The Peverell Estate in Los Angeles didn't just look like the lair of a high-level sorcerer-billionaire. It was the lair of a high-level sorcerer-billionaire. Which meant it had all the essentials: spell-locked vaults, a hot tub that could time travel, and a closet full of suits enchanted by Parisian veela tailors. Naturally.
Perched on a private cliff that gave the Pacific Ocean serious envy issues, the estate glistened with an "I'm-better-than-you" level of luxury. Glass walls. Gravity-defying gardens. Koi ponds where the fish actually spoke Japanese proverbs (because why not). And don't even get started on the staircase—it was so dramatic it might've demanded its own Oscar campaign.
No mortal eyes could see it, of course. Not unless they wanted to spontaneously combust or forget their own names and start a new life as a tap-dancing insurance agent. The magical wards were so overkill, even Google Maps gave up and just labeled the area: "¯\_(ツ)_/¯"
Inside, Harry Peverell—twenty-four-year-old British tech and media mogul, half-mythical wizard, and part-time superhero vigilante—adjusted his jacket for the third time. The thing was cut from obsidian dragon silk and tailored so precisely it had been legally classified as a weapon in two countries.
His tousled black hair was being extra rebellious today, and he was debating whether he should tame it with wandless magic or just lean into the whole "mysterious billionaire with windswept charm" vibe.
He sighed and looked toward the crackling fireplace, green flames licking gently up the chimney. The Floo was active and ready in case his guests preferred magical travel.
Harry tugged on his sleeve cuff and muttered, "Beta-8, status check."
A sultry voice purred into his ear. "EIDOLON SYSTEMS ONLINE. DATE NIGHT PROTOCOL ENGAGED. Also, your cologne is sixty percent pheromonal enhancement. You're welcome."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Did Dobson hack you again?"
"Define hack. And also define 'again.'" Beta-8 replied with digital sass that would've made Tony Stark cry with pride.
"You've got ten minutes, boss. First dates are sacred. Especially when one of them owns a magic sword and the other can summon a megalodon at will."
"Great," Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Just what I needed—more reasons to be slightly terrified of impressing my dates."
A perfectly timed throat-clearing interrupted him.
Dobson—once upon a time, Dobby the House-Elf—stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, and the eternal expression of someone who had seen too much and judged all of it.
Now human, Dobson looked like James Bond if James Bond had trained under MI6, Master Shifu, and Gordon Ramsay all at once. The tuxedo was tailored. The hair slicked back with military precision. And the clipboard? Enchanted to stun people if they disappointed him.
"Master Hadrian," Dobson said, striding into the foyer like he owned the timeline. "The table is set. The musicians are in place and only mildly Confunded. The floating lanterns have been adjusted to optimal romantic luminescence, and the hibiscus petals have been charmed to release slow-acting attraction pheromones."
Harry frowned. "You spiked the flowers?"
Dobson gave him a withering look over the clipboard. "Master Hadrian, you're about to go on a date with an Amazonian war goddess and a Princess of Atlantis. I'm trying to keep you alive."
Harry held up his hands. "Fair. Carry on, James Bond."
Dobson blinked. "Please. Bond wears human suits. I wear Peverell originals."
In the courtyard beyond the enchanted glass wall, staff in all-white moved with military efficiency, adjusting floating candles and re-tuning the starlight dome to reflect a meteor shower from a realm so obscure even the Watchtower hadn't heard of it.
Dobson followed Harry's gaze and added, "All temporary staff will have their memories modified at precisely 12:01 A.M. They'll remember serving hors d'oeuvres to tech influencers. Not interdimensional royalty."
Harry smirked. "You really are the best."
Dobson nodded solemnly. "I know. Beta, please remind Master Hadrian to breathe when his guests arrive."
"Already in his vitals checklist. He's got butterflies the size of basilisk eggs."
"I do not have butterflies," Harry snapped. "I'm just… preemptively sweating in case Mera starts talking about politics and Diana quotes Plato."
Beta-8 laughed softly in his ear.
"You're adorable. Terrifying, but adorable."
Harry glanced around the ballroom. It was candlelit, enchanted for perfect ambiance, and the table centerpiece glowed with soft golden light. Not bad for a guy whose usual evening plan involved fighting mercenaries and snacking on cold pizza in his Eidolon suit.
