Sorry this is so late! My health is pretty and hopefully it stays this way because I have to fly across the world in a few weeks. 💀Thank you for all the support. You guys are amazing
You wipe sweat from your forehead as you follow your father through an unfamiliar forest. Plants you’ve never seen before grow on either side of the path—too bright, too sharp, like someone turned the saturation up too high. “Where are we? I might not be the most nature-loving person, but I’m not dumb.” You lift your hand to touch an oddly neon-purple star-shaped flower. “These don’t grow in our location. I’ve never even seen—”
“Why are you touching a plant after claiming you don’t know what it is? It could be poisonous, even deadly.” Empty amethyst eyes stare at you.
Your hand drops instantly. Are colorful things usually the most dangerous? “Right. Sorry, but where are we? I don’t even know the last time you took me out for a hike.”
“When you were eleven.”
“Oh. So, where are we?” you stress. It’s hot. You’re tired.
“I don’t know.”
Your mind briefly goes blank until your foot catches on a root, causing you to trip forward awkwardly. You stumble slightly but quickly regain your balance. As the realization sinks in slowly, your eyes widen. “Dad! Oh my god, you’re not a nature person either.” You rub your face grimly. “Did you get us lost? I don’t have cell service here. Do you at least have a map? You know how to use one, right?” you ask, a knot of concern forming in your stomach.
“Yes, I am aware of how to use a map.”
A small hint of hope twists amid the concern. “Great, and do you have a map?”
“No.”
Then something else occurs to you. “Dad, no one will be looking for us if we disappear. Did you tell anyone we’re going out? I don’t have friends.” Your eyes open wide in horror. “Nobody is going to notice we’re gone.” No friends. No family. Which was always okay for you, until now. University isn’t like high school. No teachers or administrators will investigate if a student goes missing. They’ll likely just think you dropped out.
You glance around the strange environment and realize something else. “We don’t have any food or tents—just water bottles.” You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the weight of the situation. “Mine’s half empty. Dad, we really need to find more water. We can’t last more than a few days without it.”
Vaeris, as a kind and supportive father, nods in agreement. "Approximately three days for a human,” he states calmly. “If you use my water, you will survive for another two days. Unless you prefer to risk drinking from natural sources we encounter." There is a pause. “However, that entails significant risk—parasites, bacteria—a slow, painful death.”
You stare back at him. “Thanks, Dad. As comforting as always.”
Taking slow, steady breaths, you walk slowly. Getting upset with him only affects you. Just stay calm and focused. As you continue walking, the trees gradually thin out, revealing a faint glow ahead. “Maybe we should turn back and retrace our steps? We’re almost at the edge of the forest..."
“There is no clear path. It is possible we would become more lost attempting to walk back.”
Your stomach sinks at his words, and you can’t tell if his blank expression is more reassuring or unsettling right now. Would he show a little emotion if he thinks we’re in danger?
After about twenty more minutes of walking in what seems to be an open field, a being appears.
You freeze.
It’s turned away from you, but even from a distance, it appears massive—purple skin, four arms, and a large, muscular build.
You reach out for your father’s hand in panic, fear swirling throughout your body. Do we run? you want to ask him. But what if it hears you?
When it turns around, you curse yourself for jinxing yourself.
From the front, it looks even more disturbing—three eyes, and it seems... bothered. Oh my God, it has five eyes. You gulp nervously as two additional eyes open, one beneath each of the normal ones. Running isn't an option; it could easily catch you. You're so terrified that you're paralyzed, unable to move even if you wanted to.
Despite your grip tightening on your father’s hand, his hold remains cool and loose. He gazes ahead, expressionless, as the being approaches. Strange blue, or maybe dark purple, lines twist around its hands, arms, and neck.
As it draws nearer, you notice its eyes are a striking gold—pretty—but the eye on its forehead is frightening. Instead of white, the sclera is a deep red.
Vaeris turns his head to watch you as Shiva approaches, then shifts his attention back to the god, assessing him before giving a small, decisive nod that neither you nor Shiva notice. He pulls his hand from yours once Shiva is within reach.
“A demon!” he yells, trying to sound panicked—fearful. It seems to work. Both you and Shiva snap your heads toward him. Shiva looks irritated, while even more fear floods your eyes. Despite the tone, his expression doesn’t quite match. “Don’t eat me!”
He places a hand on your shoulder and forcefully pushes you. You wince slightly as you are uncomfortably shoved into the being’s chest, causing him to stumble backward while instinctively wrapping four arms around you.
Vaeris only watches for a second as Shiva stumbles back. Then turns to run.
You freeze, the fear of being in the demon’s grasp replaced by confusion and betrayal. He sounded scared. Then it dawns on you…if even your father was scared, you’re in serious danger. You panic, desperately trying to push the purple demon away, but its arms tighten momentarily before it pushes you back, uttering something in an unfamiliar, demonic language. “Oh my god, I, uh, please don’t eat me! I’m sorry!”
It stares blankly at you.
Oh no, does it understand English? "Do you understand English?” You speak slowly, trying not to sound mocking as you step back cautiously. "Please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, sir... demon?" You guess it’s male. Yeah, it’s gotta be a guy. An odd, invasive thought to have when you might be about to die.
“Demon?” His tone is dry as he narrows his eyes at you, the lower two closing as he crosses his upper arms over his chest and rests the lower pair on his hips. He looks annoyed.
Shit, did I make him angry? But he’s gotta be a demon. What else could he be? “Uh, aren’t you a demon?”
He glares.
Yes, I have made him angry. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you! Are you going to hurt me? Uh, if you aren’t a demon, could you tell me what you are before you kill me…” Your curiosity gets the best of you.
He steps closer and raises a hand. Panicked, you lift yours—like you can stop him. His fingertips barely brush your skin.
White-hot pain explodes through you.
You drop before you even realize you’re falling, a scream tearing out of your throat. It’s everywhere—under your skin, in your bones, burning through your chest like something is trying to rip you apart from the inside. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel it.
Shiva also falls, experiencing more intense pain than you—not that you’d notice. The pain continues relentlessly, extending endlessly and pushing you to the brink of wishing it would end, no matter the cost.
He lifts his head, glaring at you, ready to kill you—anything to make it end. He reaches over you but pauses, his expression shifting as he realizes you are in the same state. His hand then drops to your upper arm.
It stops.
Just like that.
Slowly, you lift your head. It’s gone. No ache, no burn—nothing. The being across from you is still on the ground.
You open your mouth to speak, but everything goes black.
Shiva slowly sits up, observing you as your head drops to the ground. Intrigued, he reaches for you once more, this time cautious not to go too far if it occurs again.
Nothing.
No pain.
The only sensation is the soft skin beneath his fingertips. He pulls away, glancing at his hand, then at you, before standing and giving you another irritated look. He starts to walk away, but only makes it five steps before pausing and glancing over his shoulder.
The human is still on the ground, passed out, in an area that is not safe for humans to be alone. He can’t feel any other gods or beings nearby—for now.
“I don’t care,” he mutters, shaking his head. She called him a demon. A rude human…She was scared.
Shiva exhales sharply, turns around, and walks back. He drops to the ground before you, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his hand. Though he may not care much for humanity as a whole, leaving a human alone in Valhalla... if someone discovers her. “I’m too nice,” he grumbles to himself.
A gentle breeze greets you as you open your eyes, and as your fingers move, you notice you’re lying on soft grass. Your vision gradually clears, revealing an open plain, and confusion begins to set in. Why are you sleeping outdoors? Sitting upright, you look around. Opposite you is the tree line. You blink multiple times, staring while trying to recall what happened. “Where is Dad?”
“Already forgot he ran away after offering you as a sacrifice?” a voice scoffs.
You freeze, then slowly turn to look behind you. The same being from before sits a short distance away, legs crossed, chin propped on his hand. He looks far less threatening than you remember, watching you with a faint, bored expression.
“Oh.”
He snorts. “Oh?” He straightens. “Where are you from? You’re a living human—you shouldn’t be here. How did you get here?”
You stare at him, unable to speak. He sounds normal, and despite the four arms, five eyes, and purple skin…he kind of looks normal. You open your mouth, but it feels like it’s full of cotton. You can’t get the words out, and even if you could, what would you say? You have no idea how you ended up here. Still, hearing him say you’re a living human brings a small sense of relief, given where you supposedly are. “My Dad…”
“Abandoned you,” he reminds bluntly. His eyes lock onto something behind you, all five open as he sighs. “…This day keeps getting worse.”
Something warm and tight wraps around your shoulders.
Your eyes snap open as you attempt to sit up, but Shiva is already over you, causing you to headbutt him. “Ow, you’re too hard-headed,” you groan, rubbing the spot, but it intensifies the pain. “What are you doing?” you ask, pushing against his chest to get him off, but he doesn’t budge.
“Waking you up.”
“Get off me, you’re heavy.”
His eyes drop to your waist before flicking back to you. His knees are planted on either side of your hips, keeping most of his weight off you, until he shifts slightly and presses his weight onto you this time. “If you want to complain, at least have something really to complain about," he says with a grin, looking down.
“I hate you sometimes,” you mutter, your hand gently slapping his outer left thigh, warm and slightly firm under your palm. His lower hand quickly catches yours, fingers intertwining. His grin broadens. “I don’t care.”
You open your mouth to make another snarky remark, but it turns into a yawn. “What time is it? Why did you wake me up?” You sit up as he moves to your left. The alarm clock on the bedside table shows 6:39 AM through its LED lights. “It’s too early. Is the match against Odin finally happening today or something?” That's the only reason you can think of for him waking you up so early.
Shiva’s eyes trace yours. He dismisses your glare with a scoff. You didn’t sleep until after one, so you've only had about four to five hours of rest. “Shiva, I am human. At least eight—”
“Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” He already knows. It’s obvious—he cares more about whether you remember the dream.
You look at him for a moment, confused by his question. Slowly, blurred details from the dream start to return. The dream was actually a memory. “Oh.”
“Oh.” He mocks.
“Be quiet. Yeah, I remember.” You drop your head onto your pillow, eyes heavy with sleep, staring at Shiva. “How do you know what I was dreaming about?”
Shiva shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it was the demon and the ‘please don’t eat me’ comments. You were pretty sure I was going to eat you.” He leans closer. “Hard to forget when your best friend’s words were ‘please don’t eat me.’”
“I said sorry.”
He shakes his head, then leans forward and presses his lips to yours. “Yeah, yeah.” He pulls away and lies back down. “Go back to sleep. Stop dreaming about things that make you yell. Next, you’ll start hitting me.”
“I never hit you then…I was too scared to.”
A slight frown crosses his face as he lies down beside you. His lower-right hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you against him, while his other three arms wrap around you. “You’ve made up for it,” he scoffs. “Hitting me, biting me, yelling at me…”
“Wait, no, that sounds really bad—”
One of his lower hands grips your jaw before you can complete your words, pulling you into a more lingering kiss. It’s deeper and slower this time, with his lips parting against yours as his hold beneath your chin adjusts slightly. For a moment, nothing else matters except him.
“You just told me to go back to sleep,” you mumble against his lips.
Shiva snorts softly. “Then stop trying to get the last word.”
Multiple hands trace along your thighs and ribs, through your hair.
“You have too many hands,” you yawn, not yet opening your eyes. They’re still heavy with sleep. “What time is it?”
You feel soft lips press gently against your shoulder, a warm sensation spreading across your skin before it’s replaced by the faint bite of teeth on the sensitive flesh. The sensation is barely on the edge of pain.
“Shiva.”
“It’s 10:30, time for breakfast.”
“What’s for breakfast?” You swat one of his hands away as it inches toward your stomach.
“What do you want?”
You lean into his arms, loosely wrapping yours around his shoulders as he sits upright. His lower arms encircle you, pulling you into his lap. “I don’t care—your hair is a mess.” You run your fingers through his soft hair and then adjust the yellow band.
His golden eyes linger on yours for a moment before he gently presses you back against the bed. He follows. Before you can speak, his lips meet yours again, warm and deliberate. The kiss quickly intensifies as one hand slips into your hair and the other braces your waist, holding you close.
“Shiva—”
The sound barely leaves your mouth before he tilts his head and kisses you deeper. The slow glide of his hand along your waist sends heat rushing through your chest. His tongue brushes along the seam of your lips, and when you part them, the lingering taste of spices lingers.
You place a hand in the center of his chest, pushing him away, though he doesn’t go far, his nose brushing yours. “What about breakfast?”
All five of his eyes open as he gives you an unimpressed look.
“Don’t look at me like that! You’re the one who asked what I wanted for breakfast.”
He clicks his tongue in annoyance, then glances at the phone on the side of the bed. Without moving off you, he reaches for it and places an order in his native language. You can only catch a few words, mostly the names of the dishes he ordered. He hangs up before turning his attention back to you.
“I feel like you might’ve ordered too—”
Your words disappear against his lips.
This time, the kiss doesn’t end after a few seconds. One hand slides into your hair while another settles against your thigh, fingers slowly dragging higher beneath your shirt. Shiva shifts against you, pressing you deeper into the mattress as the kiss deepens, slow enough to leave you dizzy.
“Shiva…” you murmur against his lips, though it lacks any real protest.
He hums softly before kissing you again, slower this time, almost teasing. His teeth lightly graze your lower lip before his mouth briefly traces your jaw and returns.
A sharp knock echoes through the room.
Shiva stills above you, clicking his tongue in annoyance, his forehead briefly pressing against yours before he turns to glare at the door.
You snort softly, still slightly breathless. “You ordered food. What did you expect?”
He grumbles something under his breath in his native language.
“If the God of Destruction ordered from me, I’d try to get it done as fast as possible, too.” You push lightly against his face as he leans back down. “You are literally the God of Destruction, sir.”
“Lord Shiva?” a timid voice calls from behind the door, and you shove Shiva’s chest and grin. “Go get the food, Lord Shiva.”
“Are you ordering me around?” he raises a brow.
You sit up, crossing your legs and pointing towards the door. “Yes, go get the food.”
Before Shiva can make an argument, there is another knock on the door. Shiva glances at the door, then, with one hand, pops you on the back of your head before standing up.
A servant bows low to Shiva as Shiva opens the door. When he lifts his head, he gestures toward the cart beside him. “May I set it up for you, Lord Shiva?”
Shiva steps to his right, allowing the god to enter.
Shining emerald eyes meet yours for a moment before he lowers his head again in respect. “My Lady.” He quietly greets, then turns his attention to the table.
As you start to stand, Shiva shoves you back onto the bed. “Idiot,” he hisses at you, tucking the blanket more tightly around you. “You aren’t dressed.”
“…yes I am.”
He motions to your purple shirt. Sure, it’s a sleep shirt, but it covers everything. It falls just above your knees and covers more than some dresses, honestly. You end up saying the thought aloud.
“It’s not a dress.” He drops onto the bed beside you, his lower hands on either side of your thighs.
“Are you jealous someone else will see me in my sleep shirt?”
“It’s not jealousy.” He tsks, flicking your thigh.
