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There's the purest of joys in Kassandra's eyes as she dances. It's a foreign emotion, far from the fire and determination that usually blazes in those amber pools. For the first time in a long time, she isn't worrying about the Cult or the next fight. Her head isn't filled with the Gods and their empty prophecies. She's simply happy, ecstatic as she dances around on the spot, dressed in little more than a wreath and simple cloth robe.

His best friend the Olympian. Brasidas will be dining out on this story for years to come.

There's almost a sadness in his heart for how infrequently he's seen her like this, but Brasidas pushes it back and swallows down the emotion, frightened that if he dwells on it for too long he'll sully this moment. Instead he chooses to laugh as Kassandra refills his cup with wine, before she pauses to drink herself, throwing back her head and drinking straight from the terracotta jug itself.

The sight would instil jealousy in Athena herself. Kassandra is always beautiful, but tonight she is truly alive, her body lithe and covered with thick, well developed muscle, skin still glistening from the remnants of the sweet-smelling oil she used before the competition. As she throws back her head, he can see every cord of muscle in her neck, is captivated by the way they flex and move beneath her skin and scars. It's a sight that as her friend he has no right to appreciate in this way and yet Brasidas can't quite will himself to look away, eyes lost to drinking in the sight of her.

She's always been as a Goddess to him, a practically immortal being that he has respected and desired in equal measure since the day that they met. But tonight, he is struck by the notion that although her physical beauty is immeasurable, it is her smile that has him hooked the most. The glint in her eyes, the creases in her skin as she laughs. It's a terrifying thing, the realisation that it's the woman beneath all the titles and armour that he loves, possibly more than he's loved anything else in his life. But he's done running, done pretending that it is her legend that he follows, when he'd throw himself into Cerberus' snapping jaws if that was what she required of him.

For the moment at least, she seems happy enough to share wine with him, toasting her victory in the Olympics into the early hours of the morning. Brasidas has lost count of how long they've been drinking, their company thinning as the night grew longer. Even Alkibiades has left them by this point, withdrawing to his bed and whoever would join him in it. He'd left with a smile as he always did, but the sly comment that had left his lips had been for Brasidas' ears alone.

"Do not let our champion fall to her bed alone."

Brasidas is still pretending he hadn't understood that, although he'd be a liar before Aphrodite if he pretended that he hadn’t imagined Kassandra dragging him to her bed on more than one occasion.

His thoughts are interrupted by a clatter as Kassandra picks her way over to his long since discarded armour, knocking over his shield in the process. She laughs, returning it to its rightful place against the wall with a grace she'd lacked barely moments before. Her curious hands reach next for his breastplate, holding it up so that she can examine it in the dim glow of the oil lamps. She makes a soft noise of approval, somewhere between a grunt and a hum, before holding the object experimentally against her own chest.

"What do you think? Does Spartan red suit me?" Her words are innocent enough, but the look that she gives him is devilish, one eyebrow quirking in anticipation of his response. Brasidas swallows, not trusting himself to answer straight away, his eyes lost to the mere sight of her. When he finally does find the courage to speak, his words are a pale imitation of what he actually wants to say.

"Sparta would be lucky to have you."

"Hmm..." There's an edge of disappointment in her tone, but its lost in an instant as she turns, showing him her back as she fusses with his armour, unbuckling it enough so that she's able to slip it over her head. She turns, that devilish smile back on her features as she looks over her shoulder at him. "... A little help, soldier?"

He's drawn to her as a moth is drawn to a flame.

His hands call him traitor as he moves to fasten to buckles at her sides, covering the silhouette that he aches to uncover. Her back still to his, he’s forced to reach around her to fasten the final buckle at her left shoulder, diligent fingers sweeping aside her braid so that he can reach the fastenings.

His breath hitches when she catches his wrist in her hand, encircling it with a strength and coordination that endures despite the wine they've shared. He falters, freezing in his movements, awaiting her next move in the most charged silence they've shared.

"There are better places for you to put your hands, Brasidas." Her words are playful, but they come with a shiver of her own that he can only feel thanks to their close proximity. Still stunned into inaction, it is only when she presses her body back into his that Brasidas' mind becomes his own, the thin cloth that covers her bottom half pushing against his groin with a friction that makes his cock twitch.

He's lost to her then, just as he's always been.

He holds her close, his right arm wrapped around her body and holding her close by the breast plate, his left hand still held tightly by her own. Impatient, he presses closer and covers the back of her neck with soft, explorative kisses that edge ever forwards, towards the cords of muscle that have taunted him. Once there, his mouth doubles its efforts, nipping and sucking at whatever skin and muscle he can reach. He is rewarded by a gasp and a soft hiss, as Kassandra's head falls backwards to rest against his shoulder, the death grip around his left hand finally relenting.

With two hands he can finally worship her the way he wants, the way that a champion of Sparta such as her deserves. With her body malleable against his, he keeps her close, his left hand splayed out across his breastplate, cool metal in complete contrast with his heated skin. His right hand ghosts across the exposed skin of her arm, tracing the solid muscle it finds lying dormant there. His hand moves lower, slips across the back of her hand, her skin forming gooseflesh in his wake. From there he continues downwards, following the thin robe that hugs her hip until his fingers reach the skin of her thigh, pausing there for a moment as he sucks a particular violent bruise into the join of her neck and shoulder.

Kassandra moans, a beautiful indecent thing that is all the encouragement he needs. This time, his hand moves upwards, underneath her robes until it comes to rest in between her legs. With a patience that sends the body pressed against him shuddering, his fingers slip past her small clothes until they are pressed against her heat.

"Brasidas..." There's no sweeter sound than that, the sound of his name as it practically tumbles from her lips in prayer. He doesn't waste time, keeps his mouth firmly against her neck and his body pressed firmly behind hers as he slowly circles his fingers against her warmth, feeling every moan and gasp as her body slowly rocks against his.

When she comes, it's all at once, her entire body tightening against his, every muscle filled with tension. She calls out and grinds back against him, before going limp in his arms, her weight falling against his as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Slowly, she returns to her senses, twirling around in his arms so that she can finally face him.

Her face is flushed in the lamplight, but the smile that he finds there is his and his alone, a soft, satisfied thing that reflects back the emotion he imagines is filling his own features. She bites her lip, surveying him with fresh eyes as she reaches upwards, her thumb stroking against the firm scar that runs down his left cheek. When she pulls his face closer he follows without question, his lips finding hers and pressing every emotion he doesn't know how to voice into the kiss they share. Perhaps someday he'll have the words with which to tell her, but until then there is only the now, with their bodies pressed so close that he feels as if they are two halves of the same whole.