He took a deep breath and checked his reflection in the mirror. "Okay," he muttered. "It's just dinner. With two warrior queens. Who could each kill me in five different ways. And look good doing it."
He adjusted his cufflinks—tiny phoenix feathers encased in glass—and tried to smirk like he hadn't just considered faking an emergency.
"I can do this."
"Yes, you can," Beta purred. "But just in case, I've prepared three emergency escape routes, one teleport beacon, and a playlist titled 'In Case She Throws a Trident.'"
Harry blinked. "That… actually covers my bases."
"Also, Dobson made dessert."
"I love that man."
From the hallway, Dobson called, "You should. My panna cotta makes angels weep."
And just as Harry opened his mouth to deliver a world-class comeback—
The double doors began to creak open.
The scent of sandalwood.
A wave of ocean salt.
Two silhouettes, graceful and powerful, entered the foyer light—
Harry's grin began to form.
His heartbeat picked up.
He didn't panic.
Yet.
—
The air shimmered.
Not in a "Duck! Magic's gone rogue again!" kind of way, but more like the moment before a Broadway overture—where the universe hushes, the curtain rises, and the spotlight decides to body-slam your expectations.
The grand ballroom doors swung open with the kind of dramatic timing that suggested either Dobson's unholy powers of planning or a suspiciously sentient lighting system. Probably both. The scent hit first—sandalwood, sea breeze, and something ancient that screamed goddess alert. Which made sense. Because two were about to strut in like the final bosses of the dating world.
And Hadrian "Harry" Peverell—interdimensional menace, technomancer supreme, and part-time chaos connoisseur—forgot how to breathe. Again. Which was especially embarrassing considering he'd once performed yoga on the rings of Saturn. Naked.
Mera entered first.
And sweet Poseidon's trident, she was not here to play.
Her gown—a seafoam teal number with glowing coral accents—clung to her like it had been raised from Atlantis, blessed by sirens, and possibly sworn into her royal guard. Slits on both sides gave her legs a freedom Harry both respected and feared. Her signature crown glittered atop her firestorm of red curls, catching the ballroom light like a weaponized halo.
Behind her came Diana.
Princess. Warrior. Reason Gravity Has Trust Issues.
Her midnight-blue dress looked like someone wove it from starfall and unapologetic swagger. Gold details traced her curves in a way that made Greek sculptors weep in their graves. One shoulder bare, thigh slit so dramatic it deserved its own movie, and a look on her face that said she could bench-press a monster truck without chipping her manicure.
Harry's jaw dropped. Subtly. Elegantly. Okay, no. His face did that cartoon thing where it hit the floor.
"Thirst level: Immortal," Beta-8 whispered in his ear, voice pure Rihanna sass with an extra shot of espresso. "Want me to summon a hydration spell or just play a loop of waterfall videos until your brain reboots, sugar?"
He blinked, tugging his jacket like it owed him rent. "I'm composed. This is composed. This is so composed."
"Composed like a lovesick bard in a wet toga," Beta-8 purred. "Pupils dilated. Heart rate spiking. You are one hair flip away from writing them sonnets."
Before Harry could whip out a comeback involving iambic pentameter and Atlantean metaphors, Dobson arrived, moving with the crisp menace of a tuxedoed panther. Or possibly Daniel Craig with a wand.
"Shall I fetch a mop, Master Hadrian?" he asked, face a mask of polite apocalypse. "Or would you prefer a discreet bucket?"
"I wasn't drooling," Harry muttered.
"Of course not," Dobson replied. "You were merely admiring their fashion choices with the reverence of a monk staring at the Holy Grail in heels."
Mera was already closing the distance, each step somehow both regal and predatory. "Harry," she said, her voice a velvet tsunami. "This place is… wildly extra."
"You like it?" Harry asked, unable to stop the grin tugging at his mouth.
"I haven't decided if I like it," she replied. "But I'm ninety percent sure I'd marry whoever built it."
"That would be me," Harry said, straightening like a smug architect. "Though Beta-8 picked the mood lighting and Dobson murdered a guy over the flower arrangements."
"They were hydrangeas," Dobson said grimly. "Hydrangeas. In April."
Diana approached next, her smile so gentle and bright it should've come with a warning label: May Cause Rapid Soul Surrender.
