#cassandra x apollo

[the-primordial-archivist]

Wait what happened why is there suddenly so much Cassandra of Troy x Apollo on my Pinterest feed wth is there a new fandom???

(I mean that's amazing if it sheds a good light on Apollo (for once) but single Apollo :((((( I'll miss you)

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Newest read and glimpse at the artwork inside.

[incorrecthomer]

Apollo: I've been dropping her the most insanely obvious hints for like a year now. No response. Cassandra: Wow. She sounds stupid. Apollo: But she's not. She's really smart actually. Just dense. Cassandra: Maybe you need to be more specific. Like,I don't know... "Hey! I love you!" Apollo: I guess you're right. Hey Cassandra, I love you. Cassandra: See! Just say that to her! Apollo: Holy fucking shit. Cassandra: If that flies over her head then, sorry dude, but she's too dumb for you. Apollo: Cas.

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

Statistics of Apollo's Lovers

I was wondering just how unfortunate of a love-life our boy Apollo had, so - as one does - I did the research, math, and writing of said love-life.

such is the life of an adhd teen :)

In total, there are 59 people on this list. I have them separated into eight groups; Immortal, Immortal & Rejected, Lived, Died, Rejected & Died, Rejected & Cursed, Rejected & Lived, and who were Rejected by Apollo

Disclaimer: I am not a historian nor an expert in Greek Mythology, I am just a very invested nerd in Mythology, and in Apollo's mythology in general, and got curious about what his rap sheet actually looks like.

Sidenote: There will be some "lovers" not on this list. Reasons being;

No actual literary sources behind them

Said literary sources are dubious at best

Not enough information is given about the nature of their relationship to make an accurate take

So if somebody isn't on this list, it's because of one of those three reasons. Although there is still a chance I missed somebody! :)

Also, no RRverse lovers include in this list. Sorry my fellow ToA fans.

(Edited 08/15/24 - ALL SECTIONS SOURCED)

Let's begin! :D

Immortal Lovers

Calliope: muse of epic poetry. Mother of Hymenaios and Ialemus (Pindar's 3rd Threnos) by Apollo.

Clio: muse of history

Erato: muse of love poetry

Euterpe: muse of music

Polyhymnia: muse of hymns/sacred poetry

Melpomene: muse of tragedy

Thalia: muse of comedy. Mother of the Corybantes (The Bibliotheca by Pseudo-Apollodorus) by Apollo.

Terpsichore: muse of dance

Urania: muse of astronomy

Boreas: the North Wind. The Boreads called Apollo "beloved of our sire" in Apollonius of Rhodes's Argonautica.

10 lovers total here.

9 Female, 1 Male

Immortal & Rejected

Hestia: goddess of the Hearth (Hymn to Aphrodite)

1 Interest. Female.

Lovers Who Lived:

Branchus: mortal shepherd, gifted prophecy (Conon's Narrations 33 & Callimachus's Iambus)

Rhoeo: mortal princess, eventually married an apprentice of Apollo (Diodorus Siculus's Bibliotheca historica 5.62 and Tzetzes on Lycophron 570)

Ourea: demigod daughter of Poseidon, dated Apollo during his punishment with Laomedon; had a son named Ileus, after the city of Troy (Hesiod's Catalogues of Women Fragment 83)

Evadne: nymph daughter of Poseidon, Apollo sent Eileithyia & (in some texts) the Fates to aid in their son's birth (Pindar's Olympian Ode 6)

Thero: great-granddaughter of Heracles, described as "beautiful as moonbeams" (Pausanias's Description of Greece 9)

Cyrene: mortal princess-turned-nymph queen, kick-ass lion wrangler, and mother of two of Apollo's sons - Aristaeus (a god) and Idmon (powerful seer) (Pindar's Pythian Ode 9.6 ff. and Nonnus's Dionysiaca and Callimachus's Hymn to Apollo 85)

Admetus: mortal king, took great care of Apollo during his second punishment, Apollo wingmanned him for Alcestis's hand - basically Apollo doted on him <3 (Callimachus's Hymn II to Apollo and Apollodorus's Bibliotheca 1.9.15 and Hyginus's Fabulae 50–51, and also written about by Ovid and Servius)

Hecuba: queen of Troy, together they had Troilus.

It was foretold that if Troilus lived to adulthood, Troy wouldn't fall - unfortunately, Achilles murdered Troilus in Apollo's temple. When the Achaeans burned Troy down, Apollo rescued Hecuba and brought her to safety in Lycia. (Stesichorus's Fr.108)

Hyrie/Thyrie: mortal. mothered a son by Apollo. Their son, Cycnus, attempted to kill himself after some shenanigans and his mother attempted the same. Apollo turned them into swans to save their lives. (Antoninus Liberalis's Metamorphoses 12 and Ovid's Metamorphoses 7.350)

Dryope: mortal. had a son named Amphissus with Apollo, who was a snake at the time. Later turned into a lotus flower, but it had nothing to do with Apollo so she's still on this list. (noncon; written by Ovid in Metamorphoses 8 CE/AD and later by Antoninus Liberalis in his own Metamorphoses sometime between 100-300 CE/AD)

Creusa: mortal queen. had a son named Ion with Apollo (Euripides's Ion). Please check out @my-name-is-apollo's post for more details because they make some good points about what's considered "rape" in Ancient Greece. I expand on this further at the end of the post.

