Of Sun and Steel: The Forbidden Verse
An alternative version of the myth told only in shadows and behind the Muses’ closed doors.
Mount Olympus was a place of glory, pettiness, and really impressive thighs.
Ares wasn’t supposed to be in the Temple of Apollo. He hated lyres, poetry, and anything that didn’t involve punching someone into a crater. But there he was, scowling at sunlight and stalking through laurel groves like a war dog in a garden party.
“Bold of you to trespass,” came the voice. Smooth. Wicked. Golden. “Unless you’re hoping to be tamed.”
Ares turned with a grunt. “You think you could tame me, Sun-boy?”
Apollo was leaning against a carved column, arms folded, hips angled like a sculptor’s fantasy, sun catching on bare shoulders and a white tunic that was aggressively suggestive of nothing at all underneath.
“I think you’re already halfway on your knees,” Apollo said lazily. “You just haven’t noticed.”
Ares stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “You want me on my knees?”
“I want to see if the god of war moans,” Apollo whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the breeze.
The air between them went molten.
Ares wasn’t supposed to be in the Temple of Apollo. He hated lyres, poetry, and anything that didn’t involve punching someone into a crater. But there he was, scowling at sunlight and stalking through laurel groves like a war dog in a garden party.
“Bold of you to trespass,” came the voice. Smooth. Wicked. Golden. “Unless you’re hoping to be tamed.”
Ares turned with a grunt. “You think you could tame me, Sun-boy?”
Apollo was leaning against a carved column, arms folded, hips angled like a sculptor’s fantasy, sun catching on bare shoulders and a white tunic that was aggressively suggestive of nothing at all underneath.
“I think you’re already halfway on your knees,” Apollo said lazily. “You just haven’t noticed.”
Ares stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “You want me on my knees?”
“I want to see if the god of war moans,” Apollo whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the breeze.
The air between them went molten.
They fought, of course. First with words. Then with swords. Then with mouths, gasps, and desperate fingers.
Their first real kiss happened after a spar. Ares had a split lip. Apollo had a bruised shoulder and a smile that could have turned temples to ash.
Ares had pounced, slammed him against a pillar.
“You’re a menace,” Apollo said, breath hitching as Ares’ mouth ghosted over his jaw.
“I am war,” he growled. “You knew what you were asking for.”
“I’m asking again.”
And Ares kissed him—biting, claiming, heat and hunger tangled in golden hair. Apollo kissed back with fire. Not yielding, not soft, but equal. Teeth and tongues, lips sliding, hands pushing tunics up and yanking belts down.
Clothes disappeared like offerings to the wind.
Their first real kiss happened after a spar. Ares had a split lip. Apollo had a bruised shoulder and a smile that could have turned temples to ash.
Ares had pounced, slammed him against a pillar.
“You’re a menace,” Apollo said, breath hitching as Ares’ mouth ghosted over his jaw.
“I am war,” he growled. “You knew what you were asking for.”
“I’m asking again.”
And Ares kissed him—biting, claiming, heat and hunger tangled in golden hair. Apollo kissed back with fire. Not yielding, not soft, but equal. Teeth and tongues, lips sliding, hands pushing tunics up and yanking belts down.
Clothes disappeared like offerings to the wind.
In Apollo’s private chamber, bathed in lamplight and honeyed shadows, Ares knelt between his thighs—not conquered, but devoted. He worshipped Apollo with hands rough from war and lips surprisingly reverent. Every kiss a surrender. Every sigh from Apollo a victory.
“You like the way I beg?” Apollo gasped, fingers gripping dark curls.
Ares looked up, pupils blown wide. “I love the way you break.”
Apollo did, in the best way.
Later, Ares lay beneath him, hair wild on the pillows, skin gleaming with sweat, letting Apollo ride him slow, deep, and divine. There was nothing gentle about the grip of Apollo’s thighs, or the way he chanted Ares’ name like a prayer he never planned to stop repeating.
“You like the way I beg?” Apollo gasped, fingers gripping dark curls.
Ares looked up, pupils blown wide. “I love the way you break.”
Apollo did, in the best way.
Later, Ares lay beneath him, hair wild on the pillows, skin gleaming with sweat, letting Apollo ride him slow, deep, and divine. There was nothing gentle about the grip of Apollo’s thighs, or the way he chanted Ares’ name like a prayer he never planned to stop repeating.
They were caught once, sprawled on a sun-warmed altar, Ares biting Apollo’s neck while the god of music moaned out praise like a hymn.
Hermes nearly dropped his caduceus.
“Dionysus owes me ten drachma,” he muttered, walking briskly away.
Hermes nearly dropped his caduceus.
“Dionysus owes me ten drachma,” he muttered, walking briskly away.
Eventually, they stopped hiding. Let Olympus stare. Let the stars gossip.
Let them know that Ares came undone only under Apollo’s touch. That the god of light burned hottest in war’s arms.
When they kissed in public—Apollo’s hand in Ares’ tangled hair, Ares dragging his thumb along Apollo’s hipbone like a possessive oath—it was no longer scandal.
It was truth.
Let them know that Ares came undone only under Apollo’s touch. That the god of light burned hottest in war’s arms.
When they kissed in public—Apollo’s hand in Ares’ tangled hair, Ares dragging his thumb along Apollo’s hipbone like a possessive oath—it was no longer scandal.
It was truth.
And still the myth endures:
That they were not opposites, but complements.
Not rivals, but a perfect, ruinous harmony.
That when the god of war fell, it was to music and moaning.
And when the sun rose, it was from Ares’ bed.
That they were not opposites, but complements.
Not rivals, but a perfect, ruinous harmony.
That when the god of war fell, it was to music and moaning.
And when the sun rose, it was from Ares’ bed.