"This is beautiful," she said, eyes sweeping across the starlight dome above them. "Are the constellations dancing?"
"They're doing Sinatra," Harry said. "Stick around, they do Beyoncé after dessert."
She laughed—a rich, unfiltered sound that punched him directly in the soul.
He offered an arm. Just one. Because he liked to live dangerously.
Diana slid hers through it with an ease that made his heart hiccup. Mera eyed the other arm like it owed her tribute, then linked hers through with a smirk.
"Careful," Harry said, voice low. "I'm flammable."
Mera leaned in. "We'll keep you simmering."
Dobson cleared his throat with weaponized precision. "The terrace awaits. Cocktails attuned to your current emotional states, appetizers charmed to glow if they contain shellfish, and a privacy field strong enough to make the NSA weep."
"And if someone does sneak in?" Mera asked.
Dobson smiled the smile of a man who once took down a Hydra cell with a dinner fork. "They won't make it past the begonias."
Beta-8 added, "I've also convinced every drone in the area that Harry's in Qatar. Surfing. In a tuxedo."
Harry gave them a satisfied nod. "You two are the reason I don't have ulcers."
Dobson sniffed. "I accept payment in rare elven spirits or kryptonian alloys."
Beta-8's voice oozed delight. "I want a diamond the size of your trust issues."
"You'll get one," Harry said. "Assuming I survive the next three hours."
And with that, he escorted his goddesses—one goddess of war, one queen of the sea—to the glowing terrace where stars danced, koi ponds whispered secrets, and the breeze smelled suspiciously like destiny.
It was his first real date. With two literal queens. What could possibly go wrong?
(The stars above giggled. Beta-8 snickered. Dobson raised an eyebrow and summoned extra napkins.)
—
The terrace, as it turned out, was the kind of place where even the stars seemed to flirt—and maybe ask for your number while they were at it. Starlight glittered off koi ponds enchanted to reflect different constellations based on the mood of the guests. Tonight's reading? Smoldering flirtation, mild panic, and at least one rogue fantasy about kissing under moonlight. Probably Harry's. Definitely Harry's.
Floating orbs of warm light drifted lazily overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow that made everyone look like they belonged in a cinematic perfume ad. The air smelled like jasmine, sea salt, and whatever cologne Harry had decided to weaponize tonight. Mera mentally filed it under "Extremely Illegal in Seven Kingdoms."
Harry—chaos incarnate in a tuxedo—led them to the marble seating area like he hadn't just mentally blue-screened at the sight of them. His expression said, "Suave billionaire," but his eyes screamed, "How did I get two literal goddesses to agree to this date and do I owe the universe a favor now?"
"So," he said, gesturing toward a semicircle of marble benches and floating lanterns that seemed to adjust themselves for perfect lighting. "I figured we'd start with enchanted cocktails, progress to appetizers that glow, and end with embarrassing dancing under magical starlight. Somewhere in between, I'll pretend I know what I'm doing."
Mera arched a brow and accepted a glass that shimmered like the ocean during golden hour. "Pretending you know what you're doing?" she asked. "That's your entire aesthetic, isn't it?"
Harry grinned like a man who'd just been caught robbing Olympus and was already halfway to Atlantis. "Absolutely. Trademarked it. Comes with a complimentary crisis and a sass upgrade every full moon."
Diana chuckled as she sat beside him, legs crossing with the kind of casual elegance that made fashion designers weep into their sketchbooks. "I think you're underselling yourself," she said, taking a sip of her own glowing drink—golden light with just a hint of lightning. "You built a fortress that doubles as a skyline, enchanted the moon to sync with our playlist, hacked a global drone grid, and somehow coordinated two demigoddess wardrobes without self-immolating."
"That's not true," purred Beta-8, voice oozing out from hidden speakers like a song you didn't realize you loved until it was too late. Picture Rihanna, if Rihanna was a hyper-intelligent AI with opinions about your shoes. "He definitely broke a sweat. Possibly cried. Briefly. During the gown fitting."
Mera tilted her head, smirking over the rim of her glass. "Wait. You were at our fitting?"
Harry didn't even blink. "You say 'spy,' I say 'quality control.' Also, Belladonna Amoura threatened to banish me to a glitter dimension if I didn't approve the color palette. Which is a real place, by the way. I've been. It sparkles for eternity."
