He watches her from his shaded spot amongst the pillars of their father's house, smiling and talking with her parade of sycophants that surround her - one of whom, his own daughter, he thinks bitterly.
She walks along in her stately, confidant manner, as she always does. And he hates her. Hates how sure of herself she always is. How tall and proud she always stands. How their father chooses her in all things.
But most of all, he hates how much he desires her.
Her long, straight hair is brown and dull, forever braided and coiled on the back of her head, with only a few wisps of loose strands to show any sign of winsome femininity. Her chiton is plain white linen - no doubt to brandish her virtuous purity - decorated with just a handful of small, silver clasps down the arms. All of it topped with a thin, silver diadem, shaped as an olive wreath adorning her head like the princess she acts.
With a huff, he wonders what his mother would think of that. Not that she'd say anything, with this perfect specimen of a goddess being the pride and joy of her husband, after all.
Yes, he hates her most thoroughly. But the singleminded ache he sometimes feels to ravish her chaste body, warred with the deep want to crush her. Or perhaps, they could be one in the same. He'd never attempt it, of course, for as often as their father forgave and accepted his slights, he knows there'd only be the cruelest of punishments for ever defiling the God's cherished favorite.
Sauntering from the shadows, eyes on his rival, he sets his face with a mocking sort of cheer.
"Hail Pallas, victor in all things," he shouts, drowning out the chattering idiots that surround her, causing a sudden hushed silence as they turn to him. But it's only her attention he cares about.
Her genial smile falls slowly as the sea of bodies part to show her his presence. Her kohl rimmed, grey eyes take him in with a wary look. He catches site of his daughter, Nike, trying to hide herself behind her great idol, but she knows she's caught when he gives her a quick glance of disappointment. Athena must feel the younger goddess' fear, sliding a comforting touch around her wrist.
"Ares," she greets him with a suspicious formality that makes him sneer.
"Don't worry sister. I only come to congratulate you."
She raises her brows as if surprised, but he can see she doesn't truly believe it. If Athena was anything, it was brilliant, and he never would expect her to believe a word of kindness that came from his mouth.
It makes him want to show her a variety of other things he can do to her with his mouth.
"Then I thank you, brother." She tilts her head in that way she does that says she knows all, and he nothing. It makes him feel like a child, and the hate he feels for her grows tenfold. "That's very magnanimous of you."
"Yes, not like you at all, Ares," speaks Hephaestus in his raspy voice, sounding as if a gorgon had clawed at his vocal chords. A nice visual, Ares thinks, of such a sad beast that considers himself a god.
"Perhaps I was so impressed by my sister's genius, I have no choice but show my amazement at her accomplishment."
The idea to create a trap posing as a gift for their enemies, which they then would allow within their walls with open arms, was indeed brilliant. Even as incensed as he is over his loss, he can at least admit that.
All's quiet and still before Athena begins a slow trek to him, her sandals tapping against the stone floor with every step. When she finally stands in front of him, it's as if the crowd behind her has disappeared. The hiss and snap of electric current coursing between them reminds him of their father, and how much this ingenious being means to him, yet the jealousy he normally feels has tapered some with something else rising in its stead.
"Thank you, Ares. Truly," she says softly, only loud enough for the two of them to hear. Then leaning closer, "If you mean it."
She's near enough for him to smell, flowery and feminine as he'd assumed, just like all the goddesses. But beneath that, something else, something only those that know battle can recognize, something primal and fierce, and he sees when she recognizes it within him, too.
It has the ache within him growing. Images flashing of her panting and moaning for him like a bitch in heat, as he takes her in this very spot in their father's house. Bent over and begging, for all her little followers to see how sopping wet he's made her - their prim, virginal goddess.
Her nose flares, cheeks blushing a pretty pink like she can see the lurid images in his mind.
A smirk slides across his face. The loss of a war to her was worth it for this moment. "Of course, sister."
Leaning down, he gives her a chaste kiss at the corner of her lips, holding back the urge to catch the plump flesh of her bottom lip with his teeth. She stands stock still, her rapid breath swirling against his face and neck. Zeus' pure little daughter is as aroused as he, Ares realizes.
He wonders if she allows herself any carnal pleasure, even if only by her own hand? He wonders if she will do so tonight, while thinking of him?