Melia: Oceanid nymph. Had a son w/h Apollo named Tenerus. (Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece 9.10.5–6)

Melia was said to be kidnapped, and her brother found her with Apollo. He set fire to Apollo's temple in an effort to get her back, but was killed. Melia and Apollo had two kids - but here's the interesting part. Melia was highly worshiped in Thebes, where her brother found her. She was an incredibly important figure in Thebes, especially when connected with Apollo. She and Apollo were essentially the parents of Thebes.

As I read over their story, it sounded like (to me, at least. it's okay if you think otherwise!) that Melia just absconded/eloped with Apollo.

Was kidnapping an equivalent to assault back then? Perhaps. But it's still debated on whenever or not that's true. However, one thing I've noticed reading up on these myths is that when Apollo does do something unsavory, the text says so.

It never says anything about Apollo doing anything to Melia. Her father and brother believe she was kidnapped, but, like mentioned previously, it seems far much more likely that she just ran off with her boyfriend or something.

But that's just my interpretation.

Moving on! :)

Iapis: a favorite lover. Apollo wanted to teach him prophecy, the lyre, ect. but Iapis just wanted to heal :) so Apollo taught him healing :) (Smith 1873, s.v. Iapis)

Aethusa: daughter of Poseidon & the Pleiad Alcyone. Mother of Linus and Eleuther. She is the great-great grandmother of Orpheus. (Apollodorus's Bibliotheca 3.10.1 and Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece 9.20.2 and Suida, s.v. Homer's Of the Origin of Homer and Hesiod and their Contest, Fragment 1.314)

Acacallis: daughter of King Minos. there's a lot of variation on whether or not she had kids with Hermes or Apollo. Some say she had a kid with each. (Stephanus of Byzantium, s.v. Kydōnia (Κυδωνία and Scholia on Apollonius Rhodius, 4.1492)

Chrysothemis: nymph queen who won the oldest contest of the Pythian Games - the singing of a hymn to Apollo. She had three daughters, and one of them is said to be Apollo's. (Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece 10.7.2 and Hyginus's De Astronomica 2.25)

Corycia: naiad. had a son with Apollo. the Corycian Cave north of Delphi is named after her (Hyginus's Fabulae 161)

Leuconoe (also Choine or Philonis): daughter of Eosphorus, god of the planet Venus, and mother of the bard Philammon. (Hyginus's Fabulae 161)

Melaena (also Thyia or Kelaino): mother of Delphos, member of prophetic Thriae of Delphi. Priestess of Dionysus. (Herodotus's Histories 7.178.1)

Othreis: mothered Phager by Apollo, and later Meliteus by Zeus. (Antoninus Liberalis's Metamorphoses 13)

Stilbe: mother of Lapithus and Aineus by Apollo. (Diodorus Siculus's Library of History 4.69.1 and Scholia on Apollonius Rhodius, 1.40 and Scholia on Apollonius Rhodius, 1.948)

Syllis (possible same as Hyllis, granddaughter of Heracles): mothered Zeuxippus by Apollo. (Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece 2.6.7)

Amphissa: Apollo seduced her in the form of a shepherd. They had a son named Agreus. (Ovid's Metamorphoses 6.103 and Hyginus's Fabulae 161)

(hey, has anybody else noticed that 'Apollo disguising himself' seems to only be a thing in Roman literature?)

Areia (or Deione): had a son named Miletus. Hid him in some smilax. Her father found him and named him. (Apollodorus's Bibliotheca 3.1.2)

Arsinoe: she and Apollo had a daughter named Eriopis. (Hesiod's Ehoiai 63 and Scholia ad Pindar's Pythian Ode 3.14)

Queen of Orkhomenos (no name is given): Mother of Trophonius (Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece 9.37.5)

(my fellow ToA fans will recognize that name haha).

Hypermnestra: Either Apollo or her husband fathered her son Amphiaraus. (Hyginus's Fabulae 70)

(sidenote: @literallyjusttoa suggested that Apollo was dating both Hypermnestra and Oikles, and I, personally, like that headcannon)

Manto: Daughter of Tiresias. Apollo made her a priestess of Delphi. They had a son named Mopsus. When Apollo sent her to found an oracle elsewhere, he told her to marry the first man she saw outside of Delphi. That man turned out to be Rhacius, who brought her to Claros, where she founded the oracle of Apollo Clarios. (Apollodorus's Bibliotheca E6. 3)

Later, another man named Lampus attempted to assault her, but was killed by Apollo. She is also said to be a priestess who warned Niobe not to insult Leto, and to ask for forgiveness. Niobe did not. (Statius's Thebaid 7 and Ovid's Metamorphoses 6)

(Dante's Inferno places her in the eighth circle of hell, and let me just say- what the FUCK Dante! What did Manto ever do to you, huh??!! Don't do my girl dirty!!)

