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When a familiar sense of dread encompasses Cassandra's entire mind, she knows it's coming again. Golden snakes materialise in front of her and she stills, desperately trying to claw them off.
But they slither up her arms lick at her ears anyway, reminding her of the doom that lied ahead. The fate that her brothers will suffer. Her city. But most of all, the knowledge that Cassandra knows and is utterly powerless to stop it. That she must cry it back to everyone sooner or later, to no avail.
"Goddess…," she whispers under her breath. "Athena, aid me,"
But the goddess' heart was set on Troy's fall, and the war goddess answered first to the heroes who wanted to plunder her city for Helen and for riches.
"By the gods…Polias," she kneels now, taking her head in her hands and accepting the licks of the divine snakes, truths colder than their tongues.
Cassandra stumbles to the edge of her quarters, sure that the end of her life would be but a drop in the sea for Troy. Yet she knows, the Fates won't cut her string this way.
"My Lord Apollon, dearest by far, why have you done this unto me?" Cassandra leans over the edge.
"You've done this unto yourself,"
Turning around, she is met with nothing but the wall.
"Only for you, my destroyer,"
"What have I done? We're all strings to the Fates,"
"Not you, Lord. You even oversee a part of death. Mine,"
"Mhm," it's a voice like pure music.
Cassandra hates herself for finding a feeling in the ocean of pain: being horribly turned on.
And the knowledge that she can't comprehend half his beauty or being? Well gods. Death, embrace her. Apollon of the tomb, let her cursed mortal form go.
His hand, not quite human and not quite crow, takes her chin sharply.
"Oathbreaker,"
Oh. Oh, curses. Don't break it again.
Then, his non-quite human, not-quite bird body starts to change. The sickening crunch of bones and lyre strings and other things fills the air. The ever healing god.
Life and death he encompassed.
The hand sticks out of a ribbony, bipedal form. Cassandra's breath clutches from more than just terror.
She has never be one of those wretched souls who derived pleasure from fear. Nor one of those women the philosophers hate so, drawn to even vaguely feminine adjacent characteristics like the ones of the god, a soul who seeks out pleasure for herself.
Or at least she didn't used to be. Cassandra hates the heat that is stirring in her core at his radiant long lashes, and ribbony chest. Curve of his hip. The easiness that he stares at her with while she just wishes that this moment and life could all be over now.
"Oathbreaker," he repeats, hand on her mouth. "Now, do what you're good for,"
Cassandra can no longer resist, making to grope at the form. It morphs again, more human-like.
Her dearest and most resented god by far. She runs her hands over his shoulder blades and they crack under her touch, before reconstructing themselves once again.
Pulling him down with her, Cassandra hungrily searches for any sign of lips.
He grabs at her breast, hard, burning away the cloth without breaking skin. Cassandra, once again blinded, can already feel her clit getting wetter. Pushing her down to the bed, the god gives no warning before sliding a slender finger in, brushing her taint.
Is she bad for enjoying this? Again?
It makes her feel dirty and divine. Alive and dead.
Even though she knows its all for his pleasure and power, she can't help but feel privileged. Loved. Unlike others, he will never die. He will never leave her. Hate is better than lost loves.
Moaning softly, Cassandra feels her finger go in an eye, tangle in a ribcage, stroke at a shoulder. Apollon shows no signs of pain, reanimating in a way that would get any mortal howling.
He casually slides another finger in like he didn't just make a thousand core memories.
Cassandra can't stop the next high-pitched sound that makes it across her lips. And she doesn't want to.
"You dirty oathbreaker," He switches fingers.
She cranes her neck up at the god who has to do no such thing as he morphs around her form, meeting her down. Stripping away any thin trace of robes, he slides his hardening cock in slowly. Apollo seemed to fade into the light behind them. She gasps more than once.
The sensation is different from that of fingers, softer, holier, more awfully good.
It didn't feel tangible. Real.
No sweat did she produce under his radiance.
"My lord,"
He begins to ease himself in and out, faster and faster.
Cassandra bucks upwards toward him she feels another hand, oh could he have more than 2? It slaps her hard across the face and she's horrified to want more.
Like walking art he was, digging harder into her skin. Thrusting harder into her.
He was not just statues cast in ivory gold, but messy sketches full of life, the messy musings of a skilled hand, the peak of a drama in every single moment.
"Oh my gods," Pure ecstasy fills her, and Cassandra can see myths and tales etched into him and plunging deeper into her. She starts to tense and her clit tingles. Apollon pushes down hard on her shoulders.
"Good, slut," he replies.
Cassandra sobs, legs tired from pointing up, and Gaia stops spinning on her axis. He was the center of the world. She peaks.
She prays for Apollon Agyieus to protect the streetways of Troy.
She prays for Apollo Alexikakos to protect the men and women of Troy, though she is starting to understand the hurt on the Greek side.
She prays for Apollo Loxias to take away this "gift".
Has she died? Is this Hades?
No. It's Apollon. And he wouldn't be in the Underworld.
At least, she hopes he wont follow her into her death. The shame of what she's done is filling her hot body and she comes down from the high.
She very much hopes it does them part.
That is, until Cassandra looks up through half-lidded eyes, and a bright smile materialises.
Except, it's her own face. Bloodied and smooth.
Filled with pleasure the god only allows himself to feel under this guise. Like he's simply playing a part.
So be it.
He wears her face like a theatre mask, her eyes cut out and none of his own to replace them. It's horrifying, it's unreal, and it's most of all beautiful.
She allows herself to close up even more, clit still slick. She hopes it feels good. She can't bring herself to care that she hates him.
Looking up at the god, the Princess of Troy, material of myth, has never felt more insignificant in front of myth himself.
He eventually frees himself off her face like one would remove his helm and pulls out.
A few moments of not-quite silence pass, before the god leaves without care to her and Cassandra cries. Then she dresses, feeling an explicit urge to warn Troy of their horrible, inevitable doom.