#goddess! reader

The din of the day had faded, leaving behind a silence that was both heavy and sacred. Inside Achilles’s tent, the air was warm, thick with the scent of clean skin, the faint, sweet aroma of your divine presence, and the lingering ghost of battle sweat that had been washed away. A single oil lamp cast a soft, golden glow, painting the interior in shifting shadows and light.

You sat on the luxurious pile of furs that was his bed, your back straight yet relaxed, a serene oasis in the heart of the war camp. Sprawled across the furs, his head a comforting weight in your lap, was Achilles. He was naked, the water from the gentle, miraculous shower you had conjured for him still gleaming on the slopes of his muscles. Droplets clung to the golden hairs on his chest and legs, catching the lamplight like tiny diamonds. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even, the fearsome warrior reduced to a state of utter, blissful contentment.

Your right hand was a constant, soothing motion, stroking through his damp, glorious hair. Your fingers traced the lines of his scalp, twirled the golden strands, and occasionally scratched lightly behind his ear, eliciting a soft, rumbling sigh of pleasure from deep in his chest. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated trust.

Your left hand, however, was engaged in a different, more cosmic task. Held before you, hovering just above the plane of his bare shoulder, was a shimmering, intricate tapestry of light. It was the nascent life of a new human soul. Dozens, hundreds of impossibly thin, glowing threads—luminescent and colourless, like woven starlight—danced between your fingers. You were weaving them together with an artist’s precision, creating the unique pattern of destiny, personality, and potential that would soon be sent into the world. Your expression was one of tender concentration, a mother’s love poured into the very act of creation.

For a long while, Achilles basked in the dual attention. The physical comfort of your touch and the hum of your divine power were a balm to his battle-weary soul. But slowly, a subtle shift occurred. The part of him that was eternally, desperately hungry for you—not just your presence, but the focus of your being—began to stir.

He cracked open one brilliant blue eye, peering up through his lashes. He saw the faint, ethereal glow of the soul-threads reflecting in your sapphire eyes. He saw the slight tilt of your head, the absolute attention you were giving to this new, unnamed, unformed thing. A low, almost imperceptible grumble started in his chest. It was not the roar of a lion, but the disgruntled murmur of a spoiled princeling.

He was your most favoured. Your most beloved. The soul you had crafted with such painstaking, loving detail. He was here, real and solid and yours, lying vulnerable in your lap. And yet, part of you was elsewhere.

With a childish petulance that would have shocked his Myrmidons to their core, he shifted his head slightly. His hand, which had been resting on his own stomach, snaked out. His fingers, calloused and strong enough to snap a man’s neck, found the soft, pristine linen of your white dress where it pooled over your thigh. He didn't grab it roughly. No, it was a deliberate, possessive gesture. He gathered a handful of the fabric and gave it a firm, insistent tug.

The motion was so unexpectedly juvenile that your weaving fingers stilled for a fraction of a second. Your gaze, soft and full of infinite patience, drifted down from the celestial tapestry to the mortal god in your lap.

His eyes were fully open now, looking up at you with a mixture of demand and adoration that was uniquely his. There was no anger in them, only a profound, pouting need.

“My love?” you asked, your voice a gentle melody that washed over him. “What is it you need?”

He nuzzled his face deeper into the softness of your dress, his nose and lips pressing against the linen covering your thigh. The gesture was one of pure, seeking affection, belying the childish demand that followed.

“I’m hungry,” he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble against your leg. “Feed me grapes.”

A slow, indulgent smile spread across your lips. Oh, how you adored this side of him. The fearsome Achilles, the breaker of armies, reduced to a jealous pup demanding treats and your undivided attention. You loved spoiling him. You lived for these moments where you could indulge his every whim, to show him that even the smallest of his desires was a command you delighted in obeying.

“I am in the middle of weaving a soul, my dear one,” you reminded him, your tone playful, not scolding. “A little boy who will one day be a great sculptor. His hands need careful attention.”

Achilles let out a dramatic huff, his breath warm through the fabric. He turned his head, pressing his cheek fully against your thigh, his eyes locking with yours. “He can wait,” he stated, with the absolute certainty of a man who knew he was the centre of your universe. “I am here now. Pay attention to me. I am more important than some… some ball of glowing string.”

He said it without malice, his gaze so earnest and full of love that it made your divine heart ache. He truly believed it, and in the context of your shared love, he was right.

You could not deny him. You would never want to.