Diana glanced down at her midnight-moonlight-goddess dress and arched a brow. "You approved this?"
"I fought a duel with a sentient mannequin over it," Harry replied solemnly. "It lost."
Mera leaned in, eyes dancing with amusement. "I thought Champions of Death weren't allowed to interfere in divine fashion affairs?"
"Technically true," Harry said, lifting a finger. "But Belladonna owes me a favor. Something about helping her ex get stuck in a magical tanning loop. Look, you do not mess with a woman's SPF spells. Ever."
At that exact moment, Dobson arrived with the quiet efficiency of a man who had served tea to warlocks and warlords and found them equally unimpressive. He was elegance in motion, cheekbones that could cut glass, looking like Daniel Craig but sounding exactly like Toby Jones. A tuxedoed contradiction.
"Appetizers," Dobson said dryly, holding out a tray of glowing hors d'oeuvres. "Each one enchanted to illuminate in case of allergic reactions, poison attempts, or general awkwardness."
"Do we have snacks that react to social tension?" Diana asked, biting back a smile.
"We call those 'conversation peanuts,' madam," Dobson said. "Also known as the 'Is-this-going-to-start-a-political-debate?' mix."
Harry grabbed a shrimp skewer and popped it into his mouth. "Relax," he said, speaking around the food like someone who had not, in fact, relaxed since 2002. "No politics, no religion, and no debating whose magical kingdom has the most ridiculous dragon laws."
Beta-8's voice crackled to life again. "For the record, Atlantis is still winning that contest."
Mera narrowed her eyes at the nearest enchanted rose bush. "We don't license dragons. We respect them."
"Good," Harry said, leaning in between them, all starlight and simmering heat. "Because I fully intend to take both of you flying on a domesticated dragon by the end of next month. And I am not filling out paperwork for that."
Diana tilted her head, brow arching like a challenge. "Do you even own a dragon?"
Harry scoffed. "Do I own a dragon? Princess, I know a dragon who owes me their firstborn. Long story. Involves a cursed karaoke machine, a stolen crown, and a magical contract written in interpretive dance."
Mera stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Diana. "Why do I believe him?"
"Because he's either telling the truth," Diana said, sipping her drink with a goddess-tier smirk, "or the lie is so good it should be canon."
Harry raised his glass. "To dangerous women, fashion crimes, and dragons who can sing backup vocals."
They clinked glasses.
And for just a moment, even the stars stopped twinkling to listen in.
—
The clink of glasses sounded like a spell being cast—like the beginning of either a love story or a magical bar fight. (Possibly both. Harry had lived stranger Tuesdays.)
Out on the terrace, under an enchanted sky that was absolutely showing off, the koi in the constellation pond shimmered. They rearranged themselves into the vague shape of a phoenix doing jazz hands, which was Beta-8's way of saying, "Ooooh, it's getting spicy!" Subtle, she was not.
Diana lounged on a plush crimson settee like a Greek goddess on vacation, one arm thrown casually over the backrest. The golden bracer on her wrist caught the light and looked like it could deflect both bullets and bad pick-up lines. She raised a brow.
"So, tell me, Harry," she said in that low, midnight-in-Themyscira voice, "how many women have you promised dragon rides to this month?"
Harry—who at that exact moment looked like a warlock in formalwear had wandered into a romance novel by accident—tilted his glass with a smirk.
"Just the two currently threatening to steal my thunder... and my wine."
Mera, seated on his other side with a flame-red cocktail and a matching smirk, gave him a look that could curdle milk and seduce kings simultaneously.
"Thunder?" she echoed. "Sweetie, I command tsunamis. I don't just steal thunder—I drown it."
"And I," Diana added smoothly, "can make thunder blush."
Harry laughed, unbothered by the rising goddess energy closing in on him like a velvet-clad trap. "And here I thought I was the dangerous one at this table."
Mera leaned in, brushing her thigh against his with casual menace. "Oh, you're adorable," she said, eyes sparkling. "But we both know you're only here because the idea of managing two warrior princesses turns you on more than it scares you."
There was a pause. Harry made a show of pretending to think it over, then said brightly, "Guilty. Your Honors, I plead... extremely flattered and slightly aroused."
