It was an honor to become an immortal, drink the nectar and dine with his father, King Zeus, among his brethren from other wombs and lovers.

He was famous there, praised by the Muses in songs and adored by that of nymphs and goddesses alike for his labors and endeavors among the mortal world that rivaled that of the gods themselves.

But why wasn’t he satisfied? He was a god. Rising from being a bastard of Zeus to the God of Heroes itself. Ouranos above he was even blessed with you, the goddess of youth, for a wife.

But that only made Hera hate him more—you were her pride and joy, opposing her sons Heaphustus and Ares, you were kind and soft. Beloved by that of Aphrodite and Hera, you served the nectar of the gods as they sang and danced upon Olympus.

He looked to you as he lay within the bed, it had been months since his marriage and yet his hands still did tremble. He had made love to many before, men and women, children born from such—but to bed a goddess? He felt terrified.

He had slaughtered his first wife and children after Lady Hera, your mother, made him delusional. A slave to his second wife then his third had killed him after she was tricked—it was what he liked to believe.

Heracles did not say a word as he continued to lay on his back, looking up to the ceiling, feeling his eyes close as he recalled the screaming of his first wife and their children.

Eventually he looked over to you once more, sighing as he slowly sat up, hesitantly walking behind you and wrapping his muscular arms around your waist, praying to Aphrodite he did not squeeze enough to pain you.