On the other side of the room, the servant gulps and moves more quickly. Shiva clearly isn’t happy about someone else in his room, or rather, about someone in his room with his human, and the servant doesn’t want to stay any longer than necessary.
“Lord Shiva, your breakfast is ready.” The servant bows quickly, extending an arm toward the table. “Would you like anything else?”
Shiva turns his attention to the servant. “Huh? Oh, no, we’re fine. Thanks.”
“Did you get a latte?”
Both Shiva and the servant freeze. Panic spreads across the servant’s face. Had he forgotten something? Shiva looks away from you, fingers digging into the sheets.
“Did you forget my latte?” you press Shiva.
The poor servant looks like he might cry, on the verge of dropping to his knees to ask for forgiveness. Shiva drags a hand down his face. “You didn’t tell me you wanted a latte.”
Letting out an awkward cough, you mumble, “You were being distracting.”
“Would you like me to bring a latte too, Lord Shiva?”
Shiva nods. “Please.”
The moment the door closes behind the servant, Shiva grabs your jaw with his lower right hand. He gives you an annoyed look, as if he might scold you or grumble. Instead, he pulls you closer, and his warm lips meet yours. “Idiot,” he huffs against your lips. “You want other men to see you like this?” He runs his hand through your messy hair and lifts your shirt to your waist.
“It isn’t like it’s lingerie….but I guess I can kind of see your point.” Different scenes from movies flash through your mind. Women with messy hair, wearing a T-shirt. Yeah, some have sensual undertones.
Once the latte arrives, Shiva slightly reorganizes breakfast. You notice the silverware the servant left is now on the bar, out of reach. You glance at the fork and spoon, then back at the dishes on the table. "Can I get a fork for this?” you ask, pointing to a dish that would be easier to eat with one.
Shiva stares blankly at you, his golden eyes burning into yours as his lower hands reach for one of the many types of bread he ordered; you aren’t sure of the names of half of them. He tears off a piece of appam, dips it into one of the bowls, then holds it out toward you, eyebrow raised.
“You can have this.”
You narrow your eyes before taking the coated bread from him and taking a bite. For the first couple of seconds, it’s slightly sweet and thick enough to coat your mouth. Only after it settles on your tongue does it start to burn. You gasp, but it does nothing to help. “Shiva!”
He looks unimpressed. “What?”
You reach blindly for your latte, hoping the milk will overpower the spice. It doesn’t help much; it almost makes it worse. Shiva casually slides a glass of lassi toward you. “It shouldn’t be that spicy. I told them to cut back on the spice.”
“There’s no way this is toned down,” you huff at him between gulps of the lassi, the yogurt-like drink cutting the heat. You nearly moan into the glass.
Shiva tears off another piece before dipping it into the same bowl. He gives you a blank stare as he casually eats it, showing no reaction to the heat. “Humans are so weak.”
“It’s too spicy for breakfast!” you groan, setting the cup on the table. “This is what I’d eat for lunch or dinner, not for breakfast.” You sink into the chair. “My body isn’t built to handle this much spice this early.”
Shiva snorts softly, “You’re being dramatic.”
The rest of breakfast goes by normally, with other spicy dishes, none of which compares to the first. You end up focusing on the jalebi. The sweet syrup from the fried spirals helps ease the lingering heat.
It’s when you just settle on the sofa that there’s a knock on the door. One single knock. You turn your head to the right, staring at the door. “It’s Dad.” Shiva grunts in annoyance. “We just sat down.” His upper arms cross over his chest. “Does he have something to tell him the worst times to appear?”
You shrug. “Now you’re being dramatic—I’m coming, Dad.” You stand, glancing down at Shiva.
“If he had knocked two minutes earlier, it wouldn’t be annoying.” Shiva clicks his tongue. “We literally just sat down.”
Ignoring his grumbling, you open the door and step aside. “Good morning, Dad. You just missed breakfast.”
His amethyst eyes flick to Shiva. “There was no need. I have enough data to cover you two eating a meal together. Sharing a meal with you two would be inefficient, given that the God of Destruction is irritated by my presence.”
He pulls a book from the bag at his side. “I have come to ask if you would like this.” Like his other notebooks, it’s black, plain-looking, and a bit worn. There’s no telling what’s inside it.
“Wait, no," Shiva quickly slips off the sofa, moving behind you and pulling you against his chest. The warmth of his skin seeps through your shirt and into your back.
You tilt your head up, curious about his sudden reaction. Vaeris stares blankly at him. “I was not speaking to you. Why are you interrupting?”
Wait. Not long ago, Shiva was bothered by your state of dress. “Is it because I’m in my sleep shirt?” You tug lightly at the bottom of the shirt.
Shiva gives you a look of disbelief. “What? No. Why would you think that? _____, I swear—”
“Because you got upset about the servant—”
“Vaeris is your dad…never mind.” His lower-left hand clamps over your mouth as he turns back to Vaeris. His upper-right hand points at the book. “What is that?”
With his tone as empty as ever, he gives Shiva a brief glance. “It is none of your concern what this is. I am speaking to _____.”
Shiva’s jaw tightens at the complete dismissal. “I’m going to kill you.”
You sigh lightly, stuck between Shiva’s anger and your father’s lack of emotion. “Dad, what is it?” You reach for the book, ignoring Shiva’s grumbling behind you.
“Information.”
“About?”
He stares at you for a moment before nodding toward Shiva. “It is information I have gathered on the two of you.”
What information has he gathered? You glance up at Shiva behind you. He tilts his head back down to you, mirroring your confused expression. Without hesitation, he plucks the book from your hands.
“It’s in that language again.” He scowls at the book as he flips through the pages.
Huffing, you snatch the book from him. “All of it?” You flip it open.
The first page is written in English. Your eyes quickly skim the words. It's about you and your father in the forest.
Arrived in Valhalla at approximately 14:06. ______ remains unaware of our location.
Your head slowly lifts from the page. “Wait.” You narrow your eyes at your father. “You knew where we were going?” You hold up the book.
Vaeris doesn’t break eye contact. He ignores the shaking book. “Yes.”
Irritation begins to run through your veins as you remember what happened. You were scared. You thought you were going to die and nobody would find you. Yet, he knew where you were the whole time?
“Dad, why did we go to Valhalla? Why did you shove me into Shiva? I thought I was going to die multiple times that day.” You flip the page, and your stomach drops. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. “All the answers are in this language, aren’t they?”
“No.”
You give him a blank stare.
“But many are.”
“How are we supposed to get the answers? I don’t know this language, and Shiva doesn’t either. Does anyone other than you know it?”
He maintains strict eye contact. It feels like he is dissecting and reconstructing you. He nods once. "I selected Shiva for you. However, you have adopted some of his undesirable habits."
"What does that have to do with anything?”
A notebook materializes in his hand. “Unfortunately, quite a bit.”
You watch as he opens the door and walks out. There’s no point in arguing with him. “He selected you for me.” You tilt your head up to look at Shiva, who gives you an unimpressed look before covering your face with his hand.
“Shut up."
Swiping his hand away, you step forward to turn and face him properly. “So, what do we do? The answers we want are probably in the language you can’t read.”
“We? Why do I want answers?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Okay, fine. You don’t want answers. But you’re my best friend; you’re supposed to support me in situations like this, right? Anyway…aren’t you curious about what happened?”
“No.”
“Shiva.”
“_____.”
“Okay, fine. You don’t care about that. But what about what Dad said? He said he selected you for me! You’ve got to be curious about that, right? Why was he selecting someone? Why you? For what? Right? You wanna know.”
Shiva crosses his upper arms and breaks eye contact, glancing off to the side, looking torn. “I hate you.”
“So how are we gonna translate it?”
He rubs his temples. This is not how he planned the day to go. “I guess we could ask around. There are gods of language, writing, and knowledge…somebody might recognize it.”
Hey I was wondering if you can do it other ror Shiva x wife reader. one shot like reader is pregnant
Shiva x Wife! Pregnant reader
The summer heat in India was no joke this year. It was so hot that even the water looked like it was going to start boiling any moment. In your lavish home, a temple fit for a humble God like your husband, give or take, you were laid out on a plush mattress, you were sweating aggressively, you were naked, the only piece of cloth on your body was a thin silky sheet, but you might as well have been naked what with the way the sheet stuck to you like a second layer of skin. Your co-wives were all around you, dressed in lighter, more flowing clothes, to allow what little air to blow through and cool them off.
They sat around you, fanning you, feeding you cooled grapes, and helping you sip chilled water. You were all equally hot, but they worked extra hard to keep you cool, as of right now you were the blessed one and you were in the middle of doing one of the most hardest things any woman could do... You were creating and housing a new soul within your womb. A baby, you were round, 8 months in. This was a critical time in any woman pregnancy, for any baby born at 8 months, usually and almost always dies. Keeping you cooled, comfortable, well-fed, and rested was of the most upimportance. Your co-wives all spoke quietly amongst themselves, chatting about everything and nothing.
It was all silenced when your proud husband, Shiva, walked in, a wide smile on his handsome face as he saw all his lovely wives and at the moment, his pregnant love, his heart always swelled with so much love when ever he seen you, he was a family man through and through. Your co-wives all bowed and crowed around him, greeting and welcoming him home. You laid there, hot, annoyed, sleepy, yet happy and blessed. He spoke to them all gently, praising them and thanking them for taking care of you. He dismissed them as he was a walking team alone, his four arms were more than enough to make up for their absences.
You smiled at him, watching as he walked towards you like a gentle giant, sitting next to you. He leaned down and gently kissed your forehead. "You're doing so well, love... Thank you." He gently said as one of his upper hands caressed your head while his other upper hand caressed your growing stomach gently. One of his lower hands grabbed some cooled grapes, feeding them to you while his other lower hand grabbed a fan and worked on keeping you cool. Your co-wives did the best they could at keeping you cool, and their efforts were welcomed, and with grace, however, this was much more effective.
His arms were much more powerful, he was able to generate much more potent winds, and the response was immediate. A sigh of relief left you, and you closed your eyes, chewing the cold grape throughly, it would seem your unborn baby felt the difference in temperature as well, or perhaps that you weren't so irritated anymore, because your baby made the slightest movement, your eyes snatched open and you stared at Shiva in shocked. His own eyes widened in surprise at your sudden response, and worry quickly filled him. "What's wrong, love? Are you okay?" He asked, his eyes quickly scanning over your body. ".... The baby moved, Shiva..." You softly said, the most relief beyond anything you ever felt filled you.
Ever since you've entered your 8th month, your baby hasn't moved an inch. At first, you were grateful for the sudden stillness... But as time went on, that gratefulness turned into worry and anguish. You thought something was wrong with your baby. You did everything to rouse it. You sang, rocked, bounced, ate things that were either sweeter, extremely cold, or even spicy. You laid in all kinds of positions, and you sat with your legs, either spread or closed tightly. You did it all, but not a peep. You began thinking that your baby had died or that it was sick. You were stricken with grief, and in turn, so was your husband and co-wives. At first, they reassured you that this was normal and that the baby was fine, but the stillness grew, and so did their own worries.
For the first time, in weeks, your baby finally moved, and you were immediately flooded with happiness. Shiva's hand that was already caressing your stomach gently applied pressure, and sure enough, he felt perhaps an elbow, or maybe even a knee. His smile was gentle yet fulfilling. His baby was okay. "Thank goodness, you gave us a scare, buddy... Just straight radio silence for weeks... Worst joke ever." Shiva said, a light chuckle following his relief. You smiled sweetly at him, and your heart now felt whole again. Your baby was okay. Nothing was lost. You gently chuckled at him as tears began gathering in your eyes.
This was the most hottest summer yet, in India, the most stressful month of your life. For a while, you've been questioning the gods as to why they've done what they have done to you, but now, it all seemed like it was well worth the stress. Before this horrendous month, Shiva wasn't the type to fret over you. His other three wives have already been pregnant, so he wasn't new to fatherhood. However, he did parade the fact that he was going to be a father again to all his other godly companions, but once the baby stopped moving, so did his excitement, but now it was going to be turned up to the max. The smile on his face showed promise of that, too. You sighed to yourself. You were already expecting a few visits, some out of excitement but most out of annoyance for your husband.
Hello :) I don't know if you plan on writing more Shiva and reader smut anytime soon. But I kind of had an idea and was wondering what you thought and maybe if you'd add it to the story?
So here is what I was thinking - maybe reader wanting Shiva to do something he doesn't want to do. Nothing major, could be like something involving Vaeris?
So like, her teasingly touching him? His cock. Like touching him but not actually touching him.
Shiva just like giving her a look like 'seriously?' because if she wants to tease. He can do it better? So he like, switches the roles on her.
I feel like Buddha would be slightly more submissive if Reader tried to tease him like that? But Shiva like 'nope. you don't get to do that.'
You can completely ignore this if you don't want to hear any ideas from us about the story. I'd completely understand 😅 I love your fic soooo much.
I RESONDED TO THIS AND IT GOT DELETED BEFORE I COULD POST IT 😭
Anyway, I like the idea. I can see it happening but I don't know if I would fit it in this story or wait for Shiva's route. 🤔
Honestly, I can see Buddha being slightly submissive just to see where reader is going with it. While Shiva would be like slightly annoyed, depending on the context, and would 100% flip it on her.
Anyway feel free to send me asks or messages anytime you want. I love to hear from people who enjoy the fic. ❤️
I had a great idea for Shiva and Reader last night. For chapter 34. I was in bed at 3:30 in the morning. Instead of reaching for my phone and writing it down, I told myself it was a great idea—a continuation of the scene I was already writing—so there was no way I’d forget. I honestly convinced myself of that. The only thing I remember is that it was between Shiva and Reader.
Happy Valentine's Day, a tiny bit early! I hope everyone has a good day.
Sorry it took so long! A lot has happened recently and this has been written for a little while but I kept going back and editing because I wanted to make sure it was different than with Buddha. I don't know if I succeeded with that. You can let me know.
“We only need one more.” You stare in awe at the screen.
To your left, sitting on the sofa, Shiva is also staring in disbelief.
The score is now six to five, with humans in the lead. If you win the next match, it’ll officially be over. You can go back home to normalcy, to your apartment, university classes, Netflix, and all your favorite shows. Everything will be—slowly, you turn to look at Shiva. His eyes are still locked on the TV as Loki disappears in that green light.
“Shiva?” You whisper.
Slowly, he turns and gives you a blank stare.
“We’re going to win this.” You are confident now. Humans can do it. You won’t have to give up these things you love. What you enjoy. What you’d miss. Hell, you’re even starting to miss university. What about a future career? At least working part-time.
Shiva just continues to stare blankly before slowly shaking his head. “Odin is next.”
You shrug, now more confident in humanity than you’d ever been before. “Even if he wins, we’d be tied again. We’ll win this.”
Shiva suddenly looks torn; his eyes turn away from you. “You’re not supposed to feel this much support for the humans.” He sighs. “I thought you would be okay. Support us to some extent.” He rubsa hand over his face.
