Chapter Text
There are many names for the god of love.
Eros. Cupid. Amor.
Pain in Zeus’s immortal backside.
For centuries, mortals have painted him as a chubby baby with golden wings, giggling while aiming love-tipped arrows at the hearts of unsuspecting fools. There are frescoes, statuettes, Valentine’s cards—even coffee mugs. It’s a branding nightmare.
But the creature currently sulking under a leafless tree outside Brighton’s College of Veterinary Medicine?
Yeah. Not that.
This Cupid was tall, moody, and dressed in all-black like he’d just walked out of a Timothée Chalamet fever dream. His skin was snow-pale,his hair the color of fresh-fallen frost, tousled and wild like a winter wind couldn’t decide what direction to blow it. His wheat-blond lashes framed glacier-blue eyes that scanned the passing students with disdain so pure it could probably curdle milk.
He did not want to be here.
And he was definitely not cold. Gods don’t shiver. They glower.
But let’s rewind.
According to Wikipedia (that ancient scroll of mortal truth):
“In mythology, Cupid is the youngest and most beautiful of the gods. His weapon is a small bow. Those struck by his arrows fall instantly in love.” Which, frankly, makes Cupid want to scream into a pillow.
He wasn’t always so bitter. Once, he thought love was fun—an infinite prank pulled on fleshy little humans who thought they were in control of their own hearts. He used to fire his arrows at random. A barista and a biker. A nun and a used car salesman. A tax auditor and a mime. He never cared about the outcome. Just the chaos.
But that, as it turns out, is not what love is for.
And Zeus finally noticed.
So now? Exile. Well—“divine rehabilitation,” but it’s basically the same thing.
Cupid had been dropped unceremoniously onto Earth with no arrows, no bow, and a single instruction:
“Help one pure-hearted mortal fall in love. Properly. No cheating. No magic. Or you stay mortal forever.”
The chosen target?
Oliver Aberforth.
25 years old. Vet student. Possibly allergic to joy.
And just to make things worse, Cupid had a deadline: one year. If he didn’t complete the task in time, he'd be stuck among humans. Forever.
No immortality. No Olympus. No more ambrosia smoothies.
Just bills. Seasonal depression. And eventually... taxes.
He was allowed to keep a few divine instincts—mostly passive skills like irresistible eye contact and a weird talent for appearing when people
least expected it. But the bow? Gone. Forbidden. No more instant matches. If he wanted Oliver to fall in love, he’d have to work for it.
Which explained why the literal god of love was now lurking under a frozen tree in Brighton, wearing boots far too expensive for student soil, trying not to look interested while watching the main entrance of the vet building.
He’d seen Oliver once, briefly.
Tweed coat. Fluffy hair. Scarf too long for his own good.
He was... cute. In a “human golden retriever” kind of way. Soft-eyed. Easily flustered. The kind of person who probably apologized to bugs before stepping around them. The kind of person Cupid normally would’ve ignored.
Except this time, his fate depended on it.
Cupid sighed. Loudly. The tree didn’t care.
Somewhere above the clouds, Zeus was probably sipping wine and laughing into his beard.
Cupid scowled harder. Then—
The doors opened.
A stream of students poured out, bundled in scarves and coffee cups. And there he was.
Oliver Aberforth.
Wearing too many layers. Balancing a stack of books and a reusable lunchbox. Headphones crooked. Looking like a walking Pinterest board labeled “anxious winter academia.”
Cupid stood up straighter. Brushed a leaf off his sleeve.
This was it. The start of his redemption arc.
He just had to make a mortal fall in love.
Without magic.
Without messing it up.
Without—
Oliver tripped on the icy steps and nearly faceplanted into a recycling bin.
Cupid blinked.
…This might take longer than expected.