#reader x apollo

You blinked, “What?”

Apollo’s smile thinned, “You heard me. Say something kind. Say something honest. Or I’ll throw you both from Olympus, and you can rut in the mud like pigs.”

You froze.

The silence screamed louder than anything you could say.

Compliment him?

You’d rather bleed.

But your body trembled, aching, split between denial and desire. And Hyacinthus, Hyacinthus hadn’t looked away. His jaw was set, but his eyes burned with something hollow and desperate, something that mirrored your own.

You swallowed the last of your dignity and let the words drag their claws up your throat.

“His face is perfect, his lips are soft, and his hair is so soft… His tongue is made of warm light inside of me, and I don’t know if I will experience something as good as that… not even from you, Lord Apollo.”

The admission was like tearing your skin off.

Hyacinthus flinched like he’d been struck. His hands flexed against your hips, “Fuck,” he whispered, more breath than voice.

Apollo’s grin turned feral.

“Your turn,” he said, turning to Hyacinthus, “Say something. Or I’ll bind your cock in gold and leave it pulsing for eternity.”

Hyacinthus’s throat bobbed. He didn’t look at Apollo.

He looked at you.

“A gloriously wet cunt to fuck and claim and fight a war over.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him, at this beautiful, infuriating boy who had once been your rival and now lay trembling beneath you, not from fear, but from the weight of truth.

And gods help you, something twisted in your chest.

Apollo stood away from the bed and folded his arms over his chest as he walked around the rounded bed, observing you both from all angles.

Your hips rocked without meaning to, and both of you gasped.

Apollo laughed, bright and sharp, “Good.” His voice dripped like honey over flame, “Now again.”

Because of course he wasn’t done.

Because neither were you.

“Again,” Apollo barked.

You barely had time to catch your breath.

“Compliment him again,” he continued, circling around the two of you like a lion around a pair of bleeding deer, “Not just flesh. Not just fucking. I want something real. Something you’ve never said out loud.”

You swallowed hard, rage scraping the inside of your throat.

“No.”

His footsteps stopped behind you, “No?”

You could feel the smile in his voice.

“Do you think this is a choice?” His fingers trailed up your spine, warm, gentle, deceptive, “You’re both so eager to prove how unbreakable you are. But you already obeyed me once. That’s all it takes. One fracture. The rest comes easily.”

You shivered.

Hyacinthus’s hands clenched at your waist, his voice low and dangerous, “I’d rather die than tell you.”

Apollo chuckled, “How dramatic. Is that what this is?” He crouched besides you now, his voice a velvet threat against your neck, “Do you think your love is noble just because it’s poisoned with hate?”

You flinched. The word hit harder than it should have.

Love.

“That’s not what this is,” you spat.

Apollo hummed, “No? Then why do you keep looking at each other like the pain is personal?”

He reached forward suddenly, gripping Hyacinthus’s jaw, forcing him to look at you, “Go on,” he whispered, “Tell her how it feels. Being inside someone who loathes you. Is it everything you hoped for?”

Hyacinthus’s breathing went ragged, “It’s worse.”

“Good,” Apollo murmured, “That means it matters.”

He turned to you, “Your turn, little thing. Tell him something he’s never heard before. Something you swore you’d never say.”

“I don’t owe him that.”

“You don’t owe me,” Apollo corrected, his thumb brushing the base of your throat, just firm enough to remind you that you weren’t in control anymore, “But you’ll give it anyway.”

You bit your lip, hard, willing the tears of frustration not to rise. You wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

But the silence grew heavier. The ache inside you is unbearable. And that voice, that damn voice, kept pulling you deeper.

“If you don’t tell him the truth,” Apollo said softly, “I’ll know. And I’ll make sure the next time he’s inside you, you’ll feel nothing. Not heat. Not pressure. Not released. Just emptiness.”

You weren’t sure if you would ever touch the flower god again. The thought tasted bitter, metallic, like copper pennies against your tongue. But Apollo’s decree, cold and final, splintered something deeper inside you than mere want. It fractured you.

A sound ripped itself free from your throat, too wild to be a sob, too broken to be a snarl. Raw, desperate.