Beta-8's voice purred through the comm crystal embedded in Harry's ear like a high-fashion Siri.
"Should I point out that sensor logs indicate a 48% spike in pheromones, serotonin, and what I can only categorize as magical thirst?"
Harry didn't blink. "Beta-8—"
"I'm just saying," she continued, in that honeyed voice that managed to be both smug and sultry, "this energy could power a small love temple."
"Mute yourself," Mera and Diana said in perfect, mildly exasperated unison.
Beta-8 sighed dramatically. "Ugh. Fine. Muting. Don't blame me when someone ends up shirtless."
Cue: Dobson, entering like a man who could deliver either caviar or divine retribution with the same stone-faced flair. He wore a three-piece suit like it was military armor and looked like someone had given Daniel Craig the soul of a British house-elf and the voice of dry sarcasm personified.
He appeared with a tray of glowing mini-burgers that shimmered with vaguely threatening energy.
"Cosmic sliders," he said, setting them down like they were weapons in a polite duel. "Made from the beast who once tried to seduce a sentient nebula. It failed. The nebula cursed it into becoming a snack."
Harry blinked. "That's dark."
"It's Tuesday," Dobson said simply. "I serve vengeance in slider form."
The trio snacked. The mood shifted like the tide—still playful, but something deeper swirled beneath the surface. A lazy jazz number started playing—somewhere between alien saxophone and flirtatious satyr humming into a glass of ambrosia.
Mera shifted closer. Her thigh was definitely touching Harry's now. On purpose. Diana rested a hand near his shoulder, fingers drumming a slow rhythm that was either a coded Amazon message or flirtation in Morse code.
"So," Mera said, tipping her head, "what happens after the cocktails and appetizers, Mr. Chaos Gremlin?"
Harry took a breath, let it out. His green eyes—bright, ancient, and way too calm for a man about to be devoured by two warrior queens—met theirs.
"We have three options," he said. "One: we crash an interdimensional masquerade and steal the mask of Chronos from a very angry time cult. Two: we break into a forbidden vault guarded by sentient riddles and extremely judgmental statues. Or…"
He leaned in, voice dropping like silk across skin.
"...I shut up, play some music, and we dance like idiots while pretending we're not falling for each other."
Diana's expression faltered. Just a little. Just enough.
"That last one," she said, voice softening. "That sounds like the most dangerous."
"Definitely the most fun," Mera murmured, brushing her hand against his as she reached for her drink. She didn't pull back.
Harry stood, offered both his hands.
"Then let's be dangerous."
And somehow, the night held its breath.
The terrace lights dimmed, just enough to let the stars show off their latest constellation—three figures tangled in what looked suspiciously like a slow dance. The koi turned into a disco ball. (Beta-8's doing, obviously.)
Back inside the estate, Beta-8 unmuted herself just long enough to add a footnote to the security log:
Subject: Harry Peverell (a.k.a. Eidolon)
Status: Currently being out-charmed, outmaneuvered, and possibly seduced by two Amazon-tier threats.
Probability of chaos: 97%
Probability of shirt removal: 103%
Response protocol: Get popcorn.
—
The music changed.
Again.
This time it was the kind of slow, sultry number that practically dared you not to fall in love under starlight. Somewhere between a jazz-loving dryad and Billie Holiday possessed by a thunderstorm—if said storm had a flirtatious streak and liked smirking at emotionally complicated superheroes.
Harry Peverell, also known to the League and certain unlucky pantheons as Eidolon, stood on the candlelit terrace, staring at the two literal goddesses now approaching him like they were about to conquer a kingdom. His kingdom. Possibly his soul.
He didn't mind.
Mera, all red hair and sea-storm swagger, looked like the sea had sent its best warrior to seduce the land.
Diana, regal and radiant, looked like she could bench-press Mount Olympus and then make you tea afterward, still in heels.
"I'm leading," Diana said, adjusting the subtle tiara nestled in her curls. Her eyes sparkled—dangerously.
"No, I am," Mera replied, her voice dry enough to drain the Atlantic.
They locked eyes. Lightning may or may not have cracked behind them.
Harry raised both hands. "Okay, let's not turn this into an Ancient Greek reboot of Step Up. There's plenty of me to go around. Which I realize doesn't help. But it's all I've got."