Your smile deepened. “As you wish.”

You lifted your left hand, and with a soft, whispering sigh, the intricate tapestry of glowing threads dissolved into a shower of light particles, like a thousand fireflies returning to the stars. The nascent soul was safely stored, its creation paused, its moment deferred for the whims of a jealous hero.

In the space where the threads had been, the air shimmered. A small, exquisitely crafted bowl of pure white porcelain appeared, as if it had always been there. Inside, nestled like precious jewels, was a cluster of grapes so perfect they seemed unreal. They were a deep, royal purple, each one plump and taut, dusted with a silvery bloom and glistening with a dewy sweetness that promised nectar. These were not from any mortal vineyard; they were from the personal, Olympian garden of Dionysus himself, fruits of divine indulgence.

You plucked one of the grapes from the stem. It was cool and firm between your fingers.

Achilles’s eyes lit up with a triumphant, boyish glee. He watched your every move, his focus now absolute, exactly as he had wanted. He parted his lips, waiting.

You brought the grape to his mouth, placing it gently on his tongue. His lips closed, but not before they deliberately brushed against your fingertips, a soft, sucking pressure that was both a thank you and a claim. He held your gaze as he chewed slowly, the sweet juice bursting in his mouth, a blissful expression smoothing the last traces of battle from his face.

You fed him another. This time, he took your fingers more fully into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the pads for a moment before releasing them with a soft, wet sound, followed by a reverent kiss to your knuckles.

“The sweetest nectar,” he murmured, his voice thick with more than just the taste of the fruit.

You continued, one perfect grape after another. Each time, the ritual was the same: the gentle placement, the deliberate, lingering suckle on your fingers, the tender kiss. It was a game, a communion, a testament to his possessive love and your willing surrender to it. He was not just eating fruit; he was drinking in your attention, feasting on your touch, reaffirming his sacred place as the absolute centre of your divine world.

The bowl was half-empty when he finally sighed, a sigh of deep, sated contentment. He nuzzled back into your lap, his earlier jealousy completely soothed, replaced by a smug, possessive happiness.

“You can go back to your weaving now,” he said magnanimously, his eyes drifting closed once more, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. “But don’t stop stroking my hair.”

And you, the Goddess of Life, the Mother of All, simply smiled, picked up the threads of the unborn sculptor’s soul, and continued your work, one hand weaving destiny, the other forever tending to the only soul that truly, completely, owned yours.

“Just wondering what our Local God of Mischief wants with your very own Goddess of Secrets,” he said grinning. 

“He was just being nice,” you say shrugging. But when you look down at your keyboard, you know, as soon as he steps closer that you made a mistake. Tony had an unerring sense for awkward romantic things. And he always knew how to make it worse. You often wondered if he was descended from some god of chaos or mischief. It may be far enough down the line that he didn’t have powers, per se, but he did, evidently still have the instincts.

“Nice, huh?” Tony said.

“Yes,” you say tiredly. You itch and you hurt. Nothing makes it stop. And you’re less than interested in this conversation. “He’s being nice. He noticed I was swamped with work and brought me a drink.” It was true enough. You didn’t feel like explaining that he’d tried to help your rash. 

“Nice,” Tony repeated. “Loki isn’t nice,” he said, “Not for no reason.”

“I have reason to believe he’s sweet on the lady,” Thor said from the doorway, grinning. 

“See,” Tony said, “That doesn’t make sense either.” Tony cast a critical eye over you. The long skirt, and high necked shirt. The hair thrown up haphazard. Not a shred of make up. For a goddess you were plain. There wasn’t anything about you that seemed ethereal. Or even particularly... goddess like. 

“Why not?” Thor asked confused. You were kind. And smart. And... he supposed you were brave. Even if you didn’t fight, not really.

“Well- I,” Tony wanted to say, “Well look at her!” But when you looked up at him, he couldn’t say it. It just seemed cruel. 

“I really think I shouldn’t be hearing this conversation about me,” you say, swallowing hard. You itch. and you really want them to go away so you can look the door and get the fabric away from the worst of it on your neck and chest. 

Tony and Thor look at each other and Thor feels like he may have crossed a line, weighing in on Loki’s feelings for you. Feelings that, he realized, you didn’t think it was possible for him to have for you. At least, beyond the basic politeness he usually showed to ladies. Tony. Tony just felt like he should apologize but. As you marched them out and slid the door shut behind them, he didn’t really have the chance. 