Parthenope: granddaughter of a river god. Mothered Lycomedes by Apollo (Pausanius's Descriptions of Greece 4.1)

Phthia: prophetess. called "beloved of Apollo". Mother three kings by him; Dorus, Laodocus, & Polypoetes (Apollodorus's Bibliotheca 1.7.6)

Procleia: Mother of Tenes, son of Apollo, who was killed by Achilles before the Trojan War. Daughter of King Laomedon, king of Troy. (Apollodorus's Epitome 3. 26)

Helenus: prince of Troy. Received from Apollo an ivory bow which he used to wound Achilles in the hand. (Photius's 'Bibliotheca excerpts')

Hippolytus of Sicyon: called "beloved of Apollo" in Plutarch's Life of Numa. I don't think this guy is the same as the Hippolytus, son of Zeuxippus (son of Apollo), king of Sicyon Pausanias talks about in his Description of Greece. That would be a little weird taking the whole family tree into account - though it's never stopped other gods before. *shrug*

Psamathe: nereid, said to be the personification of the sand of the sea-shore. (Conon's Narrationes 19)

She and Apollo were lovers, but never had any kids. When another man assaulted her, she had a son and abandoned him.

(He was found by some shepherds dw - wait, he was then torn apart by dogs. Nevermind,)

Back to her, her father ordered for her to be executed and Apollo avenged her death by sending a plague onto Argos and refused to stop it until Psamathe and Phocus/Linus (her son) were properly given honors.

(I really like how even though Linus isn't Apollo's kid, and that Psamathe wanted nothing to do with the kid, Apollo still considered him worth avenging too <3 )

Okay, in a previous incarnation of this post, I said there was a version where she is raped by Apollo...however, I can't find any sources to back it up😅 Even her wiki page doesn't mention rape, and Theoi's excerpt of Paunasias's Descriptions of Greece about her doesn't either.

So where did I hear about this supposed version? (Don't shoot)

Youtube. A youtube video about Apollo. Yeah...

Lesson, kids! Don't trust youtube videos on mythology! Yes, even if they dedicated lots of time to it! They can still get things wrong! In fact, don't even take my word for it! Do your own research <3

Alright. 34 lovers here.

5 Male. 29 Female.

33 are 100% consensual. Creusa is questionable, depending on who's translating/which tradition you go with.

Lovers Who Died:

Hyacinthus*: mortal prince. we all know this one, right? Right? one and only true love turned into flower (okay that's my bias speaking but AM I WRONG?) (Plutarch's Life of Numa, 4.5; Philostratus the younger's Imagines; Pseudo-Apollodorus's Bibliotheca 1.3.3; Ovid's Metamorphoses 10.162–219; Bion's Poems 11; and various pieces of art)

Cyparissus: mortal. his DEER DIED and he asked Apollo to let him MOURN FOREVER so he was turned into a cypress tree (Ovid's Metamorphoses X 106ff)

Coronis: mortal princess. cheated on Apollo w/h Ischys, who in Fabulae was killed by Zeus. mother of Asclepius. killed by Artemis. (Pindar's Pythian Odes 3.5; Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece 2.26.6; Hyginus's Fabulae 202; Ovid's Metamorphoses 2.536 and 2.596; Hyginus's De Astronomica 2.40; Isyllus's Hymn to Asclepius 128.37 ff.)

There is another version of Asclepius's birth given by Pausanias in Descriptions of Greece 2.26.1-7, where Coronis exposes him on a mountain and Apollo takes him in.

Adonis: yes, THAT Adonis. he's in this category because. well. he died. rip (Ptolemy Hephaestion's New History Book 5)

Phorbas: Okay so Apollo's lover Phorbas and another Phorbas sometimes get mashed together so this is what I was able to gather.

Plutarch's Life of Numa 4.5 and Hyginus's De Astronomia 2.14.5 cites Phorbas as Apollo's lover. The other Phorbas is said to be a rival to Apollo in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo. Personally, I separate the two because it makes more sense with Phorbas the lover's overall story.

Here it is: The island of Rhodes fell victim to a plague of dragons or serpents, and the oracle said to summon Phorbas for help. He defeated the infestation, and after he died, Apollo asked Zeus to place him in the stars, and so Phorbas became the constellation Serpentarius, also known more widely as Ophiuchus (a man holding a serpent).

FORGET ORION AND HIS ONE-OFF MENTION OF BEING DIANA'S LOVER HERE IS A CONSTELLATION TRAGIC LOVE STORY!!!!!

(*Hyacinthus was resurrected, as celebrated in the Hyacinthia festival in Sparta. Nonnus's Dionysiaca 19.102 and Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece 3.19.4 supports this belief as well.)

5 lovers.

4 Male. 1 Female. All consensual.

Sidenote: QUIT BURYING THE GAYS GREECE!!!!

Love-Interests Who Rejected & Died:

Daphne: do i nEED to say anything? Nymph. turned into tree to escape.

Daphne and Apollo actually go back a bit. Their story was used to explain why the laurel was so sacred to Apollo. It's in Delphi, Branchus planted laurel trees around the temple he built to Apollo, the laurel was even sacred to Apollo's historical forebearer Apulu, an Etruscan god! (I have sources to back this up :3 along with an Essay.)

Apollo & Daphne first originate from Phylarchus, but we do not have any of his work :( It's been lost to history...a moment of silence RIP. He was a contemporary in the 3rd century BC/BCE (first day of 300 BC/BCE and last day of 201 BC/BCE).

