Of Sun and Steel: The Altar of Undoing
(A scene preserved only on forbidden scrolls and under Apollo’s mattress)
The Temple of Light was empty. Technically.
Priests had long since scattered, banished by a single look from Ares—one that said leave unless you’d like to bleed out respectfully. Apollo had offered no objections, only smiled with that wicked little upturn at the corner of his mouth that said this altar’s about to be used for something very unliturgical.
“God of War,” Apollo murmured, walking backwards up the dais, undoing his belt with one fluid tug. “Do you intend to desecrate my temple?”
Ares shrugged off his crimson cloak. It landed on the marble like blood spilled for beauty.
“I don’t desecrate. I glorify.”
“Oh, then by all means,” Apollo purred, reclining backwards onto the sun-warmed stone, tunic parting like curtains at a scandalous play. “Worship me.”
Ares was on him in two strides.
Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, hands rough on hips and thighs. Apollo arched with a sharp gasp as Ares’ teeth dragged down his throat, marking him with open adoration and unspoken hunger.
“You smell like summer and arrogance,” Ares growled.
“You taste like bad decisions and heaven,” Apollo hissed back, hips lifting into the god’s body like a melody caught in crescendo.
Clothes were a distant memory. The altar groaned beneath them—sacred, yes, but also extremely well-made and suspiciously sturdy.
Ares took his time. For once.
Not out of gentleness, but intent. Every press of lips, every bite of shoulder, every low moan into golden skin was deliberate. Like he was carving his name into the very core of Apollo.
Apollo, who tangled fingers in Ares’ dark hair and whispered blasphemies between kisses that would have melted any mortal’s spine.
Apollo, who gasped, “Harder,” as Ares ground into him with an intensity that shattered composure and possibly the concept of sin itself.
Apollo, who begged—not out of submission, but devotion.
And when Ares finally sank into him, slow and unyielding, the air trembled.
Not metaphorically. The actual air.
Harp strings snapped somewhere in the distance. A flame sconce exploded. Artemis muttered “for fuck’s sake” and covered her ears.
On the altar, they moved together like war and symphony, like flame and rhythm, like two forces that should’ve clashed but instead merged. Ares held Apollo’s hips with reverence and greed. Apollo clung to him like a divine storm, pulling him closer, deeper, until it was impossible to tell where sun ended and steel began.
“Say it,” Ares demanded, teeth brushing Apollo’s earlobe.
Apollo turned his head, panting, eyes blown wide and bright like stars. “You’re mine.”
Ares shuddered. “You were always mine.”
And they came together with the kind of sound that echoed through Olympus for days.
Priests had long since scattered, banished by a single look from Ares—one that said leave unless you’d like to bleed out respectfully. Apollo had offered no objections, only smiled with that wicked little upturn at the corner of his mouth that said this altar’s about to be used for something very unliturgical.
“God of War,” Apollo murmured, walking backwards up the dais, undoing his belt with one fluid tug. “Do you intend to desecrate my temple?”
Ares shrugged off his crimson cloak. It landed on the marble like blood spilled for beauty.
“I don’t desecrate. I glorify.”
“Oh, then by all means,” Apollo purred, reclining backwards onto the sun-warmed stone, tunic parting like curtains at a scandalous play. “Worship me.”
Ares was on him in two strides.
Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, hands rough on hips and thighs. Apollo arched with a sharp gasp as Ares’ teeth dragged down his throat, marking him with open adoration and unspoken hunger.
“You smell like summer and arrogance,” Ares growled.
“You taste like bad decisions and heaven,” Apollo hissed back, hips lifting into the god’s body like a melody caught in crescendo.
Clothes were a distant memory. The altar groaned beneath them—sacred, yes, but also extremely well-made and suspiciously sturdy.
Ares took his time. For once.
Not out of gentleness, but intent. Every press of lips, every bite of shoulder, every low moan into golden skin was deliberate. Like he was carving his name into the very core of Apollo.
Apollo, who tangled fingers in Ares’ dark hair and whispered blasphemies between kisses that would have melted any mortal’s spine.
Apollo, who gasped, “Harder,” as Ares ground into him with an intensity that shattered composure and possibly the concept of sin itself.
Apollo, who begged—not out of submission, but devotion.
And when Ares finally sank into him, slow and unyielding, the air trembled.
Not metaphorically. The actual air.
Harp strings snapped somewhere in the distance. A flame sconce exploded. Artemis muttered “for fuck’s sake” and covered her ears.
On the altar, they moved together like war and symphony, like flame and rhythm, like two forces that should’ve clashed but instead merged. Ares held Apollo’s hips with reverence and greed. Apollo clung to him like a divine storm, pulling him closer, deeper, until it was impossible to tell where sun ended and steel began.
“Say it,” Ares demanded, teeth brushing Apollo’s earlobe.
Apollo turned his head, panting, eyes blown wide and bright like stars. “You’re mine.”
Ares shuddered. “You were always mine.”
And they came together with the kind of sound that echoed through Olympus for days.
When Hermes stumbled in—not on purpose, allegedly—he took one look at the altar, at Ares’ bite marks on Apollo’s inner thigh, at the glow that made the entire room look like a sunrise having an orgasm, and muttered:
“…I’m never using this altar again.”
He left behind his sandals.
Ares still has them.
“…I’m never using this altar again.”
He left behind his sandals.
Ares still has them.