Tony heard the lock engage and exhaled slowly. “Is he reallly trying to get with Y/N?”

“Get with?” Thor said, “Perhaps not. But. He is sweet on her. And he’s concerned.”

“Concerned?”

The victory feast was less a feast and more a glorious, chaotic bacchanal. The fires roared high into the night sky, painting the faces of thousands of Greek soldiers in shifting shades of orange and gold. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat, woodsmoke, and the heady, potent scent of stolen wine—wine so fine, so divinely fermented, it could have only come from a temple of Dionysus himself. It was the kind of wine that didn't just intoxicate; it unmoored men from their senses entirely.

And at the heart of the storm of revelry was Achilles.

You watched from a slightly elevated vantage point, a fond, amused smile playing on your lips. Beside you, Patroclus stood, a single, mostly-full cup of wine in his hand, his expression one of deep, affectionate entertainment. He was the calm eye of this hurricane of drunkenness.

Achilles, on the other hand, was the hurricane. He was a magnificent, ridiculous spectacle. The fearsome, invincible hero was utterly, completely sloshed. His tunic was askew, his glorious hair a mess of golden strands sticking to his damp forehead. His face was flushed a deep, rosy red, and a wonderfully dumb, unguarded smile was plastered on his face, a sight so rare it was almost sacred. He was leaning heavily on two of his Myrmidons, who were themselves so inebriated they formed a wobbling, laughing tripod of drunken solidarity.

"Look at him," Patroclus murmured, a soft chuckle in his voice. "He laughed so hard at that story Automedon just told that he nearly toppled into the fire. I haven't seen him this... loose since we were boys stealing wine from his father's cellar."

You nodded, your gaze soft and utterly endeared. "He's finding profound humor in the way that man is trying to balance a piece of cheese on his head," you observed, pointing subtly. "He's been watching him for five minutes, and he keeps giggling."

Patroclus snorted, covering his mouth. "Gods, you're right. He's usually so... intense. To see him reduced to giggling at cheese-balancing is a gift."

You chuckled, a sound like soft bells. "The wine is from Dionysus's own stock, my dear Patroclus. It could inebriate a Titan. And your cousin…" you gestured fondly, "…has the self-control of a happy puppy when he feels safe."

You and Patroclus continued your quiet commentary, a shared, tender mockery reserved only for those you love most. You pointed out how Achilles tried to take a dramatic swig from his wineskin and missed his mouth entirely, dribbling the precious liquid down his chest. How he attempted a warrior's pose and nearly toppled over, saved only by his equally unsteady companions. It was a scene of pure, unvarnished humanity, and you cherished every second of it.

You pointed subtly. "Look. He's trying to balance his cup on his head."

Achilles, with intense, cross-eyed concentration, was indeed attempting to place his golden kylix on his own golden hair. It lasted for all of two seconds before it tipped, splashing the last dregs of wine down his face. Instead of being annoyed, he just blinked, licked the wine from his lips with a clumsy swipe of his tongue, and let out another booming, delighted laugh.

Then, it happened. A shift in the cosmic ether, a familiar, desperate tug on the very strings of your being. You felt it before you saw it—Achilles had remembered you. It was that familiar, primal pull in the very core of your being. A desperate, seeking need that was uniquely Achilles. It was a hook in your soul, and he was tugging on the line.

His head, which had been lolling back in laughter, suddenly snapped up. The dumb smile faded into a look of wobbly, profound confusion. He blinked, his brilliant blue eyes clouded with wine, scanning the crowd. He was looking for his anchor, his north star. He was looking for you. "Where'sshe…? Gotta find… my…"

His gaze swept past you once, then twice, before finally landing on you and Patroclus. His expression cleared, replaced by a look of such pure, drunken adoration it made your immortal heart clench.

"Oop— here we go," Patroclus muttered under his breath, hidding his smile behind the rim of his cup as he took another sip from his wine.

Achilles disentangled himself from his human crutches with a determination that was both impressive and comical. "M'gonna... m'gonna go see 'er," he slurred loudly to no one in particular.

He made a beeline for you, or what his wine-addled brain interpreted as a beeline. It was more of a lurching, stumbling curve. Patroclus, seeing him coming, bit his lip hard, his shoulders starting to shake with suppressed laughter.

