Chapter Text
Luke felt as though he couldn't breathe. His cheek was pressed against the blissfully cool marble, but the temperature offered no comfort—nor did the presence looming over him. Searing hands grazed down his sides, a jarring contrast to the stone beneath him, blazing like concentrated rays of sunlight and just as scorching.
He hissed when Apollo’s fingers dug into the soft tissue of his flank, a proprietary grip that made Luke’s skin crawl.
“Let go!” Luke yelled, unable to mask his rising panic. He tried to shift, his knees scraping the stone as he attempted to scramble away, but it was useless.
“Do not fret, Loukas,” the bastard hummed. Even now, his voice sounded like a song, though one that promised Luke nothing but pain and humiliation.
“I said let me go—!”
Luke scrambled, a frantic surge of motion that almost got him over the lip of the marble cropping. If he could just find his footing, if he could just get his legs under him, he could run. He’d outrun the sun itself if it meant getting away from those hands.
But then, a palm slammed into the center of his back. Luke choked back a scream as the sensation seared through the thin fabric of his chiton. It was just a warning, a localized scald that promised a deeper burn if he didn't submit.
“Such a restlessness, Loukas,” Apollo hummed. The scolding tone was wrapped in a melody so sweet it made the disgust on Luke’s tongue taste like copper. “You’re vibrating out of key.”
The god leaned closer, his breath like a warm summer breeze against Luke's ear. “Let us soften the refrain, shall we? It will be so much kinder for you if you simply... let go of the struggle.”
Luke didn't have the breath to tell him to go to hell. He felt the hem of his chiton being bunched and lifted, followed by the sudden, terrifying rush of cool air against his skin. Panic bit into him, sharp and jagged, but his body wouldn't move. His blood turned to slush in his veins.
He was supposed to fight. He was a hero, a rebel—struggle was supposed to be his second nature. But suddenly he wasn't on a marble altar; he was small again. He was back in the shadows, surrounded by men, unable to find the strength to push back.
But the memory ended there. Something had made them leave, leaving a boy shivering and barely dressed on the ground. He had not stayed to discover what.
“Stop—!” Luke tried again, but the word was a thin, trembling thing. The heat of the hands now massaging his backside made his breath hitch and his muscles lock.
“Hmm?” Apollo’s hum was light and elegant, as if he were merely admiring a statue. “You will find your pleasure in this, eventually. It is always thus at the beginning—a frantic resistance before the surrender. And then, you will find you always want more.”
He spread Luke’s legs further, the cold marble and the sudden exposure making the hair on Luke’s neck stand on end. Behind him, Apollo let out a soft, satisfied sound.
“I might just have to keep you. You are an exquisite thing, Loukas. I find it hard to believe your father let such beauty be sequestered in a quaint little place like this.”
“I don't like this,” Luke gasped. He tried to lash out—to kick, to punch, to find a trace of the soldier that had made the gods tremble—but his limbs felt like lead.
Apollo just laughed, a sound as clear and bright as a bell.
“You will.”
Fingers invaded him, the sharp burn drawing a jagged cry from Luke’s throat. Above him, Apollo’s breath was a harsh, scorching weight against his ear, his hair tickling the nape of Luke’s neck. That stifling warmth seeped into Luke’s skin as Apollo claimed his throat with a frantic mix of bites and kisses. The intrusion didn't falter; his fingers worked with a clinical, agonizing precision—one, then two, then three.
A strange, foreign sensation began to coil in Luke’s gut. His breathing labored, and despite his desperate attempts to swallow them, whines fractured the air. The more Luke fractured, the more insistent Apollo became. Then, with a sudden spread of his fingers, Apollo driven them home to the knuckles. The blunt force struck Luke's prostate, shattering his composure into a high-pitched moan. His body buckled, toes curling against nothing, but Apollo’s bulk pinned him like a beast over its kill. Satisfied, Apollo nipped at Luke’s ear, a low shiver racking Luke’s frame before the intrusion was finally, abruptly withdrawn.
The soft shuffle of movement behind him was the only warning Luke received before the blunt heat of Apollo’s cock pressed against his hole. Luke squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers white-knuckled as he clawed at the cold marble beneath him.
His eyes snapped open the moment Apollo forced his way inside. It was a searing invasion, yet the burn carried a strange, numbing quality that forced his muscles to slacken against his will.
He’s doing something to me, Luke thought hazily, a thread of saliva escaping his lips as he stared toward the temple’s walls with unfocused eyes.
Then Apollo drove home with a sudden, violent force. The sloppy, visceral squelch echoed, punctuated by the sharp crack of skin meeting skin. Every vein and ridge was felt, the head striking deep and hitting his prostate with a precision that sent white-hot electricity racing toward his toes. Luke couldn't stifle the sounds anymore—shameful, high-pitched cries that filled the air as he came undone, his own cock leaking messily against his belly.
Stop, Luke wanted to scream, but the word was mangled into a desperate moan as the angle shifted. Apollo drove deeper, finding a depth Luke hadn't known existed.
“I knew you would sound like a beautiful song,” Apollo rumbled. His voice was a jagged rasp, his breath hitching as his fingers dug into Luke’s hips. The grip was punishing; Luke could feel the skin beginning to bruise and sear, the god’s touch so hot it threatened to leave permanent brands in the shape of his hands.
Yet, despite the pain, the world was receding into a warm, hazy fog. Everything felt distant and muffled, as if he were drowning in gold.
“I think I want to hear it again. And again,” Apollo rasped, his weight crushing Luke against the cold marble until his lungs could barely expand.
Luke let out a broken whine, unable to form words.
“You like this, dear thing?” Apollo crooned into his ear, his tone dark and dancing with amusement. He slotted his hips even closer, eliminating every trace of air between them until all Luke could feel was the friction. “Do you like being this helpless for me?”
Once, in the suffocating dark of an alleyway where monsters in human skin had cornered him, Luke thought he’d seen a shadow. A man-shaped silhouette with eyes as blue as his own, watching from the periphery.
“Dad!” Luke choked out now, the word a jagged sob. Pride was a distant memory, burned away by the heat and the weight. “Please, D-dad, help me—”
A sharp shriek cut him off as Apollo tangled a hand into his hair, wrenching his head back at a punishing angle.
“Begging now, sweet thing?” Apollo asked. His voice was terrifyingly neutral, a stark contrast to the violence of his movements. He pressed languid kisses into the hollow of Luke's throat before suddenly sinking his teeth in. He bit hard—deep enough to leave an imprint—forcing a fresh cry from Luke’s lungs. “Cry louder. Maybe he’ll listen if you do.”
With a brutal grunt, Apollo accelerated. The rhythm became a frantic, punishing assault, the slap of skin so violent that Luke’s backside stung with the impact. Incoherent babbles spilled from Luke’s lips, interspersed with frantic calls for a father who had never appeared. Hermes had never come when the monsters were real; why would he come now?
He was alone with the sun, and the sun was burning him alive.
Minutes later, and yet a lifetime too late, a frantic Hermes arrived to find the ruin of his son. Luke lay curled against the cold marble, a broken shape in the fading light. White fluid tracked a slow, mocking path down his thighs, and seared into the pale skin of his hips were the unmistakable handprints of a god: angry, red burns that branded him as Apollo’s.
The signature of the perpetrator was scorched into the flesh for all the heavens to see.