“That’s cruel,” Hyacinthus murmured, his voice fraying at the edges.

“No,” Apollo corrected smoothly, voice wrapped in silk and steel, “that’s mercy.” He circled you both, a golden orbit of authority, “You don’t get to tarnish something sacred and treat it like a battlefield.”

You were trembling now. Every muscle quivering, each breath a battle between humiliation and something worse: vulnerability. Stripped bare, not by touch, but by the truth clawing its way to the surface.

Your gaze lifted, throat tight with unshed agony. First to Apollo, who loomed like a god carved from sunlight. Then lower, to Hyacinthus, whose body strained beneath yours, a taut wire ready to snap.

And there, you shattered.

“My curse,” you rasped, voice gravel-thick and unwilling, “is his charisma.” The words fought you, scraping up your throat like glass“. He draws every gaze without trying. He laughs, and the world leans closer. He’s funny, charming—beautiful.” Your voice softened as you shifted, the confession no longer for Apollo but for the man beneath you, the one buried inside your body, “And I know I lack it. I know I’ll never be that. And gods help me, I hate how much I want you to see me anyway. To notice me. To touch me, like you touch Apollo.”

The words, once spoken, left you trembling, naked in a way flesh could never be.

Hyacinthus’s face collapsed. For just a breath of time, a crack split through the marble mask he wore. Vulnerability flared, and it nearly undid you.

Apollo’s breath, rich and indulgent, fanned your cheek. His knuckle traced the curve of your lower lip, featherlight, “See?” he crooned, with a satisfaction that made your skin burn, “That was beautiful.”

He straightened, folding his hands neatly behind his back, a golden judge presiding over your ruin.

“Again,” he commanded.

And now, you understood.

This was the real offering. Not your bodies; those were already Apollo’s. No, he wanted the deeper sacrifices: pride, secrets, and the trembling confessions you would never have given willingly. He would flay you with truth, peeling you apart layer by fragile layer, until all that remained was unvarnished devotion.

And worse still, worse than the ache between your thighs, worse than the humiliation tightening your chest, was the knowledge that you would let him.

Because now you needed to know what he would strip away next.

Apollo’s eyes turned to Hyacinthus, gilded irises sharpening, “You,” he said, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath, “You act like you're the one resisting. As if I haven’t already seen you trembling beneath her. Seen the way you ache, not just for her body, but for the ruin she could make of you if you let her.”

Hyacinthus’s muscles coiled, every line of him taut, his breath uneven. You could feel it, the fraying tether, the desperate resistance.

Apollo tilted his head in mockery, all golden cruelty, “You pretend you’re here for conquest. But you’re not. You’re here because when she hurts you, with words, with her eyes, it wounds deeper than any blade. And you need it, don’t you? That pain. That reminder you’re alive.”

Hyacinthus bared his teeth, a snarl scraping from his throat, “You think you know me?”

Apollo chuckled, low and dark, a sound of omniscience, “I don’t think so, boy.”

He moved, a shimmer of light and danger, circling behind Hyacinthus. One hand dragged, slow and deliberate, down Hyacinthus’s spine, tracing each vertebra with maddening precision.

“Your pride is a gaudy costume,” Apollo said, voice dipping into something almost tender, almost pitying, “A desperate thing stitched together to hide how hollow you are. You look at her like she’s the enemy. But I see the truth. I see the hunger.”

Hyacinthus’s breathing was ragged now. Sweat shimmered at his temple. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Wouldn’t meet Apollo’s either.

So Apollo forced him.

A fist knotted in Hyacinthus’s hair and jerked his head up. His hiss of pain was sharp, real.

“Look at her,” Apollo ordered, his voice curling around the words like a noose, “Compliment her.”

Hyacinthus trembled. Truly trembled. For the first time, you saw fear, not fear of pain or death, but fear of being known.

Slowly, his gaze turned to you, and there was no rage there now. No disdain.

Only shame. And longing.

“She…” His voice cracked. He swallowed, hard, and the sound was painful, “You. You are so loyal. So… impossibly devoted. You carry yourself like a queen, sweet and untouchable. You care for Apollo, for everyone, even those who would spit in your face. You…” He faltered, breaking, “You wish me a good day. Every day. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You blinked, stunned, unmoored.

