pools across realms, clutching each other like children at a storm’s edge.

A conch horn sounded.

Poseidon entered.

He didn’t walk—he arrived, sea swelling beneath his feet, trident burning like a second moon. Divine beauty was one thing; divine presence was another.

He approached you, gaze cutting through shadow and starlight. He extended his hand—not for affection, but to signal the ritual could proceed.

“The mortal approaches,” announced a priestly god with a voice like breaking surf.

“The Sea accepts,” Poseidon responded.

The ground shuddered.

⚜ “The Circle of Tides”

Blue light spiraled around your feet, then his, weaving together. The priest stepped forward, unfurling a scroll older than kingdoms.

“Marriage among mortals is contract and promise. Marriage among gods is claim and bond.”

The audience leaned forward.

“And the Binding between god and mortal is blood and breath.”

Your pulse spiked. Blood and breath?

The priest lifted a knife of coral and pearl.

“Poseidon, God of the Sea—do you offer your vow?”

Poseidon’s voice was cold and absolute:

“I vow to claim and to keep. To shelter and to bind. To preserve by my will and no other.”

The water surged around him, waves bowing like creatures in worship.

The priest turned to you. “And you, mortal—do you offer your vow?”

Your breath faltered. Humanity watched through you. Mortals prayed with you. Your voice shook, but it did not break:

“I vow to endure. To survive. To stand beside rather than beneath.”

A ripple of shock passed through the gods. Mortals didn’t usually get away with terms.

Poseidon’s eyes sharpened—interest, irritation, something in between.

The priest lifted the coral blade again.

“Then blood is required.”

Poseidon extended his hand first. The knife sliced his palm—no hesitation, no pain. Water rushed around the wound, not healing it but sanctifying it. His blood glowed deep blue, thick with divine power.

Then the priest turned to you.

The blade came down, sharp and cold. Red bloomed against your skin. Mortal blood.

For a heartbeat, the two colors hung separately—blue and red, god and human, eternity and dust.

Then Poseidon closed the distance and seized your wrist. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Gods didn’t lower themselves to physical contact during rites.

He pressed his bleeding palm to yours.

Blue and red collided.

The ocean roared.

Light engulfed the temple as the Binding took.

It hurt.

Not like a wound—like drowning and burning and freezing at once. Your lungs seized; the world tilted sideways. Memories flashed that weren’t yours—storm fronts, tectonic plates shifting beneath seas, leviathans sleeping in trenches deeper than death.

Through the agony, you heard Poseidon’s voice—calm, unhurried, terrifyingly certain:

“Breathe.”

Water filled your lungs—and somehow, impossibly, you did.

The priest’s voice cracked through the maelstrom:

“The mortal endures. The god accepts. The Binding is struck.”

The light finally snapped, sucked back into the sea. The ocean went still.

When you staggered, Poseidon’s hand caught your shoulder—not gently, but firmly, as though keeping an object from drifting away.

Your blood—now tinged faintly blue—continued to glow beneath your skin.

The priest raised his arms to the stunned assembly:

“From this moment, mortal and god are bound. By vow. By breath. By blood.”

Murmurs erupted.

Hermes whispered, fanning himself furiously: “Good lord, he actually did it… he truly intends to keep them.”

Zeus nearly choked on his wine from laughing. Hades only nodded once, unsurprised.

Poseidon leaned down, his voice low enough for only you:

“It is done. You live because I allow it. And now—”

His fingers brushed your pulse point. Not affection. Not comfort.

Assessment.

Possession.

“—the sea knows your name.”

You paused in the act of tying your sash. “Did you create a new administrative code again?”

“Better.”

“Did you redesign the postal system?”

“Better.”

“Did you fire all the ministers?”

“Tempting,” he admitted, “but no.”

He stepped forward and presented—quite proudly—a small bronze contraption that looked suspiciously like a toy automaton with a panda face painted onto it.

“It rolls on its own,” he announced, beaming. “Observe!”

He set it down. It rolled approximately two fingerwidths, spun in a half-circle, and then fell over with a metallic plonk.

Qin stared at it.

You stared at him.

Then his lips parted in utter betrayal.

“…It worked in the workshop,” he muttered.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, failing—just barely—to stifle laughter. Qin heard it anyway. He always did. He spun toward you, eyes narrowing with imperial offense.

“You—! Do not laugh at your emperor!”