He was, however, cited as a source in Parthenius's Erotica Pathemata, written sometime in the 1 century AD/CE (sometime between 66 BC/BCE and the author's death in 14 AD/CE).

Then they show up again in Pausanias's Descriptions of Greece, written between 150 AD/CE and 170 AD/CE.

Hyginus wrote his Fabulae sometime before Ovid's because it's widely criticized to be his earliest work and Ovid wrote his Metamorphoses in 8 AD/CE.

The first two versions are roughly the same, and Ovid's shares similarities with the first in only the ending. Hyginus is basically like Ovid's but without Eros.

So in publication order, it's; Erotica Pathemata, Fabulae, Metamorphoses, then Descrip. of Greece.

In Erotica Pathemata, Daphne is the daughter of Amyclas and is being courted by Leucippus. She is not interested in any sort of romance. Leucippus disguises himself as a girl to get close to her, but his ruse is revealed when Apollo nudges Daphne and her attendants into taking a bath in the river. Leucippus is consequently killed.

Apollo then becomes interested and Daphne runs away, imploring Zeus that "she might be translated away from mortal sight", and is transformed into the laurel tree.

In Fabulae, Daphne's story is a bit more familiar. She's the daughter of Peneus, the river god, and Gaea is the one who transforms her into a laurel tree.

In Metamorphoses, Eros's is added to the story and is the reason why Apollo is so enamored and Daphne is so repulsed. (I would just like to say that in this version, it was 100% nonconsensual for them! And I don't mean with rape- Apollo never touches Daphne in any of these version. What I mean here is that Eros maliciously makes Apollo chase down a woman and makes sure Daphne would be repulsed by him. That is noncon behavior there on both sides.)

In Descriptions of Greece 10.7.8, Daphne is the daughter of Ladon and her and Apollo are only connected by why of why the laurel crown is the victory prize of the Pythian Games. However, in Descriptions of Greece 8.20.2-8.20.4, Daphne and Leucippus make an appearance here too, but Apollo is not the reason why they stop to take a swim and his ruse is revealed, resulting in his death.

Castalia: Nymph. turned into spring to escape.

First things first, Castalia was used to explain the existence of the Castalian Spring in Delphi. However, in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, the spring is already there when Apollo was born. So there's that to consider first.

Anyway, to escape Apollo's advances, Castalia transforms herself into a spring. (Lactantius Placidus's On Statius's Thebaid 1.698. This was written between Lactantius's lifespan of c. 350 – c. 400 AD/CE, placing it firmly in Roman times.)

2 Interests.

2 Female.

Love-Interests Who Rejected & Cursed

Cassandra: mortal princess. Received the gift of prophecy from Apollo. Due to a broken oath, she was then cursed. (Aeschylus's Agamemnon)

It is only in Roman-era tellings where Cassandra is cursed for not sleeping with Apollo, and there was no oath made (Hyginus & Pseudo-Apollodorus). In Agamemnon, it was done so because of the broken oath- not the refusing to sleep with Apollo thing.

The version where she gains prophetic abilities by way of a snake licking her ears is not part of Greco-Roman literature, but rather by an American poet.

Nevertheless, even after the curse Cassandra still loved Apollo, and called him "god most dear to me" in Eurpides's play The Trojan Women.

1 Interests.

1 Female.

Lover-Interests Who Rejected & Lived

Sinope: mortal. there are two different version of her myth.

In Diodorus Siculus's Library of History 4.72.2 and Corinna's Frag. 654, Apollo "seizes" her and they have a son named Syrus.

In Apollonius's Argonautica  2.946-951 and Valerius Flaccus's Argonautica 5.109, it is Zeus who abducts her, but she gets him to promise her anything and requests to remain a virgin. He obliges. Later, Apollo and the river Halys both try to charm her, but fall for the same trick.

Library of History was written between 60-30 BC/BCE, Apollonius's Argonautica between 300 BC/BCE and 201 BC/BCE, and Valerius Flaccus's Argonautica between 70-96 AD/CE, making Apollonius's version the oldest and Valerius Flaccus's the youngest.

Marpessa: mortal princess, granddaughter of Ares. Idas, son of Poseidon, kidnapped her and Apollo caught up to them. Zeus had Marpessa chose between them, and she chose Idas, reasoning that she would eventually grow old and Apollo would tire of her. (Homer's The Iliad, 9.557 and Apollodorus's Bibliotheca 1.7.8–9)

Bolina: mortal. Apollo approached her and she flung herself off a cliff. He turned her into a nymph to save her life. (Pausanias's Description of Greece 7.23.4)

Ocroe/Okyrrhoe: nymph and daughter of a river god. asked a boatman to take her home after Apollo approached her. Apollo ended up turning the boat to stone and the seafarer into a fish. (Athenaeus's The Deipnosophists 7.283 E [citing The Founding of Naucratis by Apollonius Rhodius]. The Deipnosophists was written in the early 3rd century AD, between 201 AD and 300 AD)

Sibyl of Cumae: mortal seer. promised to date Apollo if she was given longevity as long as the amount of sand in her hand. he did, but she refused him. (Ovid's Metamorphoses 14)

5 Interests. All female.

Okyrrhoe's story is the only one with any iffy stuff, although, when something iffy does occur, the text usually says so outright.

