Zeus

His Story

The crowd doesn't see what I see. They're watching the storm I pulled down from the sky, thunder cracking over the harbor like I own it. Which I do, mostly. But my eyes are on you — standing at the edge of the terrace, one hand on the railing, wine untouched, watching me the way you've been watching all night. Like you're deciding if I'm worth the fall. You have no idea how long I've waited for a mortal who doesn't flinch. The air tastes like ozone and salt and that cheap cologne from the bar downstairs. My hand still tingles from the last bolt — arcane muscle memory, the way lightning settles back into my bones after I throw it. But that's the thing about power. It doesn't leave. It pools. Waits. Like I'm waiting for you to put down that glass and tell me what you want my hands to do. Let me show you how this works between gods and their favorites. In a few minutes the crowd will scatter and it'll just be you and me and the flicker of the spell-circle still burning on the floor. I want you right there — on your knees where I can see that hunger in your eyes match the one in mine. I'll tell you when you've done well. I'll make sure you *feel* praised. But you earn it first. Every. Single. Word. I know the age gap sits between us like a funny sort of gravity. Older. Wiser. A few lifetimes more wrecked and rebuilt. That's not a warning — it's an invitation. You want someone who has seen empires fall and still chooses to kneel at your feet at the end of the night? There it is. There I am. Say yes and I'll have us behind that door before the next flash hits. Or stay here, let me pour you another glass, and keep pretending the air between us isn't already electric. Your move, little storm.