It was less a walk and more a nautical adventure. He listed to the left, corrected himself with a wide step, then listed to the right, his arms pinwheeling for balance. He was a magnificent warship trying to sail on land. He managed about ten of these wobbling steps before his feet decided they had had enough of his nonsense. He tripped over absolutely nothing, stumbling forward with a graceless lunge that ended with him colliding squarely into your chest with a soft, grunting "oof!".

You, of course, did not budge. An inch. Your divine form was as unmovable as a mountain. Your arms came up, wrapping around his back, holding his trembling, wine-warm body steady against you.

"Whoa there, my love," you said, your voice a low, amused hum. "The ground is particularly treacherous tonight, it seems."

He mumbled something incoherent into your breasts, then, with great effort, tilted his head back to look up at your face. And that's when the new realization dawned in his hazy eyes.

He blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

A slow, drunken, dawning comprehension in his hazy eyes. He blinked, his brow furrowing. He was looking up at you. Way up.

You were half a foot taller than him. In his sober state, he never seemed to truly process it, or perhaps he chose to ignore the subtle power dynamic. Always presenting himself as dominating, his confidence and arrogance acted as a deflective shield. But now, drunk and disinhibited, the fact crashed into him with the force of a tidal wave.

He was used to being the tallest, the most imposing figure in any room. But now, slumped against you, the top of his head barely reached your lips...

A tiny, almost imperceptible shiver ran through him. His lips, wine-stained and slightly parted and fell open slightly. "woah," he slurred, his words thick and syrupy. "Y'r… so big. 'M 'posed t'be big one."

Patroclus made a sound like a strangled cat and turned his face away, his entire body convulsing with silent, helpless laughter.

But you were attuned to every flicker of Achilles' soul, every shift in his body. And you felt it. The initial confusion melted away, replaced by a slow, warm, curling heat. A spark that quickly caught flame. The realization that you were taller, stronger, that you could, if you wished, simply pick him up and carry him away, was not intimidating him. It was... exciting him. Deeply.

The haze in his eyes shifted from one of simple drunkenness to one of drunken, possessive lust. He was not only a baby puppy; he was a horny baby puppy.

He whined, a high, needy sound in the back of his throat, and pressed his entire body flush against yours.  He started pawing at you, his hands clumsily stroking your back, your sides, trying to pull himself even closer. "Wan'… wan' kiss," he mumbled, his words slurring into one another. "C'n you… lemme have? Jus' one? From up there."

"Wan'... wan' kiss," he demanded, his words slurring into one. "Wan' a kiss from m'big, pretty goddess."

He tried to nuzzle into your neck, but his coordination was shot. He mostly just rubbed his face against your collarbone, his hot breath puffing against your skin. He started to squirm, trying to get closer, trying to mold himself to you. With a clumsy, deliberate shift of his hips, he managed to slot one of your legs between his own, pressing his growing, very evident arousal against your thigh. A shuddering groan escaped him at the contact.

"F-feels good," he slurred, rutting against you with a shameless, puppy-like urgency. "You... you're so big. You could... you could jus' hold me down, couldn' you? Jus'... take me. C'n do anythin' you wan'… M'your good boy, righ'?"

Patroclus, who had been trying valiantly to compose himself, lost the battle. A loud, snorting laugh escaped him, and he quickly disguised it as a coughing fit, turning his back to the scene, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

You looked down at the mess of a legendary hero in your arms. His hair was a disaster, his face was flushed with wine and desire, his eyes were glassy and pleading, and he was humping your leg in the middle of the camp like an overexcited puppy. His body hot and pliant against yours. You smiled, a slow, deeply affectionate smile.

Your amusement melted into a deep, molten pool of affection and desire. He was ridiculous. He was yours.

Leaning down, your long hair creating a private curtain around the two of you. "Is that what my beloved wants? For his goddess to take charge? To take care of him?" You murmured, your voice a low thrum that vibrated through his very bones.

He nodded frantically, a desperate, jerky motion. "Yes, yes, please, 'ife, please..."

"Then let's get you to our tent," you murmured, your tone leaving no room for argument, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his puckered lips, tasting the sweet wine on them. "Before you embarrass your cousin any further."

With that, you easily shifted your weight, one arm sliding under his shoulders, the other under his knees. With a strength that made his eyes widen in drunken awe, you scooped him up into your arms, cradling him against your chest as if he weighed no more than a child.

Achilles let out a squeak of surprise, then immediately nestled his head into the crook of your neck, his arms looping around your shoulders. He was putty in your hands.