Heracles eye twitched as you and your maidens spun your wool was he stood there with the basket in his scarred hands.

He donned women’s clothing at your request, his hair down long to match that of your own. It was strange, to once be a great Prince, King and Hero of Greece—reduced to a woman’s slave after one kill compared to the thousands he did prior.

Heracles watched as you laughed, he hated how it twisted his gut. You were beautiful, your torment and attempts to shame him only made he more confused and enraptured with you and your form as you—unlike him—dressed as the male.

You donned the skin of the nemean lion he had killed, wearing a toga and robes you did not seem to care if they covered to little or to much, and just by your feet was his club that had been painted red with lifeblood.

Easily he could rip away the maiden clothes he wore, rip out any organ beneath ribs that stood in his path, or proclaim you someone worthy of his love—but no, you were married to that of Tmolus. And he was already on Hera’s bad side.

He wished for many different things, for you to have been the slave rather than him, to wear these maiden gowns and he return to his own due to the shame and maiden duties he’d been given for the last year. But part of him, a sick and twisted side, did enjoy this torment, even if he would never say it aloud.