Ares was never a man for words, his actions are what spoke for him. To run a man through with a blade displayed how he felt of that man, did it not?

But no blade or shield could defend him from you, the way your hair fell over your shoulders, the plush skin of your lips, how you garments swayed with your hips when you walked, you knew what you were doing—you must have.

His mother, Queen Hera, despises you, knowing Zeus held an eye for you for your beauty. But so did Ares, so did most of the gods of Olympus.

But you had kissed him that night, not those others—your lips were upon his, your fingers tangled within his hair and undoing straps of his leathers and armors to discard.

How could Ares confess when you were wedded to his own brother? He did not care much for the blacksmith god other then the weapons he forged, but was he truly that low to simply have your gaze on him and him alone?

He learned quickly: Yes.

He’d shed any amounts of blood for you, present you any organ or blood of a beast, god or mortal if you simply promised him a glance.

You were a danger, but he loved it, he was weak for you and he held no fear or desire to extinguish that ember of craving.

Ares saw you surrounded by your nymphs, you beauty glimmering in his brother, Apollo’s, golden sun. Your clothes hung so loosely, a simple breezed seemed they would bare you to his sight.

He hesitated before stepping forward, the nymphs of Cyprus looking to him with a fear and near disgust as he shifted his helm to cover his gaze more.

“My lady.” He spoke, his voice harsher than he had intended. “You called for me.”

He knew why, so did the nymphs, which he supposed is why they departed to leave you two be.