He seriously forgets what I am sometimes. It’s been clear from the beginning that he’s always viewed you differently from other humans. Even though he is aware of what you are. “I am human, Shiva.”
“I don’t think you are.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’ve been human my whole life. Dad being here and complicating things doesn’t change the fact that I want humans to win. Anyway, you didn’t think I wasn’t human until he showed up here. I still feel human to you. For all we know, I could be human, and Dad is just—I don’t know what he is, but it doesn’t matter.” The tension in you eases as you sink into the sofa. “If gods faced the same fate as humans when they lost, of course I’d want gods to win. But you’ll be safe either way. As long as my best friend isn’t at risk of getting hurt—except when he decided to fight for gods—I’ll support humanity.”
He sighs and relaxes as well. “Well, at least you’d want the gods to win if I was at risk of being wiped out.”
Offended, you give him a look of disbelief. “Shiva! Of course I’d want you to win if you’re at risk.” You slap his shoulder.
“You’d have Buddha.” His tone is dry.
“Okay? But I’d never want to lose you," you argue, moving closer and wrapping your arms around his shoulders while tugging lightly at his hair. “Your jealousy is making you stupid."
“I’m not the stupid one.” Shiva exhales through his nose like he’s about to say something else—then stops. His jaw tightens, eyes flicking over you once, quick and assessing, before he shifts closer instead.
“Take off your shirt.” He speaks straight to the point.
“…huh?”
“Take off your shirt.”
“What?”
“I want to see the mark.” He narrows his eyes at you.
“It’s on my hip,” You point towards where the mark Buddha left is. “I don’t need to take off my shirt.” You huff but he just shrugs.
“I’ve seen you shirtless before.” He shrugs. “Multiple times.”
“Take off yours.”
“I’m not wearing a shirt ______.”
“Take off your pants—wait, no.” Your eyes widen as his lower hands rest on his waistband. “You’re being really annoying.” You reach forward and grab his hands. “Do not take off your pants.” You narrow your eyes. He raises his brows. “You’re the one who told me to.”
“I wasn’t being serious!” You snap.
He shrugs, “I was being serious when I told you to take off your shirt.” He pulls his hands from your hold. “So, why wouldn’t I take your order seriously?”
“Why are you like this?” You groan, then taking a deep breath, you pull your shirt over your head. Besides the night a few days ago, Shiva has seen you shirtless before. You’ve changed clothes in front of him plenty of times.
He doesn’t say anything.
One moment you’re still upright, and the next his upper right hand is on your shoulder, pushing you back against the sofa cushions with enough force to make the breath leave you.
You barely have time to register it before his lower left hand clamps down on your hip.
Right over the mark.
He pinches hard.
You gasp, fingers curling into the fabric of the sofa.
“Shiva—”
His mouth crashes into yours, not gentle. His grip doesn’t ease. If anything, it tightens, the pain pulling another gasp from you and giving him exactly the opening he wants. He deepens the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, sharp and familiar, spice blooming across your senses.
His other hand braces beside your head, caging you in without pinning you fully.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only by inches. His forehead rests briefly against yours, breath steady, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.
His lower left hand stays planted on your hip, but his upper left slides behind you, fingers brushing your spine before gliding against the clasp of your bra. There’s a soft click—smooth, practiced.
Your eyes widen and you shove at his chest. He doesn’t move far, just blinks at you as his grip finally loosens. “Shiva,” you blurt, “you did that way too fast.”
“Did what?”
“You—” you gesture helplessly at your back. “You undid my bra. With one hand.”
The memory hits you uninvited—Buddha fumbling, muttering, asking for help.
Shiva stares at you like you’ve sprouted another head. “That’s why you stopped me?” he asks flatly. “It’s not hard.”
He sits up just enough to hook two fingers under the straps and pull it free in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without ceremony.
“What idiot doesn’t know how to undo a bra?”
You cough slightly, eyes flicking away. “Uh… in some fanfiction I read, guys don’t know how to—”
He scoffs. “Maybe a virgin.” Then he frowns, eyes narrowing. “Buddha couldn’t undo your bra?”
“What—no. No,” you rush out. “I mean—Buddha is celibate. He wouldn’t—I mean—” You stumble, flustered. “It was fanfiction.” You insist. “Buddha is a monk. He’s not undoing my bra.”
He doesn’t comment on that. He wants to believe you—believe the damn celibate monk hasn’t broken his vows of celibacy for his best friend. Instead, Shiva leans in, cutting off your rambling by capturing your lips.
“Wait.” You push him away slightly. “What are we doing?” You aren’t one hundred percent sure how talking about how humans are going to win lead to this. No, it was his jealously when Buddha was mentioned.
Shiva opens his mouth but closes it again, not exactly having words for it. Or not wanting to say those words aloud at the moment. “Do you want to stop?”
“No. I am just…I made it weird didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I’m used to it. Do you want to stop or continue?”
“Wow, answering that now feels weird.”
“______.”
“Continue.”
He snorts as his lower hands move with the unbothered certainty, fingers working at the button on your jeans. His kiss keeps you distracted enough that you don’t realize his hand has slipped in until you feel his finger run along your slit.
You gasp, hips jerking as the unexpected contact. Shiva’s tongue sweeps your lip, swallowing the sound as he slides two fingers in unison through your slick heat. He grins into the kiss—of course he does—pulling back just enough to see your face flush, your eyes glaze with heat.
“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
“Shiva—” His thumb sweeps over your clit, teasing at first, then firmer—circling, slow and controlled, as if he’s mapping the exact moment it’s too much. He draws another desperate gasp from you. He smiles, pleased, as your back arches and a soft moan slips out.
Your jeans have slipped halfway down your thighs now—he’d managed that without effort, without you even noticing. His hands are so big, spanning your hips easily.
He pulls his hand out and presses his two fingers into his mouth. “Want more?” He raises a brow.
Your answer sounds a bit too eager, high-pitched, and rushed, as if the word slips into your throat quicker than your mind can catch up. “Yes.”
He smirks. “Then say it.”
You swallow and look away, your jaw tightening, stubbornness refusing to give in at first. Shiva’s hand finds your chin, forcing you to look at him, and the unspoken dare in his eyes.
God, he’s so infuriating. You puff your cheeks and glance away. “…I want more.”
“Good girl.” He teases as he pulls your jeans the rest of the way off and tosses them aside. In one smooth motion, he slides you back along the sofa, spreading your body for him. Shiva kneels over you, crowding your senses—the scent of salt and spice, the heat of his skin through every point of contact. His mouth trails along your neck, tongue flicking over the spot he marked. He growls softly, then moves down to the mark on your hip. His gaze flickers to you before tracing the bite with the edge of his teeth and biting down, hard.
“Leave it alone.” You swat at his head. It’ll be painful to wear pants if he continues.
His lower hands hook your underwear before pulling them down, exposing you completely to him. “What do you want?” he smirks.
“Shiva, don’t be an asshole.”
“Oh,” he says lightly, leaning back like he’s about to move away. “So you want me to stop? Okay.”
You grab the closest arm to you before he can go anywhere. “Don’t you dare,” you hiss.
He arches a brow, irritating you further. “I’m not a mind reader, _____,” he teases. “You have to tell me what you want.”
You glare up at him, then lean forward and dig your teeth into his bicep — sharp, quick, and deliberate.
“I will bite you,” you warn.
He pauses for half a second before laughing and leaning his head against your shoulder. “Idiot,” he says, breath warm against your skin. “You’re supposed to say it before biting me.” Then he nips at your throat in retaliation.
“Want to move to the bed?” he asks, shifting slightly as he tries to get more comfortable. He’s too big for the sofa in this position.
“Wait.” You glance down. “I—I’m naked.”
“I noticed,” he says easily. “I just removed your clothes.” He shrugs, and you’re suddenly very tempted to shove him off you.
Your eyes shift to the side as a thought clicks into place. “Wait, I just mean—” The words catch in your throat as you realize something you hadn’t before. “You’ve never… I mean, I haven’t seen you without—” Heat rushes to your face. “Your clothes. You kept them on last time.”
He tilts his head, studying you for a moment, expression unreadable — then one corner of his mouth quirks up. “You want me to take my clothes off?”
“I—” Your mouth opens, then closes. “That’s not what I—”
“You brought it up,” he cuts in, amusement threading through his voice. “Why so flustered now?”
You groan and grab him, pulling him back down so you can bury your face against his chest. “God, I hate you sometimes.”
He laughs under his breath as one set of arms slips beneath your thighs and the upper pair braces your back, lifting you easily as he carries you across the room to the bed.
When Shiva drops you onto the middle of the bed, your world floods back in with a jumble of skin, spices, and the rough heat of his hands. He’s not gentle—he throws himself into everything, especially with you. Yet as he presses in, his knees bracket your thighs, his palms your ribs. His purple thumbs stroke the delicate places under your arms. He’s staring—not at your face but lower, his mouth curved into a self-satisfied grin.
You huff, grabbing a handful of his hair to bring his gaze back to your face. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Why?” he asks, undeterred. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
He grabs the hand and pulls it away, grinning down at you. “Idiot.” He laughs when you glare at him.
You open your mouth to argue or throw an insult back, but he just laughs and covers your mouth with another kiss.
He pushes you hard into the mattress, mouth on yours, one hand holding you in place, the others busy with your thighs and your wrists.
His mouth leaves yours, tracing a path down your jaw, your throat, and the edge of your collarbone. His breath gently brushes your skin, and your stomach tenses beneath his hands. He bites your collarbone and then soothes it with his tongue, his lower arms holding your hips to the bed as he moves lower.
The bruise on your hip pulses as Shiva's tongue finds it. You instinctively flinch, then relax as he gently traces around the mark, the warmth causing your toes to curl into the sheets.
You tug his hair, pulling him back. Still, after the bite minutes earlier, it’s sensitive. "That hurts."
He looks up. "That's kind of the point." Before you can say anything, he's already moving lower, settling himself between your legs. His warm, confident hands press your knees apart. The sudden exposure makes you gasp. He glances up at you, a small smirk on his face. "What? Was there something else you were expecting?"
You glare down at him. "You're an asshole." Your voice catches on the last word.
"Mhmm, you've told me," he teases, his breath hot against your inner thigh. When he finally runs his tongue along your slick folds, the wet heat sends a jolt of electricity up your spine. Your hips jerk involuntarily, a gasp escaping your lips as his strong hands press you back into the mattress.
He pulls you closer, his four arms moving in sync—one pair holding your hips, the other rising to rest against your ribs. His mouth is relentless, the heat of his tongue making your legs tremble. You gasp as he slides two fingers inside, the initial discomfort fading into a sensation that makes you arch off the bed. He curls them carefully, and your vision blurs at the edges.
"Too much?" he murmurs against your clit, but he doesn't stop. His thumbs find your breasts, circling lazily. Your hips buck involuntarily.
"Shiva," you manage, his name catching in your throat.
His lower left hand shifts, his thumb finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and pulling back the hood. He watches your face as he exhales a warm breath against your most intimate place, his lips curving as you can't help but jerk in response.
"Shiva," you breathe, half plea and half protest.
His tongue flicks against you—a fleeting touch that vanishes before you can fully feel it—lifting your hips off the bed. He murmurs your name against your inner thigh, his breath warm on your sensitive skin. His eyes meet yours as he lowers his head again. "Tell me what you need," he says, his voice rough.
“…I need you to stop teasing me.” You huff and dig your left heel into his shoulder as hard as you can. He doesn’t even flinch. “You’re being a bad best friend.” You glare down at him.
“Best friend?” He stares at you, slightly irritated. He holds your gaze for a beat, then presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—a sharp, possessive bite, not meant to soothe. When he speaks into your skin, it's low, nearly a growl. "You're not acting very friendly yourself." His tongue laps at you again, this time more firmly, curling your toes.
Exasperated, you spit back, "I want you to—"
He doesn't let you finish. His hands drag your hips flush against his mouth, his tongue working you over with uncharacteristic patience. The warmth of him on your thigh, the slow suction—it's barely a minute before your breath is shaky and wild. You tangle both hands in his hair. You can feel him grinning into you.
It feels reckless, embarrassing, perfect.
He never gives you a moment to collect yourself—just when you're starting to regain ground, he pulls you deeper, until you're only vaguely aware of what he's doing, how you sound, or how you look from above. Your grip tightens until he groans into your skin, sending a wave of sensation that's almost overwhelming. His lips find your clit, tongue rolling lazy circles, relentless until you buck against his mouth, hips tilting upward.
He doesn't slow down until you drag a hand through his hair—firm and desperate—and whisper his name in a voice you've never heard yourself use. Once, then twice, you shudder, your whole body tense and then shatter as the world fades behind your eyelids. He pauses, letting you recover from the aftershocks, and then softly kisses away the ache with gentle, open-mouthed kisses.
Only when your legs stop shaking does Shiva start to move again, climbing up the bed until his face looms over yours. The lower set of hands never stops touching—soft where your skin is most flushed, bold where you can barely stand to be touched at all. He wears a self-satisfied smirk as he licks your taste from his lips.
"You should see yourself," he says, low and smug. “Maybe I should get a mirror.” You'd punch him if you had the energy.
“God, you’re so annoying sometimes.” You huff.
He shrugs and leans down, pressing his lips against yours. As you move your right hand to the back of his head to deepen the kiss, you reach down to the band of his pants, tugging them a bit.
You fumble with the waistband, enough for him to laugh under his breath—dark and rough—before he pulls away to sit to your left and pulls them down.
He’s already hard. You can’t help but stare, dark purple, tip a bit darker than the rest. “Oh.” You blink.
Shiva gives you an unimpressed look. “Oh? Really?”
Quickly, you shake his head, “No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. I just uh—didn’t know what to expect?” He’s really big. It shouldn’t be that surprising. But, you can’t take your eyes off him. Buddha might be slightly longer, but Shiva is thicker, and you’re pretty sure longer than any normal human is.
Shiva rolls his eyes. “Oh, sorry, do the fanfics you read not describe what a cock looks like?”
“No. I mean, yes, they do, fucking hell, I just wasn’t sure what to expect, honestly, I’m kind of surprised there is only one.”
“What?”
You motion weakly to the rest of him. “You have five eyes, four arms, wouldn’t really be out of the realm of possibility if you had—”
Shiva gives you a dry look. “What? Are you disappointed there is only one?”
Quickly, you shake your head, heat rushing to your cheeks. You hide your face against his upper arm. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I just—" You reach for him, hesitant at first. The weight of him in your palm feels both strange and familiar. Your mind flashes to your only other experience. No, stop thinking about that. You push the thought away, focusing on the warmth under your fingers, the gentle pulse you can feel. Without overthinking, you tilt your head down and taste him, your tongue exploring the smooth skin at the tip.
Shiva's breath catches, a sharp inhale that makes his chest rise. His five eyes widen, pupils dilating as he looks down at you.
You freeze, your hand still around him. Oh no, was that too much? The silence hangs between you, broken only by his uneven breathing. “I-I’m sorry I—”
His lips press against yours, cutting you off. "Fucking hell, _____," he gasps into the kiss. His five eyes narrow with mischief. "Look at you, so confident." He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.