Hyacinthus’s mouth twisted, each word wrenched from somewhere deep and hidden.

“I hate it,” he whispered, “I hate how much I admire it. I hate how your kindness is a fortress I can’t breach. You’re everything I know I’m not: kind, resilient, and good. And gods, I loathe you for it. Because if you can be all that, what does that make me?”

You froze, your heart a wild, thrashing thing in your chest.

Apollo released Hyacinthus’s hair, stepping back with a smile as sharp as a sword’s edge.

“There,” he murmured, pleased, “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Hyacinthus’s chest heaved. His hands, still clutching your hips, trembled with the effort of restraint. One wrong move, one whisper of a slip, and you would both tumble over the edge without Apollo’s leave.

Apollo rose to his full height, immaculate, untouchable. He dusted his hands, as if wiping away the last remnants of your dignity.

“Do you feel it now?” he asked, his voice a quiet thunder rumbling low in your bones, “What am I carving out of you?”

You did. God help you, you did.

The tension had shifted, tectonic and unrelenting. It was no longer about lust. No longer about rage or defiance.

It was something far more fragile.

Something real.

Apollo’s smile sharpened, “Now that the truth has been told…” His gaze flickered between you, molten and merciless, “Let’s see what happens when I set you free. No begging. No pleading. Just the ruin you’ve both been craving.”

He stepped back, and the invisible leash snapped.

Your bodies moved, not from command but from the shattering absence of it. You rocked together, frantic, desperate, instinctive.

Because the only force greater than denial…

Was permission.

Hyacinthus’s voice broke the silence, roughened to something low and tender, softer than you had ever heard it.

“Did you mean it?”

You swallowed against the knot in your throat, your body still trembling from all that had come before, “All of it,” you said, voice raw and unflinching.

The effect was immediate.

His face, once so guarded, so carefully arranged into a mask of indifference or disdain, cracked wide open. No rage. No smirk. Nothing left to shield him now. Only something bare, exposed, and vulnerable in a way that undid you more completely than any cruelty ever could.

And then you leant down.

Forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the narrow space between you. Neither of you moved to close that final gap. Not yet. It was enough, in that trembling second, to simply exist, not as rivals or enemies, but as something unspoken, breath to breath, heat to heat.

Hyacinthus exhaled shakily, like he was breathing real air for the first time in years, like your skin was the only sanctuary he had ever known.

“I hate how much I care what you think of me,” he murmured, his voice a threadbare whisper meant only for you.

A small, hoarse laugh slipped from you, brittle but real, “I hate that you say things like that and make me want to forgive you.”

His lips brushed the curve of your jaw, featherlight, reverent, “I don’t need forgiveness,” he whispered, the words trembling on his mouth, “Just… don’t go. Ignore every stupid thing I ever said. Just don’t leave.”

You reached for him then, not with claws or cruelty, but with a gentleness you didn’t know you were capable of. Your hands cupped his face, fingertips mapping the strong lines of his jaw, the delicate tremor in his skin.

Finally, finally, not to wound, but to feel.

When you moved your hips next, it wasn’t to provoke or punish. It wasn’t a contest or a battlefield. It was tentative, careful, and an offering.

Hyacinthus groaned, head tilting back, violet eyes fluttering closed as if the sensation was too much, too pure.

Your name slipped from his lips like a prayer, cracked and reverent, “Pythia.”

Behind you, Apollo chuckled, the sound bright and amused, cutting through the heavy hush like sunlight through mist, “Finally,” he drawled, golden and smug, “I was beginning to think I’d have to glue your souls together myself.”

Hyacinthus didn’t react. He couldn’t. His mouth was too busy dragging along the column of your throat, each kiss a confession, each murmur a surrender that made your heart pound harder than any insult ever had.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered against your skin, his voice wrecked and trembling, “So soft. How could I have been so blind?”

You gasped softly, smiling despite the burn in your chest, “Because you spent all your time pretending I was the enemy.”

His eyes opened, violet and shining and too bright to look at for long, “You never were.”

