#* v. basileia.

[herakhere]

I stayed as long as I could. Now look at the moon. -zeus

war of the foxes.

          “Fuck your moon,” she says, “and fuck you.” The voice she speaks with isn’t one she recogizes. It isn’t a woman’s shout—it is a pained animal’s howling. A dying, breaking sound. Closer to how she feels. Inside, breaking. Inside, dying. Howling. 

He drives her mad. Straight through anger and into a wrath so consuming that it swallows her whole. He swallows her whole. Strip off her skin—her sinew—and you’d find the mark of his teeth on her bones. She has half a mind to show him. To take herself apart so he can see what he’s done—what he’s doing. Take her heart right out of her chest and give it to him. 

—Look, she’d tell him. Can you see what you’ve done? Look at how you make me suffer! 

Instead, she makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat, tearing at her hair, continuing to pace the length of the courtyard like a caged animal. 

“That’s what I am. Caged. Trapped. No escape—and I’ve tried it! Haven’t I? Tried to escape from this, only to return to the steel bars of your arms. Willingly! I returned willingly! And more the fool am I. For listening to your lies. For believing in your faithless heart. For returning.” 

She punctuates her words with a keen—a sharp, mournful sound that rises from the very depths of her gut. 

“What more? What more do you want from me? I love you—I love you so much. I love you more than anything, more than my own self. I’ve given you everything. Why isn’t it enough? I love you I love you I love you I love you. Why can’t you stay if you won’t let me leave? How can you say you love me and still fuck another? Knowing what it does to me? What more do you want? What more can I give? I could jump right into your mouth and you’d still feel empty. 

“Why? Why isn’t it—”

[herakhere]

[ defend ] your muse defending mine’s reputation , dignity , or safety for them -zeus

non-sexual acts of dominance.

           She teases Ixion mostly because she can—because it amuses Hera to watch his arrogance swell, even with the leash of hospitality tightening around his neck like a noose. His attraction isn’t flattering, but he imagines it to be so. He can’t imagine a world where a woman couldn’t be charmed by him—even a goddess, queen among queens, the most holy of holy. The very thought makes his chest swell with a peacock’s pride. 

Hera Knows him—not his future, not his fate, but him.

He divines signs in every move she makes—every laugh and smile, the flash of her white throat as she turns to her husband, the look in her dark eyes from across the room. He sees something soft and inviting in her sharp smile. His imagination runs wild when she glances at him from under her lashes. 

—Dia had wept as her father burned. Had wept and begged and prostrated herself at the temple even as her belly rounded. Had pulled her hair and gnashed her teeth until the Enriyes answered her cry. 

“To your catharsis.” She toasts him, her smile all-teeth. “May your years be long and full of sons.”

“He wants me, you know. He fantasized about bending me over the table while you feasted him—even tried to arrange a tryst when you left the table…” 

The air crackles as his wrath rises, electrified as his expression grows thunderous. His eyes are dark as storms; she shivers, breathless, as she steps into his arms, hands twining around his neck. Yours. Yours. Yours.

Hera’s lips brush against her husband’s ear, tone airy.“Not everyone deserves forgiveness. You should be more discerning.”  

[herakhere]

@delosborn​ / hera & ____.

                            _________________________________________

          “What do you have that I cannot possily obtain?”

[herakhere]

[ possessive ] your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other -zeus

non-sexual acts of dominance.

        —There are times she exists only when he touches her. Where she exists only in the space under his hands. Her heart—her self—in his hands. 

She exhales, soft as dawn, when he—her husband, her love, her life—rests his hand on her hip. She can feel the heat of him through cloth of her peplos; his thumb moves and her eyes flutter closed. 

It’s an effort to focus on the meeting at hand. If it were their own people, Hera wouldn’t care as much. Who cared if the queen melts at her lord’s touch? Let them look! 

—But this is not their people, and so she forces her eyes open even as her body begs to bloom under his sky. She brushes her hand against his instead, the song of his blood rushing through her senses as she fills herself of him. 

Her heart beats in time with his, the same refrain. Yours. Yours. Yours.

She is kindling for him, ready to light.