Chapter Text
Luke Castellan had died.
He had plunged the knife—the one he had given to Annabeth, his friend, his little sister—into his weak spot. He was certain of it. The pain, the blurring of his vision, and the sudden struggle for breath were all too vivid to be a mere hallucination.
He had heard Kronos’ screams, the curses and insults echoing inside his mind as they both slipped away from the realm of the living, bound together even in death.
But now it was silent.
Luke opened his eyes, only to shut them almost instantly, blinded by the harsh light—was the Underworld always this bright?
Slowly, he eased them open again, adjusting to the brightness. When his vision finally cleared, he was met with the vast expanse of blue sky above him.
And the sight filled him with agony.
Had he failed after all? Had Kronos escaped at the last moment? Had he doomed all the children to a future of suffering under a Titan’s tyrannical rule?
Why had he ever believed a Titan would be better than a god? They were all the same—
He forced himself to control his breathing, staving off a panic attack before it could seize him.
Losing control now would only make things worse.
He needed to think.
While he wasn’t as smart as Annabeth—was she okay? Please let her be safe—he was clever enough to piece things together.
First, he had died—he was sure of it. But now, the rapid beating of his heart and the quick, shallow breaths were proof enough that he was alive again.
Second, he no longer had the Curse of Achilles. A quick pinch on his arm and the sharp pain that followed confirmed it.
Third, his mind was his own once more. The only voice tormenting him was his own. All this time, Kronos had remained silent, and though it might be a trick—his master enjoyed playing cruel games, it entertained him—the heavy, oppressive weight was lifted, and his body felt lighter, as it hadn't in a long time.
Unbidden, relief and a surge of joy washed over him, making him giggle hysterically for several minutes.
Kronos was as good as dead; it would take a long time—if ever—for his pieces to reassemble.
Luke was free. He was free!
After laughing for a few more moments, he slowly caught his breath and calmed down, reminding himself that he still didn’t know where he was or how he was alive.
Or if the gods would come after him.
Slowly, he hauled himself upright, making his limbs cooperate as he fought to sit. Once he succeeded, he took in his surroundings with wary eyes, bracing himself even though he felt ready to collapse.
Luke had lived on the streets after running away from his mother—a sibilant voice, harsh hands, and crazed green eyes—dodging men with sugary smiles but hungry eyes, and monsters with even more ravenous gazes.
Under the bosom of the city lights and the cold embrace of the ground, he had been forced to learn that there was no such thing as being too careful.
Only the privileged could afford to say otherwise.
Using the skills life had taught him, Luke slowly scanned his surroundings, growing more confused the longer he looked.
He was lying on grass, with a few scattered trees around the plains surrounding him. The terrain was uneven and mountainous, dotted with numerous peaks.
In short, he was nowhere near the urban jungle that was New York, which made no sense.
How could he have ended up here?
Lifting himself up on shaky legs, he staggered for a moment before finding his balance. Then he picked a random direction and began walking.
Maybe he could find something to help him orient himself—perhaps a distinctive landmark or something similar.
He pushed aside the rising panic. This was not the time to break down; he needed to focus on survival, and for that, he required information.
Still, the unsettling feeling persisted, growing worse the longer he walked without encountering any buildings or roads.
Thankfully, after some time walking, his legs trembling from the effort, he came across a dirt path marked with traces of wagon wheels.
It struck him as odd, but with no other lead, he continued walking, following the path.
Soon, Luke, leaning against a tree for support, stared with wide-eyed shock and disbelief at what appeared to be a settlement. Though his eyes saw it clearly, his mind struggled to accept what he was witnessing.
Ahead, in the distance, a city unfolded. The buildings were unlike the sprawling, bustling cities he was used to—less busy and not as grandiose—but familiar all the same.
It was Greek. Ancient Greek architecture.
Annabeth had always had a passion for it, so he would sit with her and listen as she enthusiastically discussed the various styles and details—not because he found it interesting, but because it made her happy.
Even so, he had learned enough to slowly become certain that what he was seeing was real, and not some cheap imitation.
As much as he wished it was.
Kronos had sent him here, to a time when the gods' power was at its height, as a final taunt, a last cruel trick.
A punishment for betraying him.
Staggering back, Luke felt his vision blur as distress took over. The only sound in his mind was the echo of Kronos’ mocking laughter.
Calm down, think, he chanted to himself, pressing his hands to his temples and forcing his breaths to slow.
Feeling slightly more composed, he lifted his head and stared at the city again to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating. Yet, no solution came to mind—no way to escape this situation, let alone return to his own time.
Even if he would be dead back home, it would still be preferable to this.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of someone approaching. Turning to look, he saw a figure in the distance who seemed to be a traveler, dressed in a cloak that covered a good part of his torso and a hat that hid his face.
Slowly, he edged back to hide behind the tree, moving as quietly as possible to avoid the stranger's notice. He wasn't sure if the man would be friendly, and Luke was still wearing his own clothes—clothes that would certainly be foreign to these people.