You glance up at him, lips slick, hand still working at the base. He’s breathing slightly harder now, but still steady. You brace yourself on his leg and taste him again, your mouth fitting over the flushed tip, tongue flicking. He bucks slightly into your palm, a noise escaping his throat that almost sounds like a growl. The sense of power, of control, is an intoxicant of its own. You do it again, careful to alternate the pace, swirling your tongue, then sliding down further, drawing a louder gasp.
You concentrate on your grip, stroking what you can’t fit, using both hands—a pace you hope he likes.
“Shit,” he mutters, and above you, he braces his upper hands on the headboard; the other set cups your jaw and the side of your face, an anchoring pressure that aches in the best possible way.
“Breathe, ______.” He sighs as you try to take more, feeling him brush against the back of your throat. “Through your nose,” he advises, guiding you to follow his rhythm.
You nod the best you can and continue. The salty spice flavor takes over your senses. He doesn’t taste bad. Different, but not bad. You pull back slightly and suck the tip, pressing your tongue just under the head. He hisses above you.
Taking a deep breath, you carefully take him into your mouth again, trying to fit as much as you can without gagging.
Then he pulses at the back of your tongue. “Swallow,” he orders, and the taste floods your senses. Salty and thick, it shoots to the back of your throat, and you struggle to swallow to keep from choking on it.
Shiva’s whole body seizes, five golden eyes snapping shut as the breath escapes him in a long, ragged exhale. You stay with it, squeezing your hands tight to manage the shuddering aftershock—lingering until the tension in his grip slackens and he finally lets go of the headboard.
He draws you upward and into his arms, half-laughing, half-breathless. You’re both still a tangle of limbs, shaking in the aftermath, your forehead pressed against his shoulder blade as you take deep breaths. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You let the pounding in your chest slow, and he runs his upper hands smoothly over your back.
"Are you okay?" He questions, and you nod, still catching your breath.
"You're demanding," you huff against him after a moment, lips curling into a smirk. "Swallow," you mock in a deep, imperious voice, then add, "What's next—should I bow and call you Lord Shiva?"
He tugs playfully at your hair, his five golden eyes gleaming. "We both know if you didn't want to, you wouldn’t be forced.” His fingers gently trace your swollen bottom lip. "But maybe next time, I'll write up a proper list of commands for you."
“Shut up,” You bite his shoulder before pulling away and lying down on the bed. “I’m tired.”
Shiva stands from the bed and drags you into his arms. “Let’s wash off first.”
The next morning, you wake up first, glance around the room, and see that the sun is just starting to rise. You lie back down and turn to face Shiva, who’s lying on his side.
“What’s wrong?” Shiva mutters, eyes still closed. “You’re staring like you’re trying to burn a hole through my head.”
You inch closer, and one of his lower hands immediately slides around your waist, tugging you against his chest. “Shiva,” you murmur, “I’m hungry.”
He exhales slowly, lifting his head just long enough to glance past you at the clock. Another sigh follows as he drops back onto the pillow. “It’s way too early,” he grumbles. “Why aren’t you still sleeping?”
He pulls you closer again, this time burying his face in your hair, breath warm against your neck like he fully intends to go back to sleep despite your hunger.
“Shiva.” You shove his shoulder this time, more awake now — and irritated. “I don’t know, it’s your fault.” You shove him again, or try to. The powerful god doesn’t budge. “Since you brought me here, I’ve been waking up way too early.” You sag slightly in his arms. “I hope when I go home my sleep schedule goes back to normal. I miss sleeping in.” You yawn, covering your mouth with the back of your hand.
Then you glance up at him. “You don’t like it when I leave first thing in the morning,” you add casually. “So if you don’t want me to leave you here… get up.”
That’s all it takes.
He sits up instantly, fixing you with an annoyed look before sighing. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’m up.”
“I love you.”
He scoffs. “Shut up, _____.” He covers your face with one hand. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“I don’t know,” you mutter. “What do you want?”
“I want to sleep.”
You sit up, puffing your cheeks in annoyance — and then remember. Heat rushes to your face as his eyes flick down your body. You grab the blanket and tug it up to cover your chest.
Shiva’s gaze lingers for a second before drifting back to your face. He blinks lazily, completely unfazed. “There is something—”
“No,” you glare, and he just shrugs. One of his upper arms wraps around you, pulling you against his chest before he nips at the bruise on your throat. “If you want to act shy and pretend you didn’t hear that,” he adds, “tell me what you want for breakfast.”
When you don’t answer right away, one of his hands starts to wander down your hip, massaging the muscle as he moves. “______.” He bites a little harder, causing you to wince.
“I’m not going to allow you near that mark if you don’t stop biting it.” You shove your elbow into his side. He doesn’t even humor you with a flinch. “You’re so mean.”
He shrugs against your back, kissing the spot this time. “What do you want for breakfast? I’m not asking again.”
“Fruit?”
He pulls away and reaches for the phone by the bedside to call room service. He orders your favorite fruit and something for himself, not bothering to double-check what fruit you want.
What is even happening right now? Waking up beside Shiva is normal. His teasing is normal. Ordering breakfast is normal. Everything about this is completely natural for the two of you. Except both being naked.
You groan. “Shut up,” you scold yourself.
Shiva reaches back without looking and grabs your right hand. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, now speaking to the staff in a language you don’t fully recognize. When the call ends, he leans back over you, pinning you beneath him. “You shouldn’t talk to yourself like that,” he jokes.
“Yeah, well, my mind won’t shut up.”
“What’s it saying?” He lowers his forehead to yours.
You shrug. “That I’m naked in bed with my best friend.”
He raises a brow. “Weird thing to be irritated over.” He reaches under you with his lower left hand, pressing you closer against him. His warm chest and abdomen fit perfectly against you.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Shiva, you’re hot.”
“Is that literal or figurative?”
“Both. Though I meant literal.”
He shrugs. “Too bad. I’m comfortable.”
You snort and grab a handful of his hair, tugging teasingly. “As much as I love you, get up. You’re hot and heavy.”
“You weren’t complaining about it last night.” His lips press against yours before you can come up with another excuse or complain. You retaliate by digging your nails into his hip.
Before you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door. Shiva pulls back, glancing toward it with a scowl that’s more tired than angry. “Already?” he mutters.
You laugh under your breath as he huffs in annoyance.
Reaching to the foot of the bed, he grabs his pants and pulls them on. He stands and walks to the dresser, grabbing a large t-shirt and underwear for you, tossing them onto the bed before heading for the door.
When he opens it, a staff member greets him with a low bow and offers a plate of fruit. Despite his earlier grumbling, Shiva flashes them an easy grin. “Thanks for coming so fast,” he says, taking the plate.
He closes the door and faces you. “So, what do you want to do today?”
The next few chapters won't have smut; it'll bring a lot of focus back to Vaeris.
Later than I planned, but I had to deal with a lot of BS. I'm going to Thailand tomorrow for holiday so I'll be updating sometime after that.
“Good to know,” he says, stretching like a cat, “since I’m not your type.”
You groan. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope,” he replies instantly. “I’ll be telling our kids that I’m not your type.”
He grins at your expression. “Wow. That scared you. Don’t worry—I think centuries ahead, not talking about tomorrow morning.”
“When I’m dust?” you joke.
He gives you the same look Shiva did when you joked about being dust—sharp and unamused.
Then he grins. “Don’t worry,” he says lightly. “I think centuries ahead.”
Buddha laughs under his breath, the sound warm against your skin. “Okay, no more math before lunch,” he declares, rolling onto his back and tugging you with him until your head fits neatly beneath his chin. His fingers find your hip again—lazy, claiming, as natural as breathing.
For a while, neither of you moves.
The world outside might as well not exist—no roaring crowds, no divine politics, no tournament waiting to resume. Just a bed, sunlight drifting through the windows, and Buddha’s heartbeat tapping slow and steady against your cheek.
He presses a kiss to your hair. “You hungry?” he murmurs, his voice thick and velvety with sleep.
You hum something noncommittal.
He smiles—you can feel it against your head. “That’s a yes.” His hand skims up your back. “We’ve already taken our first nap of the day. Now, a bath, lunch…” He nuzzles deeper into your hair. “Maybe another nap.”
You snort. “That’s a lot of naps.”
“It’s efficient,” he argues, utterly serious. “If I’m not sleeping with you, I’m wasting a perfectly good opportunity.”
You tilt your head up. “You just woke up.”
“Mmh.” He cracks his eye open, smug. “You woke me up.”
Your eyes widen. “I did not; you woke yourself up.”
“No, I felt you staring at me,” he insists, tightening his hold. “My dreams were incredible.”
“Oh really?” you ask, amused.
He sighs like a tragic poet. “You were in them.”
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms anyway. “Isn’t it better with me here?”
“Shhh,” His palm strokes down your spine, slow, steady, grounding. “Bath?” he offers, a little brighter. “Warm water. Bubbles if you want.” He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then pauses at your ear. “We can eat in there if you want.”
You turn to face him fully, eyebrow raised. “You want to have lunch in the bath?”
“Is that a no?” he questions.
You tap your fingers against his hip. “Fine, but make sure it’s not something that will make a mess.”
He grins—wide, delighted, boyish in a way no ancient deity should be able to pull off. “Perfect. Stay here.” He rolls out of bed in one smooth motion and disappears toward the bathroom.
The large tub fills quickly. You hear him turn on the faucet, which fills the tub faster. “Honeybee, do you want bubbles?” he calls from the bathroom.
Slowly, you sit up, holding the sheet to your chest. “Sure,” you say, shaking your head lightly, remembering the ridiculously large number of bubbles last time. But is it even a bubble bath without a ridiculous number of bubbles?
Buddha returns to the bedroom a minute later, and the scent of jasmine and sandalwood from the bath fragrance he used follows him. The moment he’s in view, you can’t help but look away. You can feel your face heating up.
“Honeybee,” he says softly, stepping closer, that lone blue eye warming as it skims over your face—never lower, never greedy. “You don’t have to look away.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. “You’ve already seen me,” he teases—quiet, easy, almost a whisper. “And I like it when you look.”
You pull the sheet a little tighter anyway. “I—wasn’t staring.”
“Mhm,” he hums, smiling. He doesn’t believe you and doesn’t need a confession to enjoy it. “I’m yours, _____,” he says, voice low and sure. “Look as much as you want.”
Before you can stammer out a response, he leans in—not to kiss you or pull you closer, just to press his forehead against yours. The contact is warm and grounding, feeling like he’s inviting you in rather than expecting anything in return.
His breath mingles with yours, slow and steady. No teasing now. No heat behind it. Just Buddha—present, calm, impossibly patient. “Want to join me in the bath now?” he asks as he gently tugs the sheet down. His lips leave light kisses against your cheek.
“Sure,” you let him help you sit up. The sheet slips away—and before you can stand, his arm slides beneath your legs, and he rises smoothly, holding you close to his chest.
You gasp softly, instinctively bracing a hand against him. “I can walk.”
“I know,” he says easily, adjusting his hold just enough to make sure you’re comfortable. “I just prefer this.”
There’s no challenge in his tone. No insistence. Just simple honesty.
You hesitate for half a second—then relax into him, your fingers curling lightly around his shoulder as he carries you toward the steam curling from the bathroom.
“What do you want to eat?” he asks as he carefully sits you on the edge of the tub. “I have some bao.”
“Bao?”
“Mhm, different fillings. What do you want? I have vegetable, pork, beef, chicken…”
----------------
Buddha watches you from across the tub as you take a bite of the bao, his single blue eye fixed on you in a way that makes you shift slightly under his gaze.
You glance up. “What’s wrong?”
He exhales softly through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says. Then, more honestly, “You’re too far away.” He lifts one hand from the water and curls his fingers toward himself, palm open. Not a demand. An invitation. “Come here,” he adds gently. “I want you closer.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m comfortable. You come here. I can’t help that your bath is so big.”
Buddha grins as he shifts closer, the water rippling gently as he moves. He draws you between his legs with easy familiarity, settling you back against his chest, his chin resting on your left shoulder.
“Are you saying I need to get a smaller tub?” he asks, amusement in his voice.
You let out a quiet laugh. “Or next time you get in, don’t make it be on the opposite side of the tub.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he agrees easily.
He shifts behind you, adjusting just enough so your back rests more comfortably against his chest, his arms settling loosely around your middle. The movement sends a small ripple through the bath, bubbles bumping softly against the sides.
“There,” he murmurs, chin still on your shoulder. “Problem solved.”
You relax into him without thinking, lifting the bao for another bite. He watches from close by now—not hovering, not intense—just content to be exactly where he is.
“Comfortable?” he asks quietly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he says, his voice warm with satisfaction. He grabs a bao for himself and takes a big bite.
You take another bite, then pause, suddenly aware of how close he is behind you. The steady warmth at your back, his arm loose around your middle, his chin resting where it has no reason to move.
You swallow, then shift carefully in the water, turning just enough to face him.
The movement makes a soft splash. His arm lifts automatically to give you room, then settles again when you’re turned toward him, your knees brushing his thigh.
He looks at you and smiles. “Hi,” he says quietly, like he hasn’t already been holding you.
You let out a small laugh. “Your hair is a mess.” You glance at how it’s more loose than properly held now, strands slipping free of the bun.
He hums under his breath, amused. “Mmm,” he says, “that does tend to happen around you.”
You glance at the half-undone bun. “Can I take it down?”
His smile gradually widens, as if recalling a memory. “I’m pretty sure,” he says casually, “that I already gave you permission for that earlier.” Then, softer—yet clearly teasing—“Feels unfair to stop you now.”
Rolling your eyes, you huff and pull him into a quick kiss, fingers already working the band loose as his hair finally gives way.
You slip the hair band from Buddha’s bun and gently comb your fingers through his hair. Water darkens every strand, and blue-blonde locks fall loose and heavy across his shoulders and down his back. He sighs, content, and tilts his head forward to give you better access, eye shuttering briefly with pleasure. You work slowly, teasing out the tangles, savoring the silken glide between your knuckles. The sound he makes—a hum, thick and lazy—warms your skin. His hand slides up your back, smoothing across your shoulder blade. “You really like having your hair played with,” you observe.
His hand drifts up, fingers brushing your cheek. “I really like everything you do to me,” he says, his words soft and honest enough to make your chest flutter.
You roll your eyes. “Siddhartha, even if I punched you in the face, you’d probably say you liked it.”
He grins—eye bright, canines flashing. “Probably.” He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours.
You kiss him back, steady and sure, the feel of his hand on your cheek grounding you. He’s warm. The taste of jasmine bathwater and bao lingers between you, unusual yet not unpleasant, and when you finally pull away, he’s smiling—happy.
“I love you,” he whispers—and when you open your mouth, he gently covers it. “Mm,” he murmurs, amused, and gives you a wink. “Not yet.”
