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Percy grabbing Luke by the collar if his shirt and shoving him against the wall. His grip is rough, bordering on painful, and his eyes are a glowing, poisonous green.

"I love you," he spits, lips twisting in a rictus of a snarl. "I love you."

Luke only laughs. His mouth is red; it splits his face like the wound that mars his cheek.

"Why, Percy," he croons, affectionate and mocking combined into one, "how romantic."

He lifts a hand to caress Percy's cheek, his touch deliberately gentle; a parody of tenderness.

"I hate you too," Luke says softly, and pulls Percy in to kiss him.

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Can someone draw Luke in this pose

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Hermes/Luke — possession

"Stop doing all that," Luke scoffs, "I don't need it."

Hermes pauses. He looks up from the vee of Luke's legs, a solid line of heat nestled between his thighs.

"Now now." He smiles charmingly, looking up at Luke from under his lashes. His hand is broad and warm against Luke's thigh. "I'm only preparing you, son. Foreplay is —"

"I know what foreplay is, Hermes." Luke rolls his eyes. "And I'm saying you can save it. Obviously I prepared myself beforehand."

Hermes stills.

He stares at Luke, blue gaze unblinking. His eyes are...nice, Luke loathes to admit, just like the rest of him — flawless to the point of unnatural perfection, a sliver of his inhumanity slipping through the hairline fractures of his mortal façade.

"Obviously," Hermes echoes.

Luke sneers, lips curling into a moue of disdain. "What, did you think you're the first man I've fucked?"

For a long moment, Hermes says nothing.

His hand flexes minutely from its position on Luke's inner thigh, fingers splaying across the expanse of soft skin.

Like a brand, Luke thinks suddenly, although he doesn't know why.

Somehow, he feels like he's made a mistake.

In the next moment, Hermes moves. In one fluid motion, he pins Luke against the bed, gripping both of his wrists with one large hand, looming over him.

Luke's eyes widen. "What are you —!"

Gone is the playfulness from Hermes' face, the mischievous grin pulling at his lips. In its place is an unsettling blankness, devoid of emotion. His eyes are twin chips of ice, boring into Luke with an intensity that makes the hairs on the back of Luke's neck stand.

His other hand reaches to cup Luke's cheek before trailing down, and Luke very deliberately does not freeze when he feels strong fingers wrap fleetingly around his neck.

He swallows harshly. Regrets it; knows without even looking that Hermes has heard it.

Something dark flickers in Hermes' eyes, quiet and monstrous. His gaze rests on Luke's throat, on the delicate jut of his adam's apple.

But he never tightens his grip. Slowly, his hand shifts until it rests on Luke's chest, where Luke's heart beats a frantic pace.

The entire time, he doesn't look away from Luke's face even once.

"I may not be the first man you have invited into your bed," Hermes says slowly, "but I will be your last."

He doesn't yell, doesn't rage. But the calmness of his tone conversely makes Luke want to recoil — except there's nowhere to run.

Hermes' words are neither a threat nor a promise, he suspects, dread dripping cold and thick down his spine.

To him, it's only simple fact.

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Hermes/Luke — HAUNT ME

"Why are you doing this," Hermes says. He is tired, as much as a god can feel exhaustion. It is three days after the end of the second Titanomachy, three days after the death of his son. And yet he has not mourned Luke. He has not had the time to, with him right by his side.

"Luke. Why are you here?"

Luke smiles at him, teeth bloody. His eyes are cold and flat, dull chips of painted stone.

"Where else would I be?" He asks.

Anywhere but here, Hermes wants to say.

Death has turned his son into a facsimile of the man he was in life. Gone is the vitriol in his eyes, the bitter resentment in his words and voice that Hermes had grown used to hearing from him. What remains is something distorted, taking the remnants of who Luke had been when he was alive and warping them until Hermes no longer knows where Luke ends and Hermes' own twisted fantasies begin.

"In the Underworld," he replies instead. "You should be in Elysium, Luke. You don't belong in the living world. Not anymore."

Luke's smile widens, growing larger and larger until it almost seems to split his face open. His mouth is painted dark with viscera; the scar bisecting his eye rips open with a dull noise, revealing flesh and ragged bone. He is still beautiful.

"Hermes," he says, an almost crooning note in his voice, "we both know I wouldn't be here if you didn't want me to."

Hermes says nothing. They both know there is nothing he could say to deny it.

"Silly father," Luke murmurs. Icy fingers dance their way up the nape of Hermes' neck. "Always doing too little, too late."

Hermes squeezes his eyes shut. "Luke —"

His son hums a cheerful tune, one that Hermes remembers May singing to him, before her mind had crumbled beyond recognition. It sounds odd and disjointed, the notes falling just slightly too flat.

"Did you know I thought about you, when I was dying?" Luke asks sweetly. "I wondered if you would come in time to see my last moments. Fleet-footed Hermes, swiftest of the gods. Would you have come, if you knew I was bleeding out at the foot of your golden throne?"

"Yes," Hermes bursts out, desperate and frenzied. Something shatters in the distance, but he cannot bring himself to care. "Of course I would have, Luke. But I didn't know, I swear it, I didn't know —"

"No?" Luke laughs. The sound is lilting and strange. "You always knew I would die. You were mourning me the moment my fate was set in stone."

Cold hands trace his cheek, cradling his face with a fleeting touch. Hermes stares into his son's eyes, hollow and flat and dead, dead, dead.

"Oh Hermes," Luke croons, and Hermes pretends the softness in his voice is that of affection. "You might as well have held the knife that killed me."

When Luke presses his lips to his, cold and blue, Hermes leans in, and pretends it doesn't feel like damnation.

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Dionysus/Luke, dubcon

After his failed quest at the Garden of Hesperides, Luke knocks on Dionysus' door one night, begging him to take away his night terrors.

Pretty boy with his pretty mouth and pretty blue eyes, lashes glistening with tears — how could Dionysus resist? This culminates in him fucking Luke through the mattress of his room in the Big House, pinning Luke to the bed as he grinds his cock deep in Luke's pussy with deep, slow strokes.

Luke's gasping at the thick length carving him open, eyes rolling in the back of his head as Dionysus draws out so his cock catches on the rim of his hole, and then slams back in with a lewd squelch, his cock head bruising his cervix. Luke's a mess, sobbing and whimpering as he squirts all over the bedsheets, legs twitching helplessly as he's being made to come over and over again.

He's never had sex before — how could he? He arrived at Camp at age 14. Pretty wide-eyed virgin, just begging for someone to have a taste.

Dionysus makes him suck on his fingers, dipped in potent wine. It's deceptively sweet and it's not long before his cheeks flush red, eyes glassy and mouth wet and slack. Dionysus purrs in satisfaction, kisses him to taste the wine on his tongue, wet and dirty — Luke can only lie there and take what he gives him.

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Rules

This blog will post dead dove content (i.e. incest, dub/noncon), so don't like don't read! It's totally ok if you don't feel comfortable with dead dove content — my kinks may not be your kinks and vice-versa, and that's ok. Just please scroll away if that's not your thing; I cba to argue with anyone about my fictional kinks about fictional people and will use the block button liberally if needed.

No minors please. This blog is strictly 18+ ONLY.

Reblogs are ok but if you have minors following you, please hide your reblogs of my posts under the maturity/nsfw warning!! I do not want minors reading my posts.

Thanks for reading<3