“I would never,” you said gravely, even as your shoulders shook. “Never at His Majesty’s genius.”

“You are laughing,” he accused, crossing his arms. “You disrespect me in my own palace.”

“Yes,” you said. “I’m a menace.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt ready to launch a full monologue on your insolence, but the corners of his eyes crinkled before he could stop them. And then the laugh came—sharp, bright, unguarded.

The sort of laugh that only you ever got to hear.

He plucked the fallen automaton from the floor, turning it in his hands, expression shifting from embarrassment to stubborn determination.

“I will improve it,” he said. “I refuse to be defeated by a children’s toy.”

“You are truly the conqueror of all things.”

“Exactly.” He paused. “In fact, I am conquering you next.”

“Am I a province now?”

“A very important one,” he said, stepping so close you could feel his breath. “With strategic value and excellent tax revenue.”

You snorted. “Romantic.”

He blinked once. “I am extremely romantic.”

You gave him a look.

Without hesitation, he added, “I allow your existence to bring me happiness. That counts.”

“…I suppose in your language, it does.”

His smugness returned instantly. “See? You understand me better than any minister.”

And there it was — the heart of him. Beneath the pride, beneath the brilliance, beneath the odd inventions and imperial arrogance, Qin loved in a way that was simple:

He had chosen you.

And when Qin chose, it was absolute.

He set the bronze toy aside and pressed his forehead gently to yours — an unspoken vow.

“I will rule this world for a very long time,” he said softly. “Do not tire of me.”

“As if I ever could.”

He smiled then. That real smile — radiant, boyish, and entirely unbefitting the First Emperor.

Qin Shi Huang — The First Emperor, King Where It All Began

Qin Shi Huang felt it the moment you turned away.

A shift in the air—warm, intoxicating, dangerously pleasant. His smile froze, fan snapping shut as his keen eyes followed your retreating form.

“…Oh?”

He laughed softly, amused, intrigued, utterly undone.

You hadn’t asked permission. You hadn’t waited for acknowledgment. You simply walked away, leaving that scent behind like a challenge written in silk and heat.

How bold.

How delightful.

The Emperor rose from his throne, robes whispering as he followed at a leisurely pace, completely unbothered by the court watching him abandon everything for you.

“A ruler does not chase,” he said lightly, lips curling. “But a husband?”

He chuckled.

“A husband indulges.”

Hades — King of the Netherworld, God of the Dead

Hades noticed immediately.

He always did.

The Underworld stilled as you passed him, the cold eternal air briefly warmed by something achingly familiar. His steps slowed. His eyes softened—not shocked, not angered, just… affected.

You said nothing. Just walked away.

“…Beloved,” he murmured, low and resigned.

The perfume clung to him, stirring something deep and ancient—possession, devotion, a quiet, aching want he rarely allowed himself to indulge.

He did not follow right away.

Instead, he sighed, adjusted his gloves, and waited exactly three seconds.

Then the King of the Dead went after his wife, long strides echoing through the halls of the Underworld.

He would speak to you gently.

But later— he would remind you who you belonged to.

Hermes — God’s Emissary, The Ever-Smiling Observer

Hermes blinked.

Once.

Then twice.

“…Oh.”

His usual smile sharpened, eyes gleaming with curiosity and barely restrained excitement as the scent hit him—sweet, dangerous, intentionally provocative. You didn’t even look back. Just walked off like you hadn’t completely scrambled his composure.

He let out a soft laugh, fingers twitching at his lyre.

“Well, that’s new.”

Hermes didn’t chase. He appeared beside you instead, walking effortlessly at your side, head tilted with playful interest.

“You know,” he said lightly, voice smooth, “using weapons without warning is terribly unfair.”

His smile widened.

“But I suppose I’ll forgive you… once we’re alone.”

Loki — Trickster God, The Deceitful One

Loki froze mid-taunt.

The scent hit him like a curse wrapped in silk.

“…You did not,” he whispered, eyes widening with delighted disbelief as you walked away without so much as a smirk.

Then he laughed.

Loudly.

“Oh, that’s dirty. That’s vile. I love it.”

The perfume tangled with his senses, lighting every nerve on fire, igniting possessive delight and feral interest all at once. His grin stretched sharp, predatory.

You thought you could just leave?

In a blink, Loki vanished—only to reappear inches from you, leaning down with a grin that promised chaos.