He eases back against the tub, his shoulders relaxing as if the weight has already settled where it belongs. “Want to see the garden?” he asks lightly. “We keep getting distracted. You still haven’t seen all of it.”
You blink at the sudden shift, then let out a quiet laugh. “Is that your way of changing the subject?”
“Absolutely,” he admits without hesitation. “I wanted to show you more of the garden after breakfast…but we got a little sidetracked.” His eye flicks to you, amused. “Again.”
You shake your head. “Maybe you have some kind of aphrodisiac in the garden?”
“You’re my aphrodisiac.”
“Siddhartha.”
“______.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you as if he already knows where your thoughts are going. “See?” he says lightly. “This is why we keep getting distracted.”
You groan softly, covering your face for a moment. “You’re doing it again.”
“Mmm,” he agrees, unbothered. “Which is exactly why we should finish up.”
He reaches for a cloth, adds a bit of body wash, and leans in again. His touch is unhurried as he gently makes small circles along your arms, then guides the cloth over your shoulders and down your back. It’s practical—gentle and thorough—but there’s something undeniably intimate in the way he does it, steady and attentive.
A shiver runs through you.
He notices, of course, but doesn’t comment or tease. He simply finishes washing you carefully before rinsing the cloth and setting it aside.
“You’re drifting,” he murmurs fondly.
You drop your forehead against his shoulder with a quiet huff. “That’s your fault.”
A soft laugh vibrates through his chest. He cups your face briefly and leans in, stealing a quick kiss—warm, grounding, and over almost as soon as it begins.
“I know,” he admits easily. “But I really do want to show you the garden.” His smile softens. “Who knows when you’ll get another chance?” He gently nudges you off his lap and stands.
“The towel’s on the counter,” he adds, already reaching for his, “and your robe is hanging on the door.”
“My robe?”
He glances back at you, eye warm and amused. “You remember,” he says gently. “The orange one. I told you I got it for you.”
You do remember. You just hadn’t expected it to feel like this—seeing it again, waiting there as if it belongs.
He leans toward you, his nose nearly brushing yours. “I knew you’d be using it again.”
---------------------
Taking a deep breath, you reach for the doorknob. Buddha stands at the end of the hallway to avoid any confrontation with Shiva for your sake. His hands on his hips, eye locked on you as you turn the doorknob.
“Shiva?” you call out as you step into the room. Shiva is on the sofa, his back to you as he lies across it.
“Hm?”
His response is lazy, almost distracted—but the air in the room tells a different story. Shiva doesn’t turn around right away. One arm hangs over the edge of the sofa, fingers flexing once before going still.
“Are you okay?”
Shiva sighs, “I am going to give you a moment to sit down and think about what you just asked me.”
“I’m safe—”
“I don’t care.”
The words cut in cleanly, immediately. Shiva finally turns his head enough to look at you over the back of the sofa, eyes sharp and unblinking. “You don’t need to tell me you were safe,” he pauses, jaw tightening just slightly before he continues, more measured. “I knew you were safe with Buddha.”
“What makes you think I was with Buddha?”
“______, I’m not an idiot,” he replies, his tone dry. He motions you closer. “There was another meeting today.”
You don’t even realize how close you are before he catches your wrist, then sits up and pulls you into his arms. The hold is firm, grounding, familiar.
“Loki is next.”
That creepy grin flashes in your mind. You grimace. “I don’t like him.”
“I know.”
You hesitate, then take a breath. “…Shiva, about what happened when we first met.”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about it,” he squeezes your thigh, a warning.
“You said it hurt you too,” you press, softer now. “How bad was it? On a scale from a scrape to you losing three arms?”
A quiet huff leaves him. “You never listen,” he mutters. “Bad enough it brought me to my knees.” His upper right hand lifts, fingers threading through your hair as the memory surfaces. “It hit all at once,” he continues, voice lower. “Sharp enough that my first instinct was to fight back.”
His hand stills. “Then I looked at you,” he says. “And you were already bent over too, crying.”
The pain had been unlike anything he’d ever felt—sudden, overwhelming, enough that his first instinct was to strike back. But the moment he lifted his head and saw you in pain too, instinct shifted.
He reached for you without thinking.
The instant his hand touched you, the pain vanished. Completely.
You swallow. “What do you think caused it?”
He exhales through his nose, slow and measured. “I don’t know.”
“So,” you say slowly, “you’re old.”
“Mhm.”
“And you fight a lot.”
“Mhm.”
“Over a thousand gods.”
“Mhm.”
You tilt your head. “Have you ever felt anything like that before?”
“Never.”
You fall silent, staring at a spot on the floor, trying to put the pieces together, but it’s almost as if each piece comes from a different puzzle. It doesn’t make sense.
“Isn’t it strange when it happened?” you murmur. “I was already in your arms. Everything felt… normal.” You glance up at him. “It didn’t start until I realized you weren’t going to hurt me. Shouldn’t it have happened the moment I touched you?” Your thoughts start to tumble faster. “So what actually triggered it? And why did it stop when you touched me afterward?”
Shiva clicks his tongue. “______, now isn’t the time.”
“And the nightmares—”
“Drop it.” The word lands firm and final.
Slowly, you nod, then lean forward and rest your head against his bare shoulder. “Fine,” you murmur. “But the moment I get home, we’re talking about it.” A pause. “I think my dad has something to do with it. With…whatever he is.”
Shiva snorts softly. “You just agreed to drop it,” he says, amused. “And in the same breath, you’re already dragging it back out.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him. “I know,” you say quietly. “But so much has happened since we got here.” Your brow furrows as you search for the right words. “At first, I thought it was just…a strange coincidence. Something random.” You shake your head. “Now it doesn’t feel like that anymore.”
Your gaze drifts, unfocused. “Every time I start to think I understand what’s going on, something else happens. And I keep coming back to the same thought.” You swallow. “That my dad has something to do with it.”
“At this point, it’s pretty obvious he’s involved,” Shiva growls.
“But what—”
Warm lips press against yours, stopping the words. He pulls back just enough to look at you, a thumb digging lightly into your thigh. “Stop,” he says, low and final. “I said no more.”
“You’re so bossy,” you huff, tugging his hair.
“What did you do today?”
You cough and try to pull away, but Shiva’s arms close around you, all four holding you in place. “Well?” His voice is tight. “What did you do with Buddha?”
“Nothing much,” you say quickly. “Breakfast. Lunch. He talked about enlightenment.” You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Mostly just reminded me how much I like my desires. Pretty sure I’m not cut out for that whole thing.”
Shiva lets out a low, humorless hum. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Trying to reach enlightenment while seducing the Buddha does sound…counterproductive.”
Your breath catches. “What?” You panic immediately. “No—no, I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—”
Shiva tilts his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. “…So,” he says carefully, “Buddha seduced you.”
“No! There is no seduction. That’s crazy.” You try to pull away, but his grip only tightens. “Shiva, there is no seduction. Anyway, I’m not exactly seductive.” You scoff—then scowl when Shiva nods in agreement. “Hey!”
“Mm,” he hums, unimpressed.
“Buddha is a monk, right? Nothing happened. We’re just friends.” The words land wrong the moment they leave your mouth. Your stomach twists.
Shiva shrugs. “You don’t get that flustered over friends.”
“You are literally my only friend, and I’ve gotten flustered over you.” You slap his shoulder—not hard, more annoyed than anything. “Fine, he’s attractive, okay? I went from being surrounded by normal humans in my classes to being surrounded by beautiful gods.”
You groan and drop your head onto his shoulder. “We were talking about my dad.” You relax slightly in Shiva’s arms, fingers sliding into his hair in a familiar, grounding way. “Has Dad spoken to you again?”
Shiva doesn’t answer right away.
His arms stay around you, but they tighten just enough to remind you he hasn’t missed what you did. “That was a smooth pivot,” he mutters.
You wince. “Shiva—”
“I haven’t spoken to him,” he cuts in, ending the topic. He exhales and sinks back against the sofa. “I brought some stuff,” he adds. “So you can bake something.”
You blink. “Cookies?”
“Mm.”
Your shoulders finally loosen, the tension bleeding out of you. You settle more comfortably against him. “You wanted cookies?”
He sighs softly. “You stress-bake.” He slowly releases you. “It has nothing to do with what I wanted.”
You scowl. “I do not.”
He hums again, clearly unconvinced. “Sure.” He taps your thigh, a silent cue to move. “You’re not leaving for the next forty-eight hours.” He says it so calmly that you almost miss it’s an order.
“What do you mean I’m not allowed to leave, Shiva—”
“You’ll stay with me.” His eyes flick to yours, narrowing slightly. “Unless that’s suddenly a problem.” Not anger. Something sharper. Jealous, maybe.
Your eyes widen as you shake your head quickly. “No—no, of course not.” You shift closer without thinking. “I just…I don’t want to be alone for hours. If you’re not expecting me to sit here by myself, then I don’t mind.”
His gaze lingers on you for a long moment. “Leave you alone by yourself for hours?” he repeats slowly. “Now, would I do that?”
“Funny,” you mutter.
He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a brief, firm kiss—meant to end the conversation. “Anyway,” he mutters against your mouth, “go make the cookie dough. I don’t want to hear you complain when it doesn’t have time to set.”
He pinches your hip once before letting you go.
You flinch, then silently curse yourself. Of course, Shiva would unknowingly find the exact spot where Buddha bit me.
His brow furrows immediately. “Are you okay?” His gaze drops, but you’re already straightening and brushing it off. “I’m fine.” You wave a hand dismissively. “I bumped into a table earlier. Just a small bruise.”
Shiva’s hand moves toward your waistband anyway—instinctive, checking. You slap it away. All five of his eyes widen as he freezes, staring at you as if you’ve just grown another head. You stare back, heat creeping up your neck, your expression probably mirroring his. “…Uh.”
“What was that?”
You have no idea what the mark even looks like anymore. It’s been a few hours since Buddha left it. Does it look like a hickey? Or could it pass for a normal bruise, like the one you’re claiming? Does a hickey even look that different from a bruise?
Buddha hadn’t bitten you as hard as Shiva did—the mark on your neck is dark and unmistakable. This one…this one could be anything. Or nothing. Or obvious, and you’re just lying to yourself. “Sorry—it just hurts,” you mutter.
He drops his hand, “Do you need an icepack?”
“No.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he reaches out again—this time careful—resting his hand higher on your waist. “Clumsy idiot.” He scoffs.
You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Instead, you pull away and slowly walk toward the kitchen nook.
Standing in the middle of the kitchen nook, you turn your back to Shiva and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down just enough to see.
Your breath stutters.
It’s dark—deeper than a normal bruise, skin flushed and tender, the color uneven, as if it’s still settling. Not sharply defined. Not obviously shaped. Just there.
Your fingers hover, then pull back without touching it.
It could pass. Maybe. People bruise easily. You bruise easily. This clearly isn’t a normal bruise. You bite back a groan. He hadn’t been as rough as Shiva when he bit you. It’s not as dark as the one Shiva left, but it’s clearly more than a bruise from walking into a table.
“Hey, Shiva?”
“Yes?”
You don’t bother opening the fridge to grab eggs. Instead, you walk back to the sofa and sit beside him. “What happens after this? Let’s say humans win—we will.” You ignore his unimpressed look. “What will you do? What are your plans?”
“It’ll be the same,” he says, shrugging as if it’s nothing. “Humans lose; they get wiped out. Gods lose…” He tilts his head. “Nothing. Humans just get another thousand years.”
“That’s not fair,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes.
Shiva scoffs. “Sorry—did you want the gods wiped out too?” His gaze sharpens. “Lose me?” He leans closer. “I have the power to keep you from being erased. I doubt you’ll ever have the power to do the same for me.”
“…Good point,” you admit reluctantly.
“Are you going to make that cookie dough?” he asks, flatly.
You blink. “Wait—are you just trying to get rid of me?”
“No.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just know you.” His eyes flick back to you. “And I don’t want to hear you complain later that you didn’t start the dough early enough.”
He’s right. Slowly, you stand, tapping the back of his head as you walk back toward the small nook.
“What do you want to do tomorrow? What is there even to do here?” Then again, there might be a lot to do if they even have a hot spring. Going around with Buddha would be pretty impossible. You’re lucky the two of you were able to get into the hot spring the first time.
“Not much.” He yawns. “Just stay in and sleep. I want to relax. That idiot better not die today. I don’t want to have another meeting tomorrow.”
“…and if he does, the plans will change, and I’ll be left alone for hours again?”
“No, you’ll be coming to the meeting too.”
“Shiva!”
“_______.”
“I don’t want to go to a meeting.”
“Last time you were there, it ended early. Maybe it’ll be the same. If you don’t want to go to a meeting tomorrow, you’d better hope Loki wins.”
Loki approaching you on the one day you were alone crosses your mind. His creepy grin makes you shiver. “Hopefully the meeting won’t last long if they have one when he dies.” You huff.
----------------------------
“Hi, Dad.”
Vaeris does not look up.
“Hello.” He flips the page of his notebook, making a note.
Buddha decides to get straight to the point. Vaeris has made it clear he doesn’t care for small talk. “Where are you from?”
“I am not from somewhere.”
Buddha tilts his head slightly. “Everything comes from somewhere.”
“That is a belief,” Vaeris replies. He does not look up as he speaks. “I predate location.”
Buddha pauses, then tilts his head again. “How about this, then?” He narrows his eye. “What existed before you?”
First time writing frlll sorry if it sucks butttt imagine
Shiva with you as his 4th wife.
He gives all of you equal love and affection, lucky him for having 4 arms to hold all of you at once. You’re all in a cuddle pile every night, each tucked under an arm respectively on his huge bed.
He’s such a good husband I know it.
During dinner he’ll feed each of you sometimes out of no where after softly moving ur face to look at him before he places a piece of buttered naan in your mouth gently as he watches to see if you enjoy the flavor he picked out today (with his hands ofc we’re eating Indian food🤤)
During Ragnarok he was thinking about his wives half the time I know it and he was filled with pride hearing you all scream for him and shout out confidence in his strength.
He dances with you all and dances with you each, one on one at times as well. Everyone’s gets an equal piece of Shiva and there’s no jealousy between you wives as you all adore each other, soft kisses for each other and cuddles when Shiva is away and here.
He loves his family and friends more than he hates humans.
Buddha won the poll for the smut to be with him. Shiva's will likely be around chapters 31-32.
So smut with Buddha. Reminder they don't go all the way until their routes.
Waking up is the same as always, one of Shiva’s arms wrapped around your waist, his breath on the back of your neck. You sigh and almost sink back into sleep, but then a thought crosses your mind. Maybe I should try to find Dad? He doesn’t sleep much—
Your eyes snap open. He doesn’t sleep much. Have you ever even seen him sleep? What is my dad? You sigh, shaking your head.
Carefully, you lift Shiva’s hand. Remove it from your waist and sit up, glance down at the god of destruction. He looks so peaceful. You blink and bite down a laugh as the thought of shaking him awake crosses your mind.
