Eros returned to his palace within the golden skies of Olympus, setting aside his bow to a servant’s hands before she did whisk it away along with their form.

The god of love walked, his eyes taking in the torchlight, embers crackling as the light licked across the marble and gold. He paid it little attention, his mind seeking out the one within these grand halls.

He stopped within the threshold of your shared bedchambers, he noted you within them—as beautiful as Aphrodite herself, more so if the truth could push past his lips, seeing you bathed in the moonlight that painted the room.

He took the cloth from the bedside, his feet featherlight along the floors as you stood there as if a tapestry woven by great Athena herself. He shivered, how he wished to kiss your neck and plush lips until he could not think.

He, the great winged god of love, appeared behind you, wrapping the cloth around your eyes to blind them. You could not see him, he was a god, you a mortal, he could never allow you to see his true form or you may burn away.

He was your husband, gifted by his mother, Lady Aphrodite after she sought your fall. He wouldn’t allow it, such beauty should be to his hands. hands of love and passion, not that a mortal man’s nor beast where your form would be defiled.

He brushed his fingers to your cheek, seeing the purse of your lips. He knew you despises this, his visitations only in the darkness of night and the refusal to let you gaze—you did not even know his name, know if he were either a god or monster who lay with you at night.

He pressed his lips to yours, it was a perfection no mortal should posses. Any qualms with his day he may have had, melted like that of wax exposed to flame. He held his arms around your waist, pulling you to face his frame more the kiss persisted.

“I know, my love,” Eros murmured with steady breath, “I know you do hate the blindfold but merely humor me.”

You were his. He’d make sure of it.