Diana smiled. Mera smirked. Crisis mostly averted.
Mera grabbed his left hand. Diana claimed the right. And just like that, Harry was being dragged—gracefully, sure, but still dragged—into the center of the terrace where magic and jazz twined together like plot and chaos in his life.
The koi pond glowed softly nearby, enchanted fish bobbing like glittering lanterns. Overhead, enchanted lanterns shifted to deep rose and gold. The air smelled like citrus, stardust, and danger.
Dancing with the two most beautiful women in the multiverse should have made Harry nervous. Instead, he found his footing with the kind of calm that came from repeatedly dying, resurrecting, and attending family dinners with Lucifer.
He took the lead without realizing. His steps were fluid, instinctual, like his body remembered rhythm even when his brain was screaming Dude, don't mess this up. One arm around Mera's waist, one hand clasped with Diana's—because apparently his life was a fairy tale written by a romantic chaos god.
Diana's eyes narrowed approvingly. "You've done this before."
"I have watched Dirty Dancing like, twelve times. And also once did a tango on a lava bridge. Long story."
Mera snorted. "Was that before or after the rooftop duel with that demigod from Asgard?"
"During. I multitask," Harry replied casually. Then dipped her.
Diana arched a brow. "Is this your idea of courtship? High-stakes choreography and mild arson?"
"Throw in an exploding pie and a kidnapped unicorn and you've got last Tuesday."
They laughed.
And then—of course—Beta-8 chimed in, her voice oozing digital sarcasm through the koi pond speakers.
"Warning: if anyone ends up levitating mid-kiss, you are personally responsible for the koi's therapy bills."
"Mute," they chorused.
Beta-8 sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if someone turns into a unicorn, I am not washing glitter out of the security cameras."
The music wrapped around them like silk. Harry spun Diana, caught her hand, then let Mera glide in, moving like a storm in heels.
And then Mera was chest-to-chest with him, fingers curled into his shirt, breath warm against his neck.
"You're thinking too loud," she whispered.
"Sorry," he said, mouth dry. "The chaos gremlin in my head is taking notes. For... academic purposes."
"Tell him to shut up." And then she kissed him.
Just like that.
Heat. Salt. Fury. Passion.
She tasted like secrets and seafoam and danger you chose to walk into.
His hands slid around her waist as the world narrowed into just this moment—just the feel of her lips, the certainty of her body pressed against his, the sudden realization that maybe the ocean wasn't meant to be tamed.
When she pulled away, she looked entirely too pleased with herself.
"Your move, princess," she said, stepping aside with the lazy grace of someone who just claimed territory.
Diana didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, eyes on Harry like he was both a puzzle and a promise.
"I'm not usually one for sharing," she said quietly. "But for tonight..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
Didn't have to.
She kissed him.
Where Mera was a storm, Diana was sunrise. Her kiss was fierce but sure, soft but unstoppable. It was everything good about gravity and none of the falling.
Harry melted into her without a second thought. The goddess of truth was kissing him like he wasn't broken, like he was whole, like she could see the shards and still wanted the mess.
Somewhere—because fate had no chill—Beta-8 forgot to mute herself.
"Holy Olympus," she whispered.
When Diana pulled back, her lips were parted, eyes soft.
"Now you're really in trouble," she murmured.
"Because I kissed two goddesses in one night?"
"No," Mera said, gliding back into the space beside him, her hand resting on his chest. "Because you liked it."
Harry looked at them both—blushes blooming, armor lowered, hearts exposed.
He grinned.
"Oh, absolutely. And the gremlin in my head just proposed a five-season slow-burn series with musical numbers."
They laughed. The music swelled. The koi glowed pink.
Above them, a shooting star zipped across the sky.
Because of course it did.
And somewhere, inside the manor, Dobson—formerly known as Dobby—watched from a balcony, arms crossed, a fond smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
"Honestly," he muttered in a baritone. "It's about time the boy got kissed by someone who didn't want to sacrifice him to a prophecy."
Then he turned back inside and began prepping tea.
They'd all need it.
Preferably with biscuits.
And a safety briefing.