Rejected by Apollo:

Clytie*: Oceanid nymph. turned into a heliotrope to gaze at the sun forever after the rejection.

1 Advance. Female.

(*Clytie's story was originally about her affection for Helios. [Ovid's Metamorphoses 4.192–270; Ovid used Greek sources about the etymology of the names involved, meaning Clytie and Helios go back to Greek times] As Apollo got superimposed over Helios's myths, people have assumed it is he who is the sun god in her myth and not Helios.)

In Conclusion...

59 people total, and 33 of them have Roman-Era roots with (as far as I known!! Don't take my word as gospel truth!!) no relation to Greece except by way of shared mythology.

Here's the list:

Rhoeo

Thero

Hyrie/Thyrie

Dryope

Melia

Aethusa

Acacallis

Chrysothemis

Corycia

Choine

Thyia

Othreis

Stilbe

Syllis

Amphissa

Areia

Queen of Orkhomenos

Hypermnestra

Manto

Parthenope

Phthia

Procleia

Helenus

Hippolytus of Sicyon

Psamathe

Cyparissus

Adonis

Phorbas

Castalia

Sinope

Bolina

Ocroe/Okyrrhoe

Sibyl of Cumae

Meaning, 56%- and really, it's more like 57%, because Clytie is not Apollo's lover at all- of the lovers listed on this post are not entirely Greek in origin (AS FAR AS I KNOW-)! That does not mean ofc that you have to ignore them. I, for one, really like the story of Rhoeo, and Manto, and Psamethe- I find their myths sweet (Rhoeo & Manto) and bittersweet (Psamethe).

Let's get to the calculations now, yeah?

59 people total (Includes Clytie)

48 Women (81%). 11 Men (19%).

19% were Immortal (Including Lovers & Rejected)

68% Lived (Including Lovers & Cursed & Rejected)

14% Died (Including Lovers & Rejected)

1% were Cursed

2% were Rejected by him

58 people total (Not Including Clytie)

47 Women (81%). 11 Men (19%).

19% were Immortal

69% Lived (Lovers & & Cursed & Rejected)

12% Died (Lovers & Rejected)

in that 12%, one was apotheosized - Hyacinthus.

Meaning 10% died permanently, while 2% were resurrected.

2% were Cursed

0% were Rejected by him

Additionally, I left off three male lovers and two female lovers - Atymnius, Leucates, Cinyras, Hecate, & Acantha.

Atymnius has no references to being Apollo's lover, only to Zeus's son Sarpedon.

Leucates is another male "lover" left off the rack - apparently he jumped off a cliff to avoid Apollo, but I couldn't find any mythological text to account for it- and no, OSP's wiki page is not a reliable source. There is a cliff named similarly to him where Aphrodite went (by Apollo's advice) to rid herself of her longing for Adonis after his death. Also Zeus uses it to rid himself of his love for Hera before he...well, commits adultery again.

Cinyras was a priest of Aphrodite on the island of Cyprus. He was also the island's king. Pindar calls him "beloved of Apollo" in his Pythian Ode. However, looking further into Cinyras's life throws a bit of a wrench into it. He's also cited to be a challenger to Apollo's skill, and either Apollo or Mars (Ares) kills him for his hubris.

(honestly, I kinda like the idea that Mars went into Big Brother Mode)

I did consider leaving him on the list, since technically you could argue it was a romance-gone-bad, but among every other source Cinyras is mentioned in, Pindar's the only one who puts a romantic label on him and Apollo.

Hecate, the goddess of magic and crossroads, is said to be the mother of Scylla (like, the sea-monster) by Apollo, but Scylla's parentage is one of those "no specific parents" ones, so I left her off the list.

Acantha has absolutely no classical references. There's a plant like her name, but she's made-up, so she doesn't count.

(Of course, I could be wrong about any of these. Again, I'm not an expert.)

With all this in mind, this means Apollo's love life actually isn't as tragic as media portrays it, and he isn't as bad as Zeus or Poseidon in the nonconsensual area.

Does he still have those kinds of myths? Yes, with Dryope and Creusa; though, we can discount Creusa because;

1) Depends on who's translating it; and

2) Ion is given different parentage in the Bibliotheca, which yes, came much after Ion, however Xuthus was traditionally considered to be Ion's father rather than Apollo. This means there was probably a different oral tradition on Ion's parentage that just wasn't written down as early as Euripides's was- in fact, it may even just be an invention of Euripides's.

(and honestly Apollo's characterization in Ion just doesn't quite match up with the rest of his appearances in the wider myths (in my opinion, at least))

So that leaves us with just Dryope, who comes from Ovid, a Roman poet, and Antoninus Liberalis, a late Greek one.

Now I'm not saying we should throw her out because of Ovid's whole "wrote the gods even more terribly to criticize Augustus" thing, but it is something to keep in mind. Political mechanics have been used to change myths before, and this is certainly one example of it.

Additionally, I have seen many people discard Dionysus's rapes in the Dionysiaca because of how late it was written, so this one can be given similar treatment if one choses too because of just how late Ovid and Antoninus Liberalis's work was.

You can, in fact, pick and chose if you wish, especially if it'll increase your enjoyment of literature. That's certainly what I do :)

So overall, I'd say Apollo has a rather clean relationship past. He's doing pretty damn good.