You rocked your hips again, slower, deeper, and the moans spilling between you shifted, no longer frantic, no longer sharp with need. They were softer now, gentler, edged with something that tasted like relief.

Behind you, Apollo sighed dramatically, but even his theatrical exasperation couldn’t hide the fondness woven through his voice, “Look at you two,” he mused, “Precious. I’ll be weeping before the hour’s out.”

You didn’t care. You didn’t even hear him anymore.

Because Hyacinthus kissed you then, not with hunger or dominance, not with the heat of a fight, but with something truer. Something that anchored you. His mouth moved against yours like he had found the one place in the world he didn’t have to hide.

And when you kissed him back, you realised you hadn’t lost anything.

You had found something you didn’t know you were searching for: a home.

Hyacinthus’s kiss was slow, almost tentative at first, as if he feared breaking the fragile thing between you. A claiming not of body or pride, but of something sacred. Something final.

Your lips moved against his like a promise, a surrender, a beginning.

His hands, still braced on your hips, gentled, no longer clutching you like a prise but guiding you. When you sank down into him again, hot and full and aching, it wasn’t a power play.

It was an invitation.

You gasped into his mouth, and he moaned into yours, the sounds blending into a private language only the two of you could understand.

His forehead pressed to yours. His breath fanned your lips as he whispered, “You feel like something I was never meant to want.”

Your heart stuttered, “And now?”

His mouth curved, a fragile, ruined smile, “Now I think I’d destroy myself to keep you like this.”

You rocked against him again, deliberately slower, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hands tightened, but not to control you, but to keep himself from flying apart.

“Fuck,” he gasped, the curse drawn from somewhere helpless. He thrust up into you, meeting you now not in battle but in surrender. The slick heat of your bodies sliding together was no longer frantic. It was desperate in a different way, honest. Necessary.

You pressed your palms to his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heart. Wild and unguarded.

“I hate you,” you panted, the words trembling, “for making me want this.”

He laughed, short and gasping, “I hate that it took me this long to see it.”

You smiled, despite the tremble in your legs, and ground down onto him harder. He cried out, a beautiful, wrecked sound, and his hands clutched at you, desperate now.

“Gods,” he groaned, “you’re perfect. I can’t—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

You leant over him, lips brushing the corner of his mouth in a kiss that was all tenderness, all ache.

“I want to come with you,” you whispered against his skin.

The words shattered whatever restraint he had left. His hips bucked up, helpless and frantic, and you moved with him, matching him, chasing that edge together.

Pleasure coiled low in your belly, a hot, heavy burn that grew with every thrust, every whispered word, every breathless kiss.

You felt him throbbing inside you, thick and full and desperate.

Your walls clenched around him, and he nearly sobbed.

“I’m close— fuck, Pythia—”

You pressed your forehead to his again, feeling his breath shudder over your lips, “Then let go with me,” you whispered, voice breaking, hands clutching at him.

“Say it again,” he begged, broken and gasping.

“Let go with me,” you moaned, moving faster now, riding the edge with him, chasing it down with reckless abandon, “Please, Hyacinthus. Don’t—don’t release without me.”

His hands crushed you against him, hips snapping up, movements ragged and desperate.

And then —

It hit.

Your orgasm tore through you like lightning, sharp and glorious, blinding and holy. Your cry caught in your throat as your body spasmed, clenching hard around him, and Hyacinthus followed you over the edge with a shout of your name.

His hips jerked up once, twice, buried as deep as he could get, spilling inside you with a helpless groan. You felt all of it. Every pulse. Every tremble. Every raw, sacred second.

You collapsed against him, panting, boneless, and dazed.

He held you like you were something rare.

Behind you, Apollo clapped, actually clapped.

“Well done,” he purred, “How very poetic. Enemies to lovers to… puddles.”

You didn’t have the strength to glare at him.

Hyacinthus’s lips brushed your temple, “Ignore him.”

You hummed, still catching your breath, “Trying.”

And for once, Apollo didn’t push. He only smiled, golden and smug, as if this, you, had been his masterpiece all along.

He’s basking in the glow of a story well told.

The world was soft now.

Your breath had evened, skin still slick with sweat, limbs tangled with Hyacinthus’s beneath the thin silk sheet Apollo had conjured with a snap of his fingers and an eye roll.