Glancing at the clock, you see it’s just past six. You slide off the bed and head toward the closet that holds your clothes. With your back to him, you quickly strip out of your pajamas and change into something else—a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
Being as quiet as you can, you step into the living area and pick up a notepad and pen.
Shiva will probably be angry when he wakes up and you’re gone again. While you feel a little guilty about it, Shiva needs to accept that you’re an adult and that he can get over the fact that you have other friends. I want to speak to Buddha. Maybe I can find him.
“I love you, you don’t have to be anything but my honeybee.”
Your grip tightens on the pen as you stare at the notepad. What happens when Ragnarok ends? Will I even see him again? The plan is to go back to Earth—hopefully after humanity wins. No. When humanity wins. Once you’re back home, what happens then? Would Buddha even know where to find you? Should you give him an address?
Or what if this is like a summer romance? A few intense weeks, stolen moments, everything burning bright in Valhalla—only to go home and pretend it all fades back into normal?
Except it wouldn’t fade back to normal, not now. Not with Shiva. He’s started acting differently with you—more affectionate. More…Your face heats as memories flare.
You close your eyes and breathe out slowly. If you don’t let this happen, you’ll regret it. The certainty hits immediately—sharp and unsettling. You can’t let it go. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what if—especially not about The Buddha.
Quickly, you scribble a quick note promising you’ll stay in a safe area and you’ll be back before dark.
-------------------------------
As you reach the end of the hallway, a warm embrace wraps around you from behind, followed by a gentle kiss pressed to your cheek. “Good morning, sunshine.”
You sigh, instinctively relaxing into his hold. “Siddhartha, you could at least give me a warning before you grab me from behind.”
“Mmm?” he hums. “But you knew it was me instantly.” His arms tighten just slightly as he nuzzles your cheek. “I felt you relax the moment I touched you.” A soft smile curves against your skin. “My honeybee knows me so well.”
“You’re up early,” you note, staying relaxed in his hold. He doesn’t seem interested in releasing you just yet.
“So are you.”
“Yeah. I don’t know why I keep waking up early lately. I usually sleep until at least eleven when I don’t have to get up.” You sigh. “Do you always wake up this early?”
“If I do,” he asks mildly, “would that be a problem when you stay over?”
“I like to sleep.”
He grins. “Don’t worry. I won’t want to get out of bed while my honeybee is in my arms.”
He releases you—but only long enough to step in front of you, leaning down so his nose brushes yours. “Well, sunshine, let’s get breakfast. Then we can take a nap until noon.”
“Where?”
“Home. Nobody will bother us there.”
“…My dad came by.”
“Yeah…” He grins. “But if that happens again, we can just not open the door.” He gives you a quick kiss before pulling away. “What do you want for breakfast? Muffins?”
With the space between you, your eyes drift over him without much thought. He’s wearing the same sleeveless dark top as usual, the orange sash loosely wrapped around his biceps. Lower, though, you notice a change—loose white pants today, gathered around his calves and leaving his lower legs bare.
You blink, refocusing. “Muffins sound good.” When your eyes snap back to his, one brow is already raised.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything.” He moves smoothly to your left, curling his fingers around your hand.
When you glance up at him, the lily pattern flashes in his eye before he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Let’s go,” he murmurs. “I’ll get some muffins.”
----------------------------------
“Hold these. I’ll be right back.” Buddha hands you the bag of muffins, then steps away, leaving you standing alone in the garden.
From the terrace, the garden had looked orderly and serene, framed by stone and greenery. Standing in it now feels slightly different. The stone path beneath your feet is worn smooth, winding through low shrubs and carefully placed plants that look tended without being showy. Pale flowers dot the greenery, their petals gently shifting with the breeze.
Somewhere nearby, water moves softly, the sound steady and unobtrusive.
It’s beautiful and peaceful.
The calm settles over you slowly. Your shoulders loosen, and your breathing evens out as if your body recognizes the space before your mind does. You’ve only felt this kind of quiet before when Buddha was near.
“I see you’re already relaxing,” he says from behind you. “Good. You looked tense this morning.”
You turn, and he’s already there, facing you—closer than you expected. His smile is slow and knowing.
He doesn’t step away right away. For a heartbeat, he simply looks at you, as if the quiet is enough. Then he finally moves past you, brushing lightly against your side as he unfolds a large blanket and spreads it over the grass with careful hands.
“Come on,” he murmurs, glancing back at you. “We’ll eat a little. Then… if you want…” His gaze lingers on you, warm and unhurried. “We can take that nap.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?” His brow lifts. “Did you want something else?”
“Something else…” You mumble.
“Mhmm.”
“Like what?”
He grins. “I don’t know—you’re the one who sounded disappointed with your ‘oh’. Why don’t you tell me?”
When you don’t answer right away, he takes the bag from your hands and opens it. “What kind of muffin do you want?”
“What?”
“We’re eating breakfast, remember, honeybee?”
Your eyes widen as heat floods your cheeks. “Right, yes—uh, chocolate?”
He raises a brow. “Is that you asking,” he teases, “or telling me you want chocolate? Gotta be clearer than that, honeybee.”
You cover your face, mortified, and he lets the bag drop as he drops to his knees in front of you. His fingers curl around your left wrist, gently pulling your hand away before tugging you forward until you stumble straight into his arms.
He grabs your sandals and tosses them aside, then eases you down onto the blanket before climbing over you, caging you in with one arm planted beside your head. A few loose strands of hair fall forward, brushing against your cheek as he leans in.
“Now, cutie…” His voice dips, his smile unhurried. “I need you to be clearer. Which one do you want?”
“You.” The word slips free before you can stop it. “—I mean muffins. Muffins.” You rattle off your favorite type of muffin in a rush, but it’s too late.
Buddha goes very still.
For half a heartbeat, he just looks at you—really looks—the playful spark in his eye deepening into something heavier, warmer, dangerously knowing. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“We’ve been over this,” he murmurs as he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “I’m yours.” Another kiss, just a breath closer to your lips. “And you can have me,” he adds, voice warm and certain, “all you want.”
He draws back just enough to meet your gaze again, grin returning as if he never dropped it. “But maybe,” he says lightly, “you should eat breakfast first.”
You feel like you’re on fire. You try to hide your face, but the way he’s over you leaves you unable to lift your arms or turn away.
These gods are going to be the death of me. You’ve probably thought that a thousand times since meeting him—but it’s really not fair that Buddha is… like this.
Taking a deep breath, you whisper which muffin you want.
He sits up—but he doesn’t actually move away. He stays right over you, now settling on your hips while keeping most of his weight on his knees.
“It’s not even eight,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement, “and you’re teasing me, honeybee.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out the muffin you asked for. “And the fact that it’s not even intentional…”
He clicks his tongue.
When you accept the muffin from him, he still doesn’t move.
“Are you going to get up?”
“I mean, I don’t want to,” he admits.
“Siddhartha.”
He only grins. “You started it.”
“Siddhartha.”
His grin widens, low and smug. “Oh, that’s right. You’re supposed to be on top, huh?”
He watches your face burn with embarrassment for a few more seconds before finally leaning down and kissing you, his teeth catching your lower lip. “Okay, okay,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I’ll stop teasing.”
Carefully, he shifts off you and settles on your left side, offering a hand to pull you upright. He grabs a chocolate muffin, tears the top off, and takes a bite—quiet, casual, like he didn’t just have you pinned a moment ago.
He chews, swallows, and glances at you, crumbs stuck to the corner of his mouth as he takes another bite.
He’s really cute. How the hell did he go from sensual to adorable so fast?
“You can stare,” he says lightly, turning his attention back to the muffin. “I don’t mind.”
Your head jerks. “I wasn’t—”
“Mhm.” He wipes away the crumb at the corner of his mouth and gives you a slow, knowing grin. “Sure you weren’t.”
“When I woke up this morning,” you blurt, “I had a thought about my dad.”
Buddha puffs out his cheeks. “You and your impeccable timing.”
Your eyes widen, and you throw up your hands defensively. “No, no—it’s just a really quick question. You sleep, right?”
“Mhm. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve taken a few naps together.”
“Right…and Shiva sleeps.”
He makes a low sound under his breath.
“I don’t think my dad sleeps.”
Buddha’s pout fades, replaced by a flicker of confusion. “He doesn’t sleep?” he asks. “Are you sure?”
“Not one hundred percent,” you admit. “I just… I’ve never seen him asleep.”
He studies you for a moment. “Do you want to look into it?” he asks lightly.
You shake your head. “No. I just wanted to ask if that’s normal. For other deities.”
“It’s not,” he says simply.
“Okay.” You clear your throat, suddenly very interested in the muffin in your hands. “We can go back to our original conversation now. I was just curious.”
He nods once, like the subject is neatly filed away. “Right,” he says easily. “I think we were talking about you being on top.”
“I thought you were going to stop teasing?” You turn away, your face burning.
“Yeah, well…” he drawls, clearly unrepentant. “You make it so easy.”
He finishes his muffin in two huge bites and sprawls out on the blanket, one knee bent, the other leg stretched comfortably across the blanket. He grins, propping his head on his hand as he watches you with shameless appreciation.
“So,” he says lazily, “let’s talk about your plans for today. What’s on your mind, honeybee?”
You look down at your hands, twisting a loose thread from the blanket between your fingers. “I… wanted to see you. I know the gods will be all tied up in meetings after losing that last round, so…” You shrug one shoulder. “I left Shiva a note saying I’d be back before dark.”
Buddha’s brows lift. “Before dark?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out softer than you meant it to.
He leans a little closer. “So what you’re telling me,” he murmurs, “is that I get my honeybee all to myself until sunset?” Buddha’s grin turns slow and wicked as he pushes himself up on one elbow. “Come here.”
You blink. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat himself. He simply reaches out, hooks a finger into the hem of your shirt, and gives the gentlest tug. The message is clear.
Heat climbs up your neck as you scoot closer, and his hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you into a kiss—warm, slow, and deep enough to scatter your thoughts.
You brace a hand on his chest, meaning to steady yourself, but he shifts, fingers curling around your hip, rolling you with him so your knees straddle his waist before you even realize how it happened.
Your breath catches. “Buddha—”
“There you go,” he murmurs against your mouth, his hands settling lightly on your thighs. “That’s better.”
You’re painfully aware of your position—sitting over him, his eye half-lidded and fixed on you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to see.
“Do whatever you want,” he says, voice low and sure. “I’m all yours.”
You cover your face with your left hand, heat prickling your fingertips.
“I thought you wanted to eat breakfast,” you choke out.
His arms slide around your hips, drawing you closer until your palms brace against his chest to keep yourself upright.
He shifts, guiding you with effortless patience to sit comfortably across his waist. His hands settle warm at your sides, unmoving for a moment. He just looks up at you—giving you space to breathe, to pull back, or to lean in.
You think about the first time you met him—how Buddha always makes you feel like you can drop your guard, safe and relaxed in a way you never thought possible. After a breath, you slide your hands into his hair and tip his face toward yours.
You kiss him long enough that the rest of the world drops away—long enough that you forget how flustered you were only minutes ago.
When you finally pull back for air, he lets out a quiet laugh and rests his forehead against your sternum. “You’re so cute,” he says, his voice muffled against your shirt. “If you could see yourself right now…” His arms tighten around your waist. “I’m still in love,” he murmurs, impossibly casual, lifting his head to stare into your eyes. “Thought you should know.”
Color floods your face so fast you freeze, unsure what to do with your body. His arms stay locked around you, steady and patient. He lets you drop your head to hide it in his shoulder for several breaths, lets the warmth wash over you, then reaches up and gently lifts your face again, his thumb tracing slowly along your cheekbone.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers—so softly it nearly breaks something inside you. “I just like hearing you breathe. Right here. With me.”
You meet his gaze—and he’s a beautiful mess. His hair falls loose, a fleck of chocolate on his upper lip, his single blue eye fixed on you as if you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted and still can’t quite believe he gets to have.
You lean down and kiss him before you can think. He hums low in his throat, and deepens the kiss—slow, lazy, like you’ve got all the time in the world.
His hands start moving.
One slides up your spine, the other anchors at your hip, pulling you down until your chest brushes his. The shift drags a gasp from you, and Buddha swallows it as it leaves your mouth, smiling into the kiss like he’s been waiting for that sound.
He sits up beneath you without breaking the kiss, one hand bracing your back, the other guiding your thigh higher across his waist. You go with it—not thinking, barely breathing—your fingers curling into his hair, your body molded to his as if gravity demanded it.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—flushed, dazed, straddling him on the blanket. “________,” he whispers, his eye bright with wicked affection. “You’re dangerous.”
Your eyes drift down to his stomach, where his shirt has ridden up just enough to tease. For a moment, you can’t look away from the bare sliver of skin—warm, golden, impossible not to touch.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you hook your fingers into the hem and slide the fabric higher, just as you did yesterday. Only this time, there isn’t a single thought about him not being your type. All you can think is how beautiful he is.
You trace a line across his abdomen — barely a touch, just your fingertips sliding over smooth skin. His breath stills, and for one suspended heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Then, with a soft huff of laughter, Buddha reaches down, grabs the edge of his shirt, and pulls it off—tossing it aside without breaking eye contact.
Your eyes widen.
He slips from your grip, lying back down and grinning up at you, wicked and fond all at once. “I figured my shy honeybee wouldn’t do it herself.”
He’s stunning. Not just his skin or the smooth lines of muscle, but the softness in the way he moves—relaxed and utterly open, as if being here with you is the most natural thing he’s ever done.
His hands span your waist, fingers warm and steady—gentle, not gripping, just content to hold you exactly as you are. He sits beneath you, shirtless and unhurried, waiting with the patience of centuries for whatever you decide to do next.
For a long, trembling moment, you just sit, feeling the heat of his skin, the weight of his gaze. His lips tilt—barely. Not a smirk, not quite a smile. Affection, pure and simple, wrapped in mischief.
A breeze stirs the garden, sending the scents of lilies and wet grass curling through the air. You reach out, fingertips brushing his collarbone, marveling at how easily he lets you explore. He doesn’t flinch or tense, even when your hand drifts near the place where his left eye used to be.
He catches your hand—softly—and presses a kiss to your knuckles. The gesture is so sweet.
“You can keep going,” he teases, his lips brushing your skin. “I’m not going to bite.”
He lingers there, his mouth grazing the back of your hand, warm and unbearably gentle. You feel yourself melting—inside and out. Any thought of hiding how badly you want him dissolves into the morning light and garden air.
Something inside you loosens. Let’s go.
Your fingers trail along his jaw, thumb settling at the edge of his mouth. He closes his eye for a moment—like he’s savoring the touch.
His lower canines show more when he smiles, sharp and white. Before you know it, you lean forward and kiss his jaw, right where the bone curves beneath his ear.
He breathes out—a startled, breathy laugh—and his arms wrap around you.
“See?” he murmurs. “Dangerous.”
You can’t help the smile that breaks across your face. You tilt his chin until your eyes meet, your faces close enough to count his eyelashes if you wanted to.
This time, you don’t hesitate. You lean in and kiss him—and there is nothing gentle about it.
His mouth parts beneath yours, welcoming, letting you set the pace. His hands settle at your back, and the heat between you simmers until you’re dizzy.
“What if I want you to bite?” you question, curiosity getting the better of you.
His mouth lingers against yours—not pulling away, just processing the words. A slow grin curls at the corner of his lips before he murmurs, “I said I wouldn’t bite, not that I can’t.”
You swallow hard.
He tilts his head, studying you as if he’s reading every thought you don’t say out loud. “Do you want me to bite you?” he asks, quietly enough that the breeze could’ve carried the words away.
You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.
He laughs softly, not unkindly, and brushes a kiss against your cheek. “You still have Shiva’s mark,” he reminds you, his thumb grazing your right shoulder with deliberate care. “If I leave one…” His gaze flicks downward, lingering low on your body without touching. “…It’ll have to be somewhere visible only to our eyes.”
His words send heat crawling under your skin, pooling low and heavy.
He leans forward again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to stop him—until his lips hover at your ear. “Say the word,” he whispers, breath warm against your ear. “And I’ll find the perfect place.”
You freeze, fingers digging into his chest before you can stop yourself.
His grin falters—just for a breath—his gaze flicking to the mark on your shoulder before snapping back to your face. Something sharp flashes in his eye. Gone just as quickly.
The warmth returns immediately, careful and deliberate, as if he locks it into place for you.
“Don’t worry about it, ____,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek before you can read too much into the pause.
Then, quieter—closer—his mouth brushing your skin as he pulls you back into the kiss. “But I want you to leave marks on me.”
You pull away and run your thumb over the mark from last time, “I already left a mark on you.”
“It’s not dark enough. I want everyone to know I’m taken.” He gives you the same argument as he sits up fully and positions you so you’re still in his lap.
“Let me remind you that you’re not supposed to be taken, Buddha.”
He grins, utterly unapologetic. “…I’ll go to the middle of the arena, take Heimdall’s Gjallarhorn, and let everyone know I am.”
You blink, remembering the last time he took it from Heimdall—when he spoke into the Gjallarhorn and announced to all of Valhalla that he was fighting for humanity instead of the gods.
You can’t help imagining it. How would everyone react if they heard that announcement? How would the Buddhists react, of all people? You don’t know much about Buddhism—but even you know Buddha is supposed to be celibate. I’m still not sure whether this is a sin. Would he even do it? You stare into his eye for a moment. Yeah, he would.
“What are you thinking about, honeybee?”
“That it isn’t an empty threat.”
“Threat?” He pouts, wounded and dramatic. “Why would wanting to tell everyone I’m taken be a threat?”
You take a steadying breath, then lean forward and bite into the soft place where his neck meets his shoulder—firm, not gentle. The salty-sweet taste of his skin hits your tongue as he inhales sharply, a soft gasp escaping, surprised and pleased. Heat floods beneath your lips, muscles tensing under your mouth, and his body shifts subtly in response. You run your tongue over the mark you’ve left, feeling the slight indentation left by your teeth.
When you pull away, you stare at the bright red mark for a moment before lifting your gaze to his eye.
“Mmm,” he hums, his breath warm against your cheek. “Was that to distract me?” His grin curves slowly, wickedly. “You want to keep our little secret for now? Fine.”
His grin softens slightly as he shifts beneath you, a gentle roll of his body that sends a warm sensation across your skin. The movement is subtle—just the slight press of his hips rising to meet yours—but enough to make your breath catch. “We can start with me on top," he teases.
Then he moves.
He shifts, rolling you both so you're underneath him on the blanket. His knees bracket your thighs, his palms pressed into the blanket by your shoulders, his weight held just above you.
He kisses you, and suddenly you can feel him everywhere—the heat of his body, separated from yours by clothes that feel too thick. When he moves against you, your breath catches in your throat, and your body responds before your mind has a chance to catch up.
Buddha pulls back just enough to speak, his breath warm against your mouth. "But later..." His hips shift against yours, the friction sending a jolt through your body. "...I want you on top."
Your fingers curl into his bare shoulders without conscious thought. He notices, a soft laugh escaping him as he presses his forehead to yours. “Honeybee, I think you’re a little overdressed,” he whispers, rolling his hips again.
He's shirtless, his warm torso pressed against you, wearing only those thin linen pants that cling to his hips. You're still in your regular T-shirt, which has ridden up just enough to expose a strip of skin at your waist, and in stiff denim jeans that scrape against the inside of your thighs when you move. The thick fabric creates a frustrating barrier between you, dulling the heat of his skin to a maddening pressure rather than the skin-to-skin contact your body craves.
The blanket brushes against your back as Buddha shifts above you. His hands move skillfully, and in one smooth motion, he slips his fingers under the fly of your jeans, undoing the top button and then the zipper with such grace that it almost feels like reverence. His fingers against your skin make you inhale sharply, but he’s gentle and patient—always respecting your boundaries and asking for permission in quiet moments.
His right hand slips beneath the waistband, fingers curling between denim and skin. You brace for a tug—something quick or rushed—but it never comes.
Instead, his thumb slowly circles your hip as he leans down to kiss you again.
It begins softly, gentle enough to make your heart race, and you instinctively respond, your body moving in harmony with each press and roll of his hips.
You lift your hips and shimmy your jeans halfway down your thighs—awkward at first, heat rushing to your face—but Buddha’s hands are there immediately, steadying and guiding, always gentle.
He helps you kick them free without breaking the kiss, then lets out a soft laugh when you stretch your toes to nudge his shin, feeling his warmth even through the morning chill.
Buddha’s hands glide up your thighs and draw your hips closer, higher, until you meet him.
Slowly, he grinds his hips against yours again, with only the thin linen of his pants and your underwear separating you. The friction sends a shiver up your spine, and a warm feeling grows low in your stomach as his weight presses you deeper into the blanket. You gasp into his mouth, your fingers indenting the soft skin of his shoulders.
Gently, he tugs your shirt up a few inches, then pauses—giving you room to nod, shake your head, or push him away if you want.
“Wait.”
He stops immediately and slides the fabric back down, hands warm but careful. “Is everything okay?”
You nod, sheepishly. “My dad seems to like appearing…”
Understanding flickers instantly. “Right,” he says, his grin returning as he stands up. “Bedroom it is.”
Before you can process it, he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you clean off the blanket.
It takes a moment for you to realize he’s actually carrying you, bridal-style, into the house. Your body’s still buzzing with adrenaline, caught between laughter and embarrassment. Buddha simply grins down at you, as if he’s enjoying both your panic and the pleasure of being held.
“Buddha—” you begin, half protest, half plea.
It doesn’t take long to get to the bedroom. He gently sets you down on the edge of the bed. For a moment, you just sit there—knees pressed together, your heart pounding in your chest—until he kneels in front of you, his single blue eye at eye level.
You glance away, flushed under the weight of his gaze.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
You nod, unable to trust your voice. He waits—patient, grounded—his hands resting lightly on your knees.
“Want to stop?” he asks, offering you an out without a hint of disappointment.
“No!”
His eye widens—so does yours.
“I mean—” You clear your throat, heat prickling your face. “No.”
“You’re so cute,” he coos, then rises to his full height before crawling onto the bed beside you. His left hand finds your bare thigh, warm and steady, while the other plays with the hem of your shirt.
“Can I take this off?” he asks quietly.
You glance down, then up at him, and nod once—quick, shy, but sure. Before you can even finish the motion, he’s helping you, his careful fingers tracing beneath the hem until your shirt slides up and over your head. He’s slow and attentive, making sure not to tangle the fabric in your hair or startle you. Even now, he’s giving you every chance to say no—pausing carefully, maintaining that anchoring touch, locking eyes with you, waiting for your nod at every step.
Buddha’s eye roams, slow and lingering—as if memorizing you. He doesn’t reach for your bra. Instead, his hands glide up your sides, warm and careful, before settling just beneath your ribs. His thumbs brush the edge of the underwire, feather-light, as he leans in to press a kiss to your collarbone.
Then another.
And another—working his way up your throat in soft, deliberate touches that make your pulse stutter.
“You get more beautiful every time I see you, ____,” he whispers against your skin.
“Buddha—”
He presses another kiss to your neck, slower this time. “Siddhartha,” he corrects quietly.
He closes the distance, his fingers curling along your jaw as he tilts your mouth to his. The kiss starts teasing—light, greedy, full of unspoken laughter—as he coaxes breathless little “Siddharthas” from your lips, rewarding each with a playful nip that pulls a gasp straight from your chest.
His right hand slips around to your back, fingers wandering over the clasp. After a few lost seconds, he pauses and leans back just enough to look at you.
“____,” he murmurs with a crooked smile, “how does this thing come off?”
You stare. “You don’t know how to take off a bra?”
He laughs, warm and easy, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. “In my defense,” he says lightly, “the last time you were wearing a robe.” His thumb trails playfully down your spine. “And before you...there was really no need for practice.”
You reach behind yourself, unclasp the bra, and slide the straps down your shoulders, letting it fall. His eye follows the movement.
“Not gonna teach me?” he teases, voice soft and a little breathless.
You shrug, resting your hands on his bare shoulders. "Next time, I'll let you struggle."
“Fun,” he breathes, his touch feather-light as his fingers skim up your ribs and settle just beneath your arms—steady, grounding. He kisses you again, his mouth warm and hungry, nothing like the teasing from before.
His bare chest presses against yours, skin sliding, heat finding heat. Every inch of contact becomes sensitive, electric—each breath pulling you closer, tightening the space between you.
His hands, always so careful, tangle in your hair before drifting lower, tracing the line of your spine in slow, claiming strokes. He leaves space for you to pull back, to stop, to change your mind.
You don’t.
You match him. Bold for bold.
With a flash of mischief, your fingers glide along the jut of his hip. He shivers—whether from anticipation or from you, you can’t tell.
You draw in a breath you hope sounds steady. “You want me on top, right?” you whisper.
His swallow is visible, his jaw slack, his eye bright with want.
“Honeybee,” he rasps. Then he shifts beneath you, rolling onto his back to give you all the space—and all the choice.
"...what do I do?" you mumble. Your confidence wanes as you take him in—golden skin against white linen, one blue eye gazing at you with unyielding patience. Your fingers hover, inches from his chest.
He laughs—a warm, flowing sound that seems to reach right into you—and stretches his arms above his head, wrists loosely crossed. “Start anywhere you want, cutie. I’m not in a hurry.”
You rest your hands gently on his bare chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. When your touch becomes genuine—neither playful nor hesitant but deliberate—he relaxes completely beneath you, muscles easing under your palms, a slight shiver running along his ribs. Your fingers subtly trace the line of his collarbone, following the curve of his shoulder to his bicep. He welcomes your gaze and touch, his head tilted back against the pillow, clearly inviting you in.
In the soft morning light, his eye appears an almost vivid shade of blue, unguarded and shining. As your hands drift lower, grazing the firm curve of his stomach, he gently inhales. His hips twitch subtly.
You let your kisses trail down his jaw and then his throat, your breath brushing against his skin as you taste the faint salt and the sweet, almost impossible warmth of him. Your hands move lower, initially tentative but growing more confident as you feel his body respond: his breath catches, his back arches slightly, and a low, involuntary sound escapes, just on the verge of a groan.
It’s intoxicating how every reaction from him seems meant only for you. The realization gives you confidence—so much so that when his gaze lifts to meet yours, hungry and unguarded, you lower your lips to his collarbone, press your mouth there, linger, and then bite just hard enough to leave another mark.
His hands move to grip your hips, steadying and grounding you. He whispers your name—just once, a mix of promise and plea—and then the teasing drops away. All that’s left is desire, heat, and the pounding of your own heart.
You drag the linen down his hips, slow and awkwardly controlled, and he helps—lifting his waist so you can slide the pants off. He’s already hard beneath the thin fabric, and you bite your lower lip before your gaze snaps back to his face, heat climbing your neck.
You push forward, kissing him again, your fingers sliding into his hair.
“You’re not supposed to be the tease,” he laughs against your lips, his voice warm and wrecked.
Your gaze drops, and your fingers dig into his chest, leaving half-moon-shaped nail marks on his skin. Heat flashes across your cheeks as you swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.
“…it’s really big.”
“Honeybee,” he laughs, the sound vibrating under your palms, “nothing’s changed since last time.” His thumb draws a soothing circle on your hip.
You bury your face in his shoulder and groan, “Shut up, Siddhartha.”
He wraps his arms around you, gently hooking his thumbs into your underwear. “Can I get on top?”
You nod against his shoulder. “I prefer it.”
“Mmm,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your temple, “we’ll work on it.”
You feel him guide you back onto the mattress, his body following yours. His mouth finds yours, and the heat between you flares so fast that your back arches and your hips move without thought.
Somewhere in the haze, you register how easily he controls the pace—each kiss deep and searing.
When your underwear comes off, it’s with the same patient touch as before. His restraint isn’t a lack of hunger—you can feel that, hot and undeniable, pressed against your thigh—but he never takes more than you offer.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead brushing yours.
“We’ve got all day to figure out what we like, hm?” he murmurs, grinning—too calm, too steady, too sure.
And you’re reminded that he said he’s inexperienced, yet he moves as if he's done this a hundred times. Like someone who knows you intimately.
If he’s really learning as he goes, he’s going to be the end of me after he gets some practice.
His gaze drops, and he cups your left breast with care as his lips find the right one. The warmth of his mouth sends a shiver through you as he explores with gentle attention, his breath hot against your skin. When he draws the sensitive peak between his lips, the sensation makes your fingers curl against his shoulders.
Your breath tightens, a soft moan slipping out despite your efforts. He looks up, smiling against your skin, his teeth brushing lightly as he pulls back just enough to see the effect he’s had on you. His hand cups your breast, and he flicks his thumb over the sensitive tip until a gentle tremble runs through you, and you can’t help but gasp. He nuzzles the curve, licking slow circles across your skin, then bites—gentle, but enough to send a thrill. The shock of it sparks down to your heels, and your hands find his hair, tugging a little harder than you intended.
You half expect him to tease you for it, but instead, he murmurs, “More, honeybee?” and lowers himself.
His mouth traces the curves of your body—your ribs, the dip of your navel, that soft spot just below—until you squirm, powerless under the heat of his lips and hands. He presses his palms to your thighs, steady and confident, holding you open as he glides slowly, lazily along the inside. Never stopping. Always close enough to make you burn.
He kisses the hollow where your left hip curves, his breath warm against your skin.
“Just one mark,” he whispers. “Please?” He taps the spot he just kissed. “It won’t be too dark.” His eye snaps to the mark Shiva left on your throat. Not like his is left unspoken.
Your ability to speak has been completely suppressed, so you simply nod in silent approval. Buddha’s fingers softly stroke your thigh, warm and steady, as he leans in and presses his lips to a spot he has chosen—just above your hip, where your skin is most sensitive. He bites gently, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you shiver. He then sucks softly for a moment before releasing.
You gasp at the heat, a sudden, bright feeling spreading through your core and radiating outward until your legs give way. You open your eyes just in time to see him admiring the mark—already pink, and it’ll be darker by the end of the day—and there’s something proud in his gaze that almost makes you cry.
He kisses the spot again, his tongue gentle against the sting, then moves to your navel, his shoulders slipping easily between your knees. “You’ll let me taste you, right, honeybee?” He rests his cheek against your knee, his voice low and reverent. “I’ve been craving you since the first time.”
“…I feel like that goes against your teachings, Buddha.”
He huffs a laugh—short, warm, a little wrecked—and presses a kiss to your skin. “Your boyfriend, Siddhartha, doesn’t care.” He moves lower, kissing your inner thigh. “I want another taste.”
You tremble all the way down to your toes as his tongue traces a slow, devastating path from your thigh to the very center of you. He doesn’t dive in immediately, not even when heat floods your cheeks and you arch your hips a little, desperate for contact. Instead, he ghosts his mouth just above where you need him most, breathing you in. The anticipation is its own kind of exquisite agony.
Then he licks you, firmly and deliberately, from bottom to top.
You moan, the sound helpless, and Buddha answers with a groan of his own—a low, possessive sound. His tongue glides along you again, slow and thorough, until your knees threaten to clamp around his head. He tightens his grip, holding you open.
Every movement is precise, mapped, studied, and repeated with careful intent. He traces shapes with his tongue—lazy circles, greedy strokes, sometimes the softest flick to make your breath catch and your thighs quake.
He pulls away slightly, his breath warm against your inner thigh. With careful precision, he uses two fingers to spread your glistening folds apart, exposing the most sensitive part of you to the cool air. His other hand moves upward, the pad of his thumb finding your swollen clit, where he applies just enough pressure to make you gasp as he carefully draws back the delicate hood, revealing the sensitive bundle of nerves.
Grinning, he gently blows air against you, and your body jolts helplessly in response as he presses the pad of his thumb to your clit and draws a slow, achingly deliberate circle. He hums, savoring the shiver that tears through you.
You curl your fists in the blanket, unable to bite back a moan as his mouth follows: heat, wetness, pressure that borders on worship, then a flick of his tongue so precise it feels engineered to unravel you. Your thighs clamp against his head, not that it seems to slow or trouble him—the opposite, in fact. He shifts, shouldering deeper, flattening his tongue against you with a slow, insistent pressure that ratchets your breath into ragged, half-lost gasps.
He takes his time, studying and savoring each moment—testing each move for the best effect. Sometimes he’s slow and broad, other times quick and sharp at the edges.
Your thighs tremble. Your voice has disappeared, replaced by a desperate, high-pitched whimper. You shudder so intensely that the bed seems to shake, but Buddha steadies you.
A finger moves toward your entrance, and he glances up at you. “Is this okay?”
"Yes." The second you hear your own voice, even faint, you know you mean it.
His finger presses in slow, steady. He works you open with patience, every movement careful—he waits for you to relax, waits for your body to welcome him before adding anything more. He groans, low in his chest, as his finger sinks in all the way. The sound wrecks you a little; you moan his name, gasping as the base of his thumb rocks against your clit with every shallow thrust. The sensation doubles when he adds a second finger, a careful stretch that makes your breath hitch—but you don’t shy away from it. You push into his touch, needing more.
Buddha murmurs your name, trailing gentle praise against the inside of your thigh. “That’s it, honeybee. Just like that. So perfect for me.” He slides his fingers just right—his tongue resuming its steady, circling torment of your clit.
You grab his hair, fingers pulling so tightly that he groans into your skin. He curls his fingers, finds the place inside that makes you see stars, and keeps you right at the edge.
You shatter with a gasp so sharp it stings your throat. The heat and pressure break, and you come with a jolt that leaves your whole body trembling—hands, legs, everything. Buddha holds his mouth to you, swallowing and savoring every tremble, every wave, until you collapse back onto the bedding.
He moves up slowly, carefully, laying kisses along the soft ache of your stomach, the curve of your breast, and the hollow of your throat.
Buddha settles above you, both hands now bracketing your face, careful not to press down until your chest stops heaving. When he finally kisses you, it’s gentle and slow.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice soft but thick with pride.
You nod. It takes a moment before words follow. “That was…better than last time."
He grins, “I’m a quick learner.”
You can't stop the giddy, exhausted laughter that escapes you. Your mind still feels cloudy, relaxed, and warm as Buddha holds you gently, his hands resting softly on your cheeks. For a minute or two, you're happy to let him kiss you slowly and tenderly, whispering against your lips, as if he can't bear to be apart from you for a moment.
Eventually, you flop back onto the blanket, blinking at the ceiling in wide-eyed disbelief. "You…" Your voice gives out, and you have to laugh again. "You are ridiculous."
He props himself up on one elbow, hair falling across his forehead. "Ridiculously in love with you, maybe." The cheekiness earns him a feeble swat on the chest, but he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. "Still with me, honeybee?"
You nod, and the warmth in your chest intensifies as a smile spreads across his face.
"Do you want to nap now?" he teases.
Slowly, you shake your head. You can feel him pressed against you—warm, solid—but he doesn’t comment or draw attention to it. He just stays close, touching you only where you allow. “Do you want me to…?” You tilt your chin toward him.
“Only if you want to.” He settles beside you, unhurried. His palm strokes along your bare thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles across your skin. “You don’t have to.”
You glance down at him, pulse tripping. Why does he look even bigger than last time?
“I want to know if you want me to,” you whisper. “Was it okay? Last time?”
He lifts his head, patient as ever. “____,” he says gently. “Do you want to? Yes or no.”
A breath. “…yes.”
His expression softens, a warm flicker in his eye. He leans in, kissing you slowly and surely. “I want you to.”
He’s so open about it—about wanting you. It flushes warmth through your chest.
You brace your hand against his shoulder, shifting until you’re comfortable, until there’s no hiding how badly you want to touch him. For a moment, you’re hyperaware of how he’s stretched out, just for you: his eye bright, his body tense and ready, the air between you thick with anticipation.
You reach down, curling your hand around him, and he shudders beneath you. He’s heavy and hot in your palm, the contrast electric. You work your thumb along the ridge, drawing a sharp inhale from him, and another when your fingers trace the length of him—slowly, exploring what you already know yet feeling new power in every line and detail.
Buddha’s head tips back against the bedding, eye fluttering shut for an instant before he forces it open to look at you again. You notice the slightest tremble in his arms, the control it takes to keep a hand gentle at your waist rather than taking more.
You stroke him, first slow and tentative, teasing out what makes his breath catch and his hips jolt, then bolder. It’s addictive, the control in your hands, the simple magic of watching a god of legend react to your touch.
“You can go harder,” he pants, voice rough and urgent. “You don’t have to be that gentle.”
You tighten your fingers around him, slowly and patiently pumping your fist. The groan that escapes him sends heat rising in your stomach once again. He keeps one hand on your waist, watching breathlessly, tense with self-control, but eventually he gives in. Curling the other hand behind your head, he guides your mouth to his. He kisses you more forcefully, his teeth catching your lower lip, and the sound he makes against your lips is more desperate than you expected.
You pull away, your lips grazing the warm skin of his jaw and throat, lingering at his chest, where his heartbeat pounds against your mouth, then moving lower. When you reach him, you pause, suddenly shy despite everything you've shared. He's flushed darker here. You hesitate for a moment before leaning in, tasting him with a tentative flick of your tongue that makes him gasp. The salty-sweet familiarity sparks a flutter in your stomach, and a soft sound escapes your lips before you can hold it back.
You do it again, testing the weight of him on your tongue, exploring the shape and texture that make him stiffen and hiss a curse, his fist clenching the bedding. The power, the intimacy, the sheer trust in that moment—he could hold you down, force more, but he doesn’t; he just waits, trembling, letting you go at your own pace.
Wrapping your lips around the head, swirl your tongue along the sensitive underside, and gradually take him deeper. When you swallow him a little more than last time, he groans out a deep “______,” and for a moment, you’re immersed in the sound of your own name.
Slowly, you begin to bob your head, awkward at first, but then he shifts—just slightly, raising his hips to help you find a rhythm that feels more comfortable. There’s a hint of sweetness, mixed with the salt and heat of him filling your mouth; when you pull back, a line gleams between your lips and the flushed tip.
You work your hand in time with your mouth, testing how much you can take and how quickly you can make his hips jump or his words fail. Buddha’s head tips back further—exposing the long column of his throat and the sharp line of his jaw.
Pulling back for a second, breathless, lips wet and swollen, you glance up. The look on his face nearly undoes you. He’s wrecked, hair falling in wild threads across his brow, eye half-lidded and kind, love written all over him. He’s looking at you as if you are something rare and holy, a meteor burning bright at the center of his universe. You want to see that look forever.
Carefully, you take him deeper, swirling your tongue around the head before drawing back and stroking him firmly. His hips flex upward; he’s almost panting now, breathless and ragged. “You’re gonna—” His voice cracks. “Is it okay?” He gasps.
You nod the best you can, squeezing his hip with your free hand while your other hand pumps what you can’t fit in your mouth, swallowing him down as he shivers.
When it happens, he clenches a fistful of the blanket instead of you, refusing to hold you down. The act of restraint alone makes you want to please him more, so you suck harder, your tongue sliding along the thick ridge just below the tip. He groans your name again—louder this time, breaking on the last syllable—and you feel him pulse on your tongue, the taste of him hitting your mouth in hot, startling waves. You swallow instinctively, and the sound of it makes him shudder.
You ease him through it, slow and patient, only letting go when he finally goes slack beneath you—trembling, breath stuttering, completely undone. He exhales a shaky sound you feel more than hear, and his hand slides into your hair to stroke the back of your head in a gentle, absentminded caress. “Are you okay?”
You sit up slowly, nodding as you run your tongue over your lips. “I’m fine,” you manage, your voice a little hoarse.
He jolts upright, concern flashing across his face so fast it borders on panic. “Water—I should get you some water.” Before he can take a step, you catch him by the wrist. “Stay,” you whisper, tugging him back down.
He leans in, brushing a soft kiss against your mouth. “Honeybee, I’ll get you water first,” he murmurs, kissing you again, “and something to help clean you up.” This time, he pulls away—reluctantly—and rises from the bed.
Your eyes follow him as he walks away, his bare back exposed, his bun barely holding together—most of his hair pulled up, but loose strands slipping free and trailing down his spine as he disappears through the doorway. Naked in Buddha’s bed, never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that before the Ragnarök. You cover yourself with the sheet, lifting your knees to hide your face. It’s still hard to imagine, honestly.
He sets the glass on the bedside table and gently pulls the blanket back from your hips. “I cleaned you up with my mouth pretty well,” he teases, grinning as your face flushes, “but a warm cloth might still be needed.”
“Maybe we take a nap,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your right shoulder, “and then hop into the bath?”
You nod and take a large swig of water from the glass as he wipes your skin. When you try to take it to clean yourself up, he raises it out of reach, so you allow him to do it. When he’s finished, you sink back into the softness of the mattress. Buddha slips an arm beneath your neck, drawing you in until your head rests on his bicep and your face is tucked into the warm, smooth plane of his chest. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulls you, grounding you despite the storm of sensation still humming beneath your skin.
His other hand traces slow, absentminded loops along your thigh. His lips graze your forehead.
You fall asleep.
A jolt shoots through you, and your eyes snap open as the world blurs into focus. For a heartbeat, you don’t remember where you are.
You turn your head and find Buddha asleep beside you—closer than you expected—his arm wrapped around your waist, noses nearly brushing.
You want to touch his hair, but you hesitate—not wanting to wake him. You want to stay like this, wrapped in sheets and impossible warmth, tracing the curve of his cheek with your thumb until he wakes on his own.
Instead, you just watch.
A few minutes pass before his eye cracks open. Blue—bright, but soft at the edges. He blinks once, twice, then finds you, smiling almost shyly before it stretches wider.
“Honeybee,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
You run your thumb gently along his jawline, tracing the warm arc of his cheekbone. His eye slips shut again, but he leans into your touch with a lazy smile.
“You’re staring,” he says, voice rough and slow.
“Yeah.”
Your hand drifts from his cheek to his hair, fingers combing through the tousled strands spilling from his bun. Morning light filters through the glass overhead, scattering soft colors across his skin.
“I like this,” he murmurs, eye half-lidded, voice dreamy-soft. “You, here, touching me.” He reaches out, guiding your hand to his side—tucking it beneath his lowest rib.
You stay quiet for a long moment, eyes slipping shut. When you open them again, Buddha is looking straight at you—unhurried, intent, like he could read the shape of your heartbeat.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, tugging gently on a strand of your hair until it falls across your face.
The answer slips out before you can catch it. “Just you.”
He laughs—short and bright, softened by the pillow beneath him. “Cute as ever,” he says. “You wore me out.” He sighs, stretching. “I feel so old.”
You grin. “How old are you?”
“Mmm…” He smirks without opening his eye. “What year is it?”
“Do you know what year you were born?” you ask, still half-curled against him.
He scoffs, offended in the laziest possible way. “Of course I know what year I was born.” He cracks his eye open and looks at you. “Do you know what year you were born?”
You blink. “Well—yeah.”
He hums. “See? Same concept.”
You shrug. “Shiva doesn’t know exactly how old he is.”
Buddha grins, unbothered. “Mm. You definitely have a thing for older men.”
You huff softly. “You’re not that old.”
“Oh?” He lifts a brow, amused. “You want the exact year?”
You hesitate. “You know it?” I really need to Google him when I get home. You narrow your eyes slightly as you try to remember if you know anything about the Buddha’s timeline.
“Of course I do.” He grins, clearly enjoying this. “Five hundred and sixty-three BCE.”
You blink.
He watches your reaction like it’s his favorite show.
“…Wow,” you mutter.
“There it is,” he laughs. “That face.”
You shake your head. “That’s— that’s really old.”
“Well, how old did you think I was?” He laughs. “Surely, you knew I was old.”
“No, no. I did, I mean, of course I did. It’s just weird to hear you say it, knowing the exact age.” You shake your head. “It’s weird hearing it confirmed.” You eye him. “Especially when you look like that.”
He hums, clearly pleased—not smug, not proud. Just amused. “Glad you approve,” he says lightly.
You roll your eyes and yank the sheet up to your chest, cheeks burning as awareness hits. “Obviously, I do.”
“Good to know,” he says, stretching like a cat, “since I’m not your type.”
You groan. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope,” he replies instantly. “I’ll be telling our kids that I’m not your type.”
He grins at your expression. “Wow. That scared you. Don’t worry—I think centuries ahead, not talking about tomorrow morning.”
“When I’m dust?” you joke.
He gives you the same look Shiva did when you joked about being dust—sharp and unamused.
Then he grins. “Don’t worry,” he says lightly. “I think centuries ahead.”
Reader wondering if this is going to end up being like a short holiday romance, while Buddha is already thinking centuries ahead, lmao.