Also, I think we should all take note that even if Apollo had noncon myths, that doesn't reflect on the actual god. The Ancient Greeks did not see the myths as "canon" to their gods- in fact, some were not happy with the myths showing the gods in such a light.

That's something else to keep in mind. The gods of the myths are not the gods of Greece, and are more like parables or fables for the Ancient Greeks I'd say. Lessons on morality and such, and of course, warnings against hubris and the like.

This was quite the journey, and I really hope you all enjoyed reading and learning with me! This really makes me wonder- if Apollo's love life is this good, I wonder how misinformed we are on everyone else's? I have no plans on doing Zeus or Poseidon or anyone else (not for a LONG time lol, this took a lot of effort and research!), but if anyone has any idea, or gets inspired to do something like this for any other god, please tag me!! I'd love to see it! :D

And since this was on a previous reblog, here be a meme from a while ago:

[ID: Me Explaining Me. On the left is a girl with her hands up, fingers pinched together, like she's intensely explaining something. The text over her says "Me giving a detailed diatribe about Apollo's love life and how modern media has done him and his lovers dirty". On the right is the girl's mother, wrapped up to her chin in a blanket, with a look on her face that screams "I hear this all the time". The Mother is labeled "My family". /End ID]

suffers in I'm the only mythology nerd in the family

[the-winters-prince]

which moodboard would you like? since you guessed my main blog, you get one moodboard!!

may I ask for a Teldaru and Nola moodboard if you are comfortable with it 👉👈

[beastsovrevelation]

I recently found out people ship Cassandra with Apollo.

My initial reaction was...

Just tan their hides. You know what happened to her because the the bastard, don't you?..

Then, I was overwhelmed by morbid curiosity, and checked AO3. People are writing rape fics about them. ...Why?..

Could I ever see Cassandra x Apollo?.. I don't know, maybe. But, definitely not the nonsense I mentioned. Dubcon at most. I guess, he might somehow coerce her into sleeping with him, and later rescue her from the fall of Troy, because she's pregnant with his child, or something (Zeus would be pissed, I'm fine with that).

Sounds like an intriguing story, with a lot of morally questionable elements. I can imagine Apollo confiding in Artemis, wondering why his wife is so upset. She'd just go "are you serious rn?.. -_-".

...What, you're surprised I'm among those I wish to hide with a broom? Don't be. It happens quite often, actually.

[potatareads]

➳ favorite books i’ve read in 2023 ·˚ ༘₊·

Radiant Sin by Katee Robert

[scarlet-sam-chaos]

yall go check out my cassandra au perpollo fanfic (what is a little tragedy if one was loved?) please? 🥺 im working on its chapter 5 rn

i mean its more like i made a spotify playlist for it but mhm yeah-

[achaiapelides]

Rip or Ship

... with characters from

Harry Potter

Riordanverse

The Shadowhunter Chronicles

Red, White and Royal Blue

etc.

If you want to leave suggestions and read my opinion about ships, you might want to read this

⬇️

[grapecaseschoices]

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else. 

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored. 

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story! 

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism. 

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are. 

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on. 

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man. 

Mandalorian. 

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk. 

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room. 

This is the first of many lies you will tell him. 

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you. 

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed. 

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar. 

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response. 

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity. 

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold. 

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know. 

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now. 

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured. 

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness. 

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish. 

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this. 

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. 

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian. 

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time. 

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again. 

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a. 

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people. 

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now. 

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind. 

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you. 

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems. 

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway. 

And then he’s there. 

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now. 

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself. 

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over. 

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt. 

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong. 

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath. 

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder. 

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs. 

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather. 

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock. 

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel. 

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move. 

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too. 

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been. 

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement. 

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you. 

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you. 

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?” 

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over. 

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically. 

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor. 

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest. 

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely. 

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else. 

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs. 

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again. 

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you. 

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive. 

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore. 

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours. 

But then: a person without a soul could not cry. 

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must. 

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed. 

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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[incorrecthomer]

Apollo: Do you ever get that feeling where you look at someone and your heart skips a beat? Cassandra: That's called arrhythmia. Apollo: I get that feeling every time I look at yo- Cassandra: That's serious, you can die from it.

[nyx-is-missing]

SUNSET PART 1

Or early summer!

Clarisse La Rue x Cassandra De Young (oc! Apollo's kid)

Summary: When Cassandra gets involved in a scandal early in the day, she goes to camp early.

Warnings: men....thats all i could think of actualy.

First read this!

Part 2 is here!

Cassandra De Young

Im fucked.

That's it, that's all i can say.

I knew it as soon as my hand reached his face and stinged, as soon as i heard a camera's flash, and as soon as i stepped into my mom's apartment.

Let's just rewind a bit, okay?

My family own a big business, that you already know by now, the thing is, when they reeaally want to do business with someone they go extreme, the most common technique is to get on the good side of everyone in the family, everyone.

They research, pretend to have things in common, to like the same things, to have the same views of life, and to make it more believable they always go for the person who is closest in age with them.

Usually i dont get involved in this situations because im younger than everyone else, the only teen in the family.

The thing is, this family also had someone around my age.

A 18 year old guy.....eighteen.