“Wife,” he purred, breath hot against your ear, “if you wanted my attention…”

His eyes gleamed.

“You already had it. Now you’ve just made it worse.”

okay, so I get, posiedon, qin shi Huang, hades, hermes, and Loki. Yall can watch me with my husbands.. thanks for reading!! ❤️☺️ 2026~!

“….”

Another glance.

Empty.

Poseidon rose in a single, fluid motion, eyes narrowing. No servant would dare. No god would survive. There was only—

A sound.

From outside.

A distant BOOM.

Then another.

And another.

Like the sea itself was being slapped repeatedly and very personally offended by it.

Poseidon strode to the balcony.

And froze.

You were standing at the edge of the divine shoreline.

His shoreline.

Barefoot. Hair half-tied. Wearing one of his cloaks like it was a bathrobe.

And in your hands—

His trident.

Held backwards.

Wrong end.

“—AND I, POSEIDON,” you bellowed in the most aggressively incorrect imitation of his voice imaginable, “COMMAND YOU, WAVES!!!”

There was a split second of silence.

Then—

THUNK.

A solid wall of water shot straight up from the sea and absolutely BODY-SLAMMED YOU.

You vanished beneath it with a shriek.

Poseidon stared.

The ocean roared.

The sky darkened.

The sea immediately began to riot.

“…What,” Poseidon said very softly, “are you doing.”

You resurfaced a moment later, sputtering, soaked, hair plastered to your face. You dragged yourself onto the rocks, coughing dramatically.

“—Okay,” you wheezed, “so. Immediate feedback.”

Poseidon was already descending the steps, trident-less, every step radiating divine fury.

“You took my trident.”

You beamed at him, water dripping from your nose. “Good morning, husband! I made us chaos.”

“The sea does not answer to you,” he snapped.

“I KNOW THAT NOW.”

You scrambled upright, holding the trident again—this time pointing it at the ocean like it had personally betrayed you.

“Listen,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at the waves, “I was very clear.”

The sea surged ominously.

Poseidon pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You are antagonizing a primordial force.”

You waved him off. “Babe, please. I’ve lived with you for centuries. I know how this works.”

You cleared your throat and struck a dramatic pose.

“I, Poseidon—”

“Stop saying my name like that.”

“—COMMAND THE OCEAN TO—”

WHAM.

Another wave rose up and smacked you sideways like a disapproving parent.

You flew. You rolled. You landed face-first in wet sand.

The trident skidded away.

The sea calmed instantly.

Poseidon stared down at you, unimpressed.

“…The ocean rejected you.”

You lifted your head weakly. “I feel like it personally hates me.”

The sky thundered.

Poseidon snapped his fingers, and the trident flew back into his hand like it had been desperate to escape you.

The moment he held it again, the sea bowed. Waves softened. The storm retreated like a scolded child.

You flopped onto your back, arms spread, staring at the sky.

“I mean,” you said thoughtfully, “imagine the headlines.”

Poseidon looked down at you.

“Goddess Attempted to Play Sea God, Ocean Responds with Attempted Murder.”

“…You were not murdered.”

“Attempted drowning counts emotionally,” you replied. “The ocean was like, ‘Girl, who invited you.’”

Poseidon sighed, deeply, anciently.

“You could have been killed.”

You turned your head to look at him, grinning despite the sand in your teeth. “But I wasn’t. Which means the sea has a sense of humor.”

“…It does not.”

“It absolutely does,” you said. “It dragged me under just long enough to make me panic but not enough to kill me. That’s comedy timing.”

Poseidon knelt beside you, brushing wet hair out of your face with surprising gentleness.

“You are forbidden from touching my trident.”

You nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

A pause.

“…Unless?” you tried.

“No.”

You sighed. “Worth asking.”

Poseidon helped you up, draping his cloak properly around your shoulders this time.

“For the record,” you added, limping slightly, “if the ocean had drowned me, that would’ve been the funniest way to go.”

He looked at you, exasperated.

“You have a deeply concerning sense of humor.”

You smiled sweetly. “You married it.”

The sea rumbled—almost like laughter.

Poseidon scowled at the horizon.

“…Do not encourage it.”

But his hand never left yours as he led you back inside.

And the ocean?

Very pointedly stayed calm.

Because even it knew—

You were his, trident or not.

Thanks for reading!! 🤝❤️

2026~! me and Poseidon: