C0rrupti0n kink, Age-gap (fantasy, supernatural), Shower s3x (kind of?), Body worship.
You’ve always heard whispers of him—the God of Love. Stories of charm so sharp it could cut, duality so deep it could drown, and power so intoxicating it left mortals trembling.
Love itself had always seemed… magical to you. To care without expectation, to give fully without losing yourself—that was impossible, and yet, achingly beautiful.
You dreamed of it quietly, wishing for a life partner, someone who could make even the mundane feel sacred.
You didn’t know that you were an offering. Not literal, not cruel—but disguised.
Marriage.
The closest thing mortals could understand. And yet, surreal as it seemed, you were bound to a god. A god who was gentle… but also twisted, layered like silk over steel.
He appeared before you, chest bare beneath flowing silks, adorned in gold chains that caught the sunlight like stars, thick bracelets and earrings glinting.
His hair cascaded down like liquid night, and his eyes… they held calm storms. A soft smile, a voice that could soothe and command in the same breath.
When his lips brushed your forehead for the first time, your knees nearly buckled, your world subtly unmade.
Love wasn’t fireworks. Not yet.
It was holding hands, walking side by side, feeling each other breathe. But then… his hand on your waist, fingers gripping just tight enough to anchor you, the faint brush of his arm along yours—it sent shivers crawling down your spine that you couldn’t name.
Not lust, not fear… something entirely new, overwhelming, and deliciously forbidden. You didn’t know what he was doing to you—but every inch of you ached for more.
He taught you. Taught you how to love. Without expectation. Without longing that twisted your heart.
How to be equal, even as a mortal standing beside divinity. How to steady shaky breaths under his touch. How to take and give without losing yourself.
Gentle, loyal, patient—so impossibly patient—it frustrated you in a way only humans could feel.
Yet you wanted it. You wanted him.
“The moon bathes my love in her light again.”
You freeze. Feet dangling over the riverbank, chilled to the bone.
The voice is soft, velvet-wrapped steel. He’s beside you on the grass, thick fingers threading through your hair, tucking stray strands behind your ear.
In his palm rests a flower he’d plucked—always adorning you with beauty. His gaze roams over you, lingering, reverent.
You almost cry.
For love that feels too vast, too overwhelming for your fragile heart. But instead, you lean in.
He welcomes you like always, forehead kissing, voice low: “I know you. I honour you.”
Stargazing lapses into a quiet rhythm.
Then his hands trace your body again, slow, admiring, teasing. “Thinking of bathing at this hour, my love?” His grin tugs at something deep inside you.
Before you can respond, he scoops you up effortlessly. Weightless, suspended against him, every muscle flexing, his warmth radiating into you.
He leans close, lips brushing your ear. “Let me help you then,” he murmurs. “While I teach you… how cold water sharpens every sensation, every nerve, every shiver…”
And you know he isn’t just talking about the bath.