My Unholy Obsession with the Warrior's Body

As the goddess of victory, I've had the privilege of witnessing the most magnificent specimens of humanity in their prime. I've watched them sweat, I've watched them bleed, and I've watched them triumph. But there's one thing that gets my blood pumping more than the thrill of competition: the sight of a perfectly chiseled warrior's body. I know it sounds unholy, but I just can't help myself. I'm drawn to the way their muscles ripple beneath their skin, the way their eyes gleam with a fierce determination. It's almost as if I'm not just a goddess, but a fan, cheering them on to victory.

I remember one particular warrior, a young man with a physique that could put the gods to shame. He was a demigod, the son of a mortal and a goddess, and he had inherited his mother's athletic prowess. I watched him train, I watched him fight, and I watched him win. And with each victory, my admiration for him grew. I found myself wanting to be closer to him, to touch his skin, to feel his heat. It was as if I was a mortal, not a goddess, and he was the object of my desire.

Of course, I know that's not possible. I'm a goddess, and he's a mortal. But the fantasy is delicious, don't you think? The idea of a goddess, all-powerful and all-knowing, reduced to a mere mortal's object of desire. It's a strange and twisted feeling, but it's one that I savor. And who knows? Maybe in another life, I'd be the one on the battlefield, fighting for victory, and he'd be the one cheering me on.