Hyacinthus lay on his back, one arm draped lazily around your shoulders, the other resting over his eyes like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You lay curled into his side, boneless and warm, cheek pressed to the rising and falling of his chest.

You were both quiet.

Not awkward.

Just peaceful.

It was the first time since you’d met that silence didn’t feel like a threat between you.

“Gods,” Apollo drawled lazily from the edge of the bed, biting into an apricot, “I deserve a statue for this.”

You didn’t even flinch.

Hyacinthus groaned, muffled under his arm, “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Would you really want me to?” Apollo said, licking juice from his fingers, “Who else would narrate your emotional unravelling with such flair?”

You tilted your head just enough to look at him, draped in gold and smugness, lounging in a chaise he definitely hadn’t conjured before your climax. His robe hung loose around his chest, sun-warmed curls tousled, as if he’d been through the same storm and come out untouched.

“I thought you were going to leave,” you said, voice hoarse but content.

“I will,” Apollo said, “eventually. I just thought I’d stay for the cuddling.”

Hyacinthus moved his arm to squint at him, “That’s not a thing gods do.”

Apollo raised a brow, “Please. I’ve inspired every great love song ever written. You think I don’t appreciate the postcoital sighing?”

You laughed, tired and soft.

Hyacinthus’s fingers stroked along your shoulder, slow and absent. You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t want to.

Apollo smiled when he noticed, “There it is,” he said, gentler now, “the peace. Finally.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder, “Is this what you wanted?”

Apollo’s grin was wide, unrepentant, “No, little Pythia. This,” he said, gesturing languidly to the two of you, now moving together not like enemies, but like a symphony, “this is what you wanted. I merely… expedited the inevitable. A little nudge.”

Hyacinthus muttered, “A divine shove.”

Apollo snorted, “And look where it got you. You’re both glowing.”

You pressed your lips to Hyacinthus’s collarbone. He turned his head and kissed the top of your hair.

Apollo sighed dramatically, “Honestly, if you start whispering sweet nothings, I’ll have to write a poem about it. Something tragic. With olives.”

You rolled your eyes and snuggled deeper into Hyacinthus’s side, “Go write it, then.”

“Mmm,” Apollo mused, swirling the pit of the fruit between his fingers, “I think I’ll stay a little longer. Watch over my beautiful disasters.”

“Your disasters,” Hyacinthus muttered.

“Mine,” Apollo said firmly, “I stitched your hearts together with teeth and confession. I own this happy ending.”

You and Hyacinthus shared a glance. For once, there was no venom in it, only something like amusement. And affection.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Apollo blinked. Then smiled.

And for once, it wasn’t smug.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, “Just make it worth the story.”

The warmth between you hadn’t faded.

Not entirely.

It lingered like honey on your skin, like the last rays of sunlight before dusk. Hyacinthus’s arm was still wrapped around you, his lips brushing your hair every now and then, like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t wanted to.

And Apollo?

He was still lounging nearby, still radiant and lazy, but there was something new in his gaze.

A quiet hunger.

A curl of something darker beneath his golden amusement.

He rose from his chaise, slow and graceful, walking towards the bed like a god admiring a masterpiece, “You know,” he said, fingers dragging lightly along the edge of the silk sheet, “I could leave you two here in peace. Let you curl up and whisper things in the dark.”

Hyacinthus didn’t respond, but his grip on you tightened just slightly.

Apollo’s voice dropped, “But I don’t want to.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was closer now. His eyes were no longer playful; they burned.

“I’ve watched,” he said, voice low, “I’ve guided. I’ve waited.” He reached out and brushed a knuckle down your cheek, reverent, “But now, little Pythia, I want to feel.”

Your breath caught.

Besides you, Hyacinthus stirred. He looked up at Apollo, then down at you, and you felt the shift, the weight of shared desire reigniting between them.

Hyacinthus’s hand slid up your spine, “You okay?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, already trembling.

“I want both of you.”

Apollo chuckled low in his throat, “She asks like it’s not already written in the stars.”

Clothes disappeared like breath. You didn’t even see the magic happen, just silk sliding off skin, muscle, and sun, and need laid bare before you.