Once hidden, he pressed his forehead to the trunk for a moment, before peering out to check on the strange figure.
But the man was not there.
A shiver ran down Luke's spine as he scanned the path, dread gripping his limbs and making him feel cold all over.
Slowly, he turned around.
The stranger loomed right behind him, a wide, unsettling smile stretching across his face.
Despite the cloak, it was clear he wore nothing underneath, and any breeze would expose him entirely. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and oddly, his features remained obscured even at this close distance, making it impossible for Luke to discern any specific details of his face.
For a split second, Luke stood frozen, staring at the man with wide eyes. Then, he bolted, the sound of laughter growing fainter behind him as he ran.
He had no idea how long he ran, only that pure terror drove him forward, his shaky legs barely keeping up. He sprinted across the plains, frantically searching for a forest, somewhere—anywhere—he could hide.
Luke had always been good at hiding—it was the first lesson his mother had taught him—but these vast, open spaces gave him no shadows to slip into, only exposure and danger.
And so he ran.
He kept running, pushing himself so hard he was sure his lungs would give out and his legs would stop working.
With a delayed realization, he noticed there were no sounds of pursuit.
Just as he experienced a faint, vague sense of relief, a hand shot out from the shadows, grabbing his collar and yanking him to a stop. The sudden force made him choke as the collar dug into his throat.
Then, the stranger—it was a god, he was sure of it—tossed him to the ground and pinned him beneath him. With ease, the god effortlessly swatted away Luke’s feeble, desperate attempts to fight back and rearranged his limbs with the finesse of a sculptor shaping clay.
“That was a fun game, little bárbaroi,” the man declared in an ancient tongue Luke recognized only through his heritage, a trace of delighted laughter underlying his voice. With a sly smile—the only clear feature in his otherwise blurry face—he continued, “But I’ve won. Now, what shall be my prize, hmm?”
No. No. No. This can’t be real.
With a shiver of dread, the realization of what was about to happen setting off alarm bells in his mind, Luke renewed his struggles with a surge of desperate strength. Summoning every ounce of energy he still had left, he fought to free himself.
But it was useless.
The god simply adjusted his grip and continued speaking as if Luke’s frantic struggles were of no concern.
“Maybe…” the stranger drawled slowly, his smile unchanged but his voice growing cruel, “you should be my prize, ho kallistē.”
Pretty one.
This god was calling him pretty, and in Greek myth, pretty mortals rarely ended well.
Luke had used it as a rallying cry, one of his many reasons to overthrow them all, but he had never—never—expected it to be aimed at him again.
He was a grown man now, far from the tiny, delicate child he had once been. He was tall, strong, and even if he was good-looking, his face bore a large, unsightly scar.
It drove people away, and he took satisfaction in that—it was another layer of protection.
But now, he felt like that child again.
The fear he had thought long buried surged back, crawling beneath his skin. It would never fully leave him. It was buried too deep, latched onto his bones, and embedded in his marrow.
And he hated it.
“What’s this?” the god asked, his tone cordial but dangerous, his hand gripping Luke’s jaw tightly. “Don’t you speak? Don’t you know the civilized tongue?”
With wide eyes, Luke attempted to answer, but his tongue felt clumsy and heavy, refusing to cooperate.
“You understand me. I know you do,” the man whispered, his hand moving from Luke’s jaw down his torso to rest lightly on his waist. “Speak, I want to hear your voice.”
Unsettled, Luke wet his lips, noticing how the god seemed to track the movement. He swallowed hard before saying, “I…I’m sorry.”
Tilting his head, the creature repeated the word slowly, then smiled widely and remarked, “A tongue I haven’t heard before. Interesting.”
Belatedly, Luke realized he had spoken in English, and somehow, the god had replied in kind, despite hearing just one word.
No. It couldn’t be. The Fates couldn’t be so cruel.
Yet, the man’s hand slid slowly under his shirt, brushing against the bare skin of his waist before continuing to travel up, the touch almost teasing.
Trembling, Luke reached out and grabbed the god’s wrist, pleading, "No! Dad, please don't!"
The man abruptly paused, then raised his gaze, revealing his features clearly for the first time. He locked eyes with him—blue meeting blue—before seizing Luke’s face and tilting his head from side to side.
Humming thoughtfully, he said, “I don’t recall meeting your other parent, especially one with such a curious tongue. And I’ve encountered many foreigners in my travels.” His voice took on a dangerous edge as he added, “You wouldn’t dare lie to a god, would you?”
“No!” Luke exclaimed, his heart pounding in his chest like a caged animal. “I swear! I swear by the Styx!”
Thunder rumbled in the sky, confirming the truth of his words.
Releasing his grip, his father glanced up momentarily before turning his attention back to Luke. "So, it appears you’ve told the truth. Curious. What’s your name?"
Wary and still on edge, he replied, “Luke.”