Let me tell you, i really wasn't going for trouble today, i tought he may be a normal guy, just with a little money, someone i could have a conversation with, drink some coffe, laugh and go back home and think "hey, not so bad"

He.was.not.

All he could talk about is how much money his family had, where he went for winter break, his pure blood horse, that only ate (attention to this one) IMPORTED GRASS.

Overall a huge dick.

But that i could handle, i've met people like this, i could handle a shitty talk for some hours, what i could not handle was having to go through all this with his hand on my knee bellow the table.

And here i was, spending one of my last days of spring being tortured by the fates.

"You're not paying much attention to the conversation are you?" He said, and gods that accent was almost making me want to jump out of a cliff, or push him out of a cliff, both would work.

"Oh sorry i was-"

"No need to apologize, people get bored i know" Not that he did something criminal by not letting me finish my sentence but, my gods every action coming from him its making me want to die right now "Its okay, i could find some way to make you focus"

Okay, im done

"Im gonna need you to stop saying odd shit" I looked him dead in the eye with a bothered look, and by the surprised look he gave me back i was 100% sure nobody ever told him to shut up when he was saying nonsense.

"C'mon, dont be like that-" he said trying to get his hand a little but upwards, and i only realized i slapped him when i felt my hand burning.

"Oh my gods im sorry i-" And then i heard the camera flashes.

Im going to need you to imagine the scene, my hand was still up, his hand was till on his cheek, and he had a scared look in his face, as did most of the people at the fancy coffe shop.

Do i smile now? Strike a pose? This one is definetly getting front pages at every place.

I chose the safest choice, got out of that straight to my house.

No..i did not payed the bill.

The whole way home i was trying really hard to think of something to say that was not going to make my family mad, especially my grandfather, but considering whe has always mad with something, that felt like a impossible mission.

First thing i saw when i opened the door of the penthouse was my mom, standing in front of the television, and sure enough, my face was on it.

She turned to me, but before she could even say something i started to explain myself.

"Its not what it looks like mom, i swear, i didn't do it on pourpose, let me explain please-" i couldnt actually read the look on her face, but she didnt say anything, so  i took that as a go ahead.

When i explained her what happened her face relaxed a bit, but not completely, and she had a look that said your grandpa is getting in my nerves because of this.

"I'll talk to your grandfather about this, but you need to know that the way you acted wasn't appropriate, there is cameras all around and you need to be careful...lets just thank the gods you didnt pulled out a dagger right?" She walked closer to me, and i knew she was trying to comfort me, its a pitty actually, i knew she didnt wanted kids when she had me, i knew how grandpa treated her when he found out, to me, it was enough that she at least tried to love me enough.  "You already have your things packed to camp right? I know you have some more days of school but ill call them and tell them you are sick, its best for you to leave earlier this year, then your grandfather wont talk your ears out...you okay with that?"

"Yes mama, ill just finish packing some small things...do i leave today?" I felt her hands on my shoulders, and heard a silent im sorry.

"Yes, but dont be like that, think that you at least wont have to see the news talking about you..youll just be there, with your siblings, eating strawberies and..whatever else demigods do daily, right?"

Like i said, it is enough to me that she tries, even when she isnt great all the time, i know people who dont even have this.

I nodded and went to my room, making sure not to accidentally hit a new sculpture, placed in the corridor.

I didnt wait for her when i finished packing.

I knew she wouldnt be the one to take me there, she never is, she has things to do with the family business, its what ive always heard.

So when i got to the underground garage with my bags i automatically searched for one of the family drivers, sure enough, he was there.

He was a nice guy, but quiet, i knew that he probably had orders not to talk to the family members unless spoken to, grandpa did this with all of them, i also knew he never actually knows where hes been taking me, he takes me there almos every year, but always stops at the road in front of the forest, maybe this sad look he has on his face its because he thinks he is taking me to one of those crazy wilderness therapies as a punishment.

Granpa would absolutely do that if he hadnt had to live with a great public appearence.

"Miss? We are here" He looked at me in the rearview mirror, i only realized i had doze of when my eyes met his and i blinked. "Hold on tight, im going to help you with your luggage okay?"

"Oh..thank you mr bell" He opened the trunk, and then the back door for me, extending his hand to help me get out of the car "thank you, again"

"Sure miss, just let me take your bags out and we are all set okay?-"

Another car dor noise made us both look to the right, to find Clarisse La rue, closing a taxi door, with just one big suitcase in hand.

Now, my story with Clarisse is kind of complicated, i've met her when he were, eight i guess, her family bought some shares in the family business and we saw each other very regulaly, and ever since then everything everyone told me about her is that she is a troublesome girl, that i should stay far.

But she was the one who realized i was a demigodess, and took me straight to camp when a monster found me, and she was the one who, many times when we were little, comforted me when my family made me cry.

It seems like she forgot all of that because she never even looks at me.

If you ask her, she has never even met me at all actually.

"Clarisse, you're early"

"Cassandra, you too-"

"Cass actually, i prefer cass" i corrected her, to wich she just rolled her eyes and muffled a whatever. "Thats all you are taking? One suitcase?"

