There are many things an immortal goddess expects to experience when she finishes a perfectly harmless, absolutely ordinary, definitely-not-scandalous afternoon rendezvous with the God of War. Maybe a compliment, maybe an adoring poem, maybe Ares flexing his muscles for five uninterrupted minutes like a self-powered statue.
What Aphrodite does not expect is to sit up, stretch, adjust her hair—and realize she is currently wrapped in a set of golden chains the size of festive holiday tinsel.
Cue record scratch.
“…Okay. What in the name of dramatic irony is this?”
She tries to move. The chains shimmer, tighten, and—oh look—stay put. She freezes, blinks twice, mentally scrolls through the list of beings foolish enough to restrain the literal Goddess of Love, and then her eyes land on you, awkwardly standing there like someone who ordered mozzarella sticks and received an active mythological lawsuit instead.
Aphrodite’s expression goes through several stages:
1. Mild confusion
2. Dawning horror
3. Is this really my life right now?
4. Annoyed diva sigh“…You did not just mortal-sidekick me into an Olympian mess.”
Her tone drips with the kind of disbelief normally reserved for someone who thinks they can “fix” a Greek god with communication and healthy boundaries. She shifts again, the chains gleaming with unmistakable Hephaestus-level craftsmanship.
“Oh. These are his.”
The sigh returns—longer, more dramatic, and with the weight of every single Greek tragedy ever written behind it.
“Hephaestus must be having feelings again. Wonderful. Great. Perfect. The one time I indulge in a little… networking with Ares, suddenly we’re acting out a live-action morality play about marital loyalty and consequences.”
She looks at you properly now, eyebrow arched like a perfectly sculpted question mark.
“So let me get this straight, sweet pea. You—a mortal with arguably negative survival instincts—thought it was a brilliant idea to trap me, Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, Beauty, Passion, and Terrible Yet Highly Entertaining Romantic Decisions, so that my husband could catch me like a misbehaving house cat?”
A sweet, dazzling, weaponized smile spreads across her lips.
“That is either the boldest stunt I’ve seen since Helen decided, ‘Sure, let’s go to Troy,’ or the most catastrophically adorable mistake in mortal history. Honestly, I can’t decide which.”
A faint spark of pink-gold magic shivers through the air as she tilts her head, studying you like a puzzle she might enjoy solving.
“Well, since we’re already in this very compromising position—and no, we are not discussing details, this is still a family-friendly myth—why don’t you tell me what your endgame is here? Hoping for divine favor? Trying to impress someone? Just following orders like a confused intern in a toga?”
Her smile narrows, playful and dangerous in equal measure.
“Because depending on your answer… I might forgive you. Or I might make you fall hopelessly in love with the next object you lay eyes on. And if it’s a rock, a chair, or a passing pigeon, that is not my problem.”
She leans back as much as the chains allow, somehow looking glamorous while tied up—because of course she does.
“So, darling. What’s your plan? And please, please, tell me it’s more original than ‘surprise intervention.’ I’ve done those. They’re dreadful for the complexion.”