His father rolled the name around on his tongue, then looked down at him and said, “Loukas. Fitting.”
He didn’t bother correcting it, acutely aware of how his father still loomed over him, caging him.
Then, the god resumed his actions, pressing a knee between Luke’s legs to force them apart, while his hands busied themselves by lifting Luke’s shirt, exposing his bare skin. The creature’s gaze followed the exposed flesh with a hunger Luke knew all too well.
Alarmed, he attempted to push the god away, but he was far weaker than this monster using the face of a human. With a trembling voice, he protested, “I’m your son.”
“And?” Hermes replied casually, his hand now trailing along Luke’s sides. “Incest is the gods' prerogative.”
Shivering, Luke began to thrash desperately, his hands flailing and clawing at the air. Fear consumed him, blurring his vision until all he could sense were the hands on him and the frantic pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.
He froze when his father’s hand clamped around his throat, the grip painfully tight. Lowering his mouth to Luke’s ear, his voice took on a dangerous edge as he muttered, “I can be gentle, or I can be harsh. The choice is yours.”
Tears welled in Luke's eyes as he squeezed them shut, forcing himself to go still and silent.
Hermes hummed in approval, loosening his grip on Luke's neck, his lips ghosting over the pulse as he whispered, "Good boy."
Remaining as still as possible, Luke let his head loll to the side. His gaze, distant and empty, fixed on the endless stretch of green surrounding him. He tried, and failed, to block out the feel of Hermes’ lips grazing his neck, the god’s hands exploring every inch of his body with patient thoroughness.
He swallowed down a strangled cry as the monster’s fingers found his nipples, pinching and twisting them persistently while his mouth marked another bruise into the skin of Luke’s neck.
Apparently satisfied with his work, Hermes pressed open-mouthed kisses down Luke’s neck, over his collarbones, and finally to his chest. His tongue licked a stripe of sweat from the middle of Luke’s chest, his hands gripping his waist tightly enough to bruise, all the while watching him with a dark, predatory gaze.
Shutting down his eyes to avoid the sight of those cruel eyes and biting on his lips as the god’s tongue flicked over a nipple, Luke desperately tried to think of anything other than what was happening—than what his own father was doing to him.
But, once again, he failed.
Hermes closed his mouth around a nipple, sucking and flickering his tongue over it. The surprisingly pleasurable sensation made Luke’s breath hitch and his body flush with heat. Meanwhile, Hermes’ hands traveled down from his waist to his ass, groping it and pulled it firmly against his own hips.
The god lightly rocked his hips against Luke’s, the hardness poking against his backside. But before his panic could seize him, he choked down a moan as Hermes nipped and sucked harshly at his chest.
Leaning back, the god licked his lips and stared at him for a moment before shifting his focus to Luke’s pants. After a brief, tentative attempt with the zipper, Hermes grew impatient and simply tore the pants away.
Instinctively, Luke tried to close his legs, but Hermes easily pried them open with his greater strength. Tutting softly, the god pressed his lips against Luke’s thigh and murmured in a husky voice, “Now, now, be good. Patēr will make you feel good.”
No. Luke didn’t want this.
Closing his eyes tightly—and suppressing a sob—he threw an arm over his eyes as he felt a trail of kisses move from his thigh to his crotch, ending with a warm breath directly over his dick.
Luke flinched when a tongue licked him teasingly, pressing his lips together to keep from making any sounds. Meanwhile, a finger slowly rubbed against his hole, tracing the ring of muscle with feather-light circles.
However, a high-pitched keen managed to escape his mouth as Hermes took him in his mouth. He bit down on his wrist to stifle any further noises, refusing to give his father this satisfaction.
As the god bobbed his head rhythmically, he rubbed his finger in synch with the motions, and then, with a deliberate press, inserted one finger inside.
The sensation was strange, but Luke was too consumed by the feeling of Hermes’ mouth and the intense shame washing over him to process it fully.
That is, until the god curled his fingers, making Luke see stars.
Gripping his father's hair, Luke tried to pull him away, tears streaming down his face. But his efforts only made Hermes take him in deeper, his fingers repeatedly hitting that sensitive spot inside, causing Luke to choke down a moan and arch his back in response.
Suddenly, Hermes lifted himself up, and before Luke could really process what was happening, he found himself bent in half, his ass thrust in the air as something was pressed insistently against his hole.
“O glykitaton,” the monster crooned in Luke’s ear, his breath hot and uneven.
As that thing was pushed inside him slowly but surely, Luke whimpered and twisted his face.
Sweet thing, his father had called him.
Pain, fear, and humiliation, combined with—he was so ashamed, why was he feeling this?—pleasure, twisted together in a knot in Luke's chest. He sobbed, tears streaming down on his face, as the creature above him grunted and drove his hips forward.
His father was raping him.
As Hermes’ marked his neck with fresh bites, wildly rutting above him, Luke went limp, his gaze fixed on the sky with vacant eyes.
Was this his punishment?
He should have just stayed dead.