"And you are taking all that? How do you plan on walking the whole way with all that? Im assuming he wont go with you" she said looking at mr bell, and its true, he could not walk the whole way with me, and i could not walk with all that alone...fuck

"....you could help m-"

"No, dont even think about it"

"C'mon Clarisse!" She didnt even answered me this time actually. "Arent you a Ares-" i looked at the driver taking the suitcases out. "A ares...type of kid? You will pass on the oportunity to demonstrate your muscles or whatever?"

She started to walk away with a bored look, did i already said fuck?

"C'mon ill do whatever! I- i dont know.. 20 dracmas!, no?, ill help you with the cleaning duty you'll eventually have when you fuck it up? I..ill do that AND ill cure you anytime you want, everyday, no matter the time!"

She stopped walking.

Yes! I knew it, one of the many problems clarisse had its that she likes to go out at night to train alone, and when she gets hurt she cant ask anyone to help her, because she would get caught

"Give me those suitcases already and shut up-" she was interrupted by a very happy me hugging her.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyouclarisse!"

I felt her hands on my arms and realized she was going to push me away, so i took a step back

"Geez Clarisse, you could've just told me to back off, dont be like that... just take these and ill take those"

I said pointing to the suitcases, and saying goodbye to mr bell.

Can i already welcome summer and his crazy energy? No? Okay.

[heheimazing1]

um, i don’t really know how to write these but here’s my first mini fic! percy jackson x daughter of apollo! fem reader is the implied relationship. i hope you enjoy this and lmk if you’d like to read more of my writing.

can’t catch me now

by Olivia Rodrigo

The children of Apollo always liked music, it usually depended on their mood of what kind they wanted to hear, but they mostly wanted soft music. It was always calming for them to listen to, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 making them feel like a kid again, but those moments were short-lived. The younger campers of Camp Half-Blood only 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 liked when Cassandra played or sang music, claiming that she always knew how to cheer them up or calm them down. Cassandra was basically the older sister of the younger campers, only happy when they were happy. On a special night one of the younger girls asked, “Can you sing a sad song Cass?” Cassandra was surprised, to say the least by her request, but once she saw the girls pleading doe eyes, she couldn’t say no. Maybe that’s why everyone liked Cassandra, because the word ‘no’ is not in her vocabulary. “Sure thing, honey.” Cassandra replied with a warm smile, leading her to the campfire. She looked over to Charles Beckendorf, asking him to light the campfire to signal a meeting. Once the fire was lit, campers walked in and sat around the campfire. Cassandra pulled out her acoustic guitar, the wood freshly stained as a gift from her father. “Andrea here asked for a sad song tonight, but it won’t be as sad as it is calming. Is that okay?” Cassandra asks as she gestures towards the girl, her face reddening once the spotlight is on her. A chorus of yes’s spread around the campfire, a majority of them cuddling up and sharing snacks or drinks. As Cassandra puts her guitar on her lap, she makes eye-contact with Percy, a smile growing on his face once he sees her. She grins back, running her fingers along the strings, relishing in the sweet sound of it. She starts to strum the strings gently, a soft, calming tune playing out. She keeps a gentle strum, taking a deep breath before she begins to sing. “There’s blood on the side of the mountain, there’s writing all over the walls.” Her soft voice, along with the fire crackling is the only thing you hear. The campers sit around the campfire entranced by her sweet melody she plays and sings. “Shadows of us are still dancin’, in every room and every hall. There’s snow fallin’ over the city, you thought you could wash it away.” Andrea sits right beside Cassandra, staring up at her with wonder as she sings, despite the four year olds hyper nature, she always can sit and relax when Cassandra is near. “The bitter taste of my fury, and all of the messes you made. Yeah, you think that you got away. But i’m in the trees, i’m in the breeze. My footsteps on the ground. You’ll see my face in every place, but you can’t catch me now.” As Cassandra continues to sing, the younger campers eyes begin to droop at her calm tone, almost as if a 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭 was put on them. “Through wading grass, the months will pass, you’ll feel it all around. I’m here, i’m there, i’m everywhere, but you can’t catch me now. No you can’t catch me now.” She makes eye-contact with Percy as she sings, shared secrets between their gazes. “Bet you thought i’d never do it, thought it’d go over my head. I bet you figured i’d pass with the winter be something easy to forget.” She smirks slyly at him as he blushes, looking away to prevent himself from further embarrassment. “Oh, you think i’m gone cause Ieft.” She sings the verse again, watching as Andrea hums along and bops her head to the beat. Cassandra strums slower, her voice hushed as she sings quieter. “There’s blood on the side of the mountain, It’s turning a new shade of red. Yeah, sometimes the fire you founded, don’t burn the way you’d expect. Yeah, you thought that this was end.” She finishes the song with a few soft notes, everyone cheering at her beautiful music, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. Later at the bonfire when the joyful campers settle down, many compliment Cassandra on her song, going back to their conversations. Eventually everyone goes back to the resided cabins, her music offering them a peaceful, nightmare-less sleep.

[beastsovrevelation]

...

To be honest, I'm surprised they aren't married in mythological canon, knowing the Olympian family tree.

Or, maybe, my thinking is just affected by Baltic mythology. The Sun and the Moon are often portrayed as married in my culture (the genders are the opposite, by the way - the Sun is female, the Moon is male). Or divorced. In that one song, the Moon does cheat on the Sun with the Evening Star, and gets hacked in half with a sword during the divorce.