—
As the final, sultry note of the jazz ballad faded into the enchanted night, and the koi resumed their slow, shimmering ballet in the pond like glowing backup dancers in a Wes Anderson fever dream, Harry Peverell—also known to most magical law enforcement agencies, several pantheons, and one very cranky time dragon as Eidolon—was flanked by two goddesses who looked ready to start a coup or a cuddle pile. Possibly both.
For approximately three whole seconds, there was silence. That was his record for peace these days.
Then Mera tilted her head, red hair cascading like a flaming waterfall down her shoulder, one brow arched like she'd just spotted a tactical opportunity. "So," she said, voice casual in the way hurricanes were casual about wind speed, "this palace of yours... does it have a bedroom?"
Diana's lips curved upward, eyes gleaming like someone who knew the Greek word for trouble and liked to conjugate it. "A private one," she added. "Preferably with reinforced walls. And excellent soundproofing. For... tactical reasons."
Harry blinked. His brain, which was just recovering from being tag-teamed by two kisses that had individually wrecked stronger men, promptly tripped over itself and fell face-first into the koi pond of his thoughts.
"You mean—my room?" he said, voice going up a heroic octave. "With the bed? And the... very supportive, emotionally validating weighted blanket?"
Mera stepped in, trailing her fingers down his chest in a gesture that could only be described as weaponized flirtation. "Is it big enough for three?"
"That," Harry said, "feels like a trap. A gorgeous, goddess-shaped, emotionally compromising trap. I would like to fall into it, but still. Trap."
Diana moved closer, curling her fingers into his collar like she was checking if it could be yanked off or simply disintegrated with Amazonian confidence. "It's a simple question, Eidolon. Is. It. Big. Enough."
The chaos gremlin in Harry's head—code name: Todd—was now running in frantic circles, waving tiny metaphorical flags and screaming, "ABORT MISSION! ABORT! WE'RE GONNA DIE HAPPY!"
Harry cleared his throat and tried very hard to look like someone who wasn't thinking of thirty-seven different strategic responses, half of which involved conjuring flowers or fleeing to an alternate timeline. "It was big enough for a Cerberus once. Though... I'm not sure if that counts as a humble brag or a suppressed memory."
Mera raised one brow, clearly intrigued. "Depends. Did the Cerberus spoon?"
"There were logistics," Harry muttered.
Diana laughed, rich and warm, like a sunbeam had learned to flirt. "Lead the way, Harry. And if your bed isn't up to Amazonian and Atlantean standards—"
"We'll redecorate," Mera finished, tossing her hair like she was preparing to paint the walls with magic and attitude.
Harry held up his hands, smirking now, his confidence kicking back in like a symphony of sass and supernatural swag. "I'll have you know, the bed's enchanted with Tempurpedic memory foam, anti-nightmare runes, and a heating charm calibrated to snuggle mode. If comfort were a competitive sport, my room would have Olympic gold."
"Gold is acceptable," Diana said, arching a brow. "Especially if it comes with extra pillows."
They both looped their arms through his.
"Don't worry," Mera said, smirking sideways at Diana. "If we have to break the bed in... magically... I'm sure he'll adapt."
Harry tilted his head with mock innocence. "Just so you know, I have adapted to a lava tango, a teleporting mattress, and one rather experimental Kama Sutra translation that summoned an incubus. So if this is a test..."
"Oh, it is," Diana said, eyes flashing.
The koi glowed pink as the trio disappeared into the manor.
Back on the balcony, Dobson sipped from a dainty porcelain cup and sighed.
He turned toward the enchanted intercom panel and pressed the Beta-8 rune with the casual dread of a man who knew exactly what came next.
"Beta-8," he said, voice like velvet and judgment, "prep the healing potions, cold compresses, hydration charms, and perhaps a fruit tray with celebratory skewers. No melon."
The intercom crackled.
Beta-8, AI of sass and sultry sarcasm, replied dryly, "Copy that, Jeeves-on-steroids. Engaging Nighttime Shenanigans Protocol Alpha. Glitter-resistant towels or nah?"
Dobson paused. "...Better include them."
He glanced toward the koi pond.
"And send backup biscuits."
Inside the manor, lights dimmed respectfully, enchantments adjusted themselves for ambient romance, and one very large, very reinforced bed hummed softly as magical threads recalibrated for structural integrity.
Somewhere in the chaos of the multiverse, the fates leaned back, passed the popcorn, and whispered: Finally.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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