Apollo moved first.

He climbed onto the bed behind you, kneeling between your legs, dragging his hands down your back, and kissing the nape of your neck, “Lie on your side,” he whispered, coaxing you gently, “Let me in.”

You obeyed.

You always obeyed.

Hyacinthus slid behind you, spooning close, pressing warm kisses to your shoulder as Apollo guided one leg up, spreading you open. You felt him press forward, thick, perfect, stretching you slowly with a groan against your throat.

“You take me so well,” he murmured, his voice velvet, “like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, full, pulsing, already climbing again.

Then you felt Hyacinthus press behind you, his breath shuddering as he kissed the space behind your ear. His hand slid down between your thighs, stroking where Apollo filled you, spreading slick warmth over your tighter entrance.

“She’s so soft,” he breathed, “so ready.”

Apollo smiled against your jaw, “She’s ours.”

You gasped as Hyacinthus began to press in behind you, slow, deliberate, and careful. The stretch made your eyes roll back. You clutched at the sheets, at Apollo’s shoulder, as both of them filled you, deep, divine, perfect.

Apollo groaned low in your ear, “That’s it, little thing. Gods above, you take us like devotion.”

Hyacinthus was trembling behind you, already panting, “She’s squeezing so tight, fuck, I can feel you through her.”

Their rhythm built slowly, together. One thrust, then the other. Apollo grinding into you from the front, Hyacinthus rocking behind you in perfect sync. You were weightless between them. Worshipped. Ruined. Reborn.

Hands everywhere, on your breasts, your waist, and your throat. Kisses scattered along your shoulder, your jaw, and your temple. You could barely tell them apart anymore, just pleasure. Just heat. Just love, wielded like fire.

“You’re ours,” Hyacinthus growled.

“Ours to ruin,” Apollo added.

“Ours to keep.”

The pressure inside you built faster than you could breathe.

You couldn’t speak; you could only beg, the sound barely words, “Please, I’m so close, don’t stop, please.”

Apollo kissed your lips. Hyacinthus bit your shoulder.

And they fucked you through it.

Until your body convulsed between them, until your orgasm broke you open with a scream you didn’t recognise. You clutched around them both, shaking, sobbing, undone.

And that was what pushed them over.

Hyacinthus groaned deep and buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a desperate curse. Apollo followed with a sigh like prayer, hips grinding slow as he poured into you, warm and endless.

The world blurred.

All you knew was them.

The way they held you. The way they whispered to you. The way they didn’t let go, even when your body went slack and your mind went quiet.

You weren’t just filled.

You were claimed.

Apollo smiled against your hair, one arm tucked around your waist, “That,” he whispered, satisfied, “is the kind of worship I don’t need temples for.”

Hyacinthus kissed your shoulder, “You’re staying between us. Forever.”

You nodded, dazed, glowing.

Apollo used to be a copy of Zeus, having sex and flirting with anything that moved, but now the problem wasn't that he was faithful and in love, but rather how you did it. You threatened to leave Apollo, you would kill any supposed lover and mainly, you made him turn against anyone who doubted you (except Hera and Artemis, after all they basically never said anything about you because they both loved you). you.) once, Zeus just said that you should get used to Apollo cheating on you, and the next day Apollo was just furious with him, and that's when he started hating you.

HEADCANONS!

- Apollo loves you to bits, and although sometimes he knows he's being manipulated, he simply ignores it completely.

- Apollo's gifts range from jewelry to flowers to love letters.

- You spent two months on your honeymoon, and believe me, you two only stopped doing the act twice during these two months.

- Apollo doesn't stop talking about you for a second, and in the beginning it was even worse because Athena was already joining Ares to tell him to shut up. - Hades has the same hatred that Zeus has for you, but for Apollo, after all he finds him an insufferable playboy.

- You and Zeus sometimes have big arguments, in which you always play the victim, and while Apollo and Artemis blindly believe in you, Hera knows that you are lying but simply supports it.

Sorry if it wasn't as good as you thought! Please send me more ideas If you like It

You found yourself nestled in the opulent heart of Olympus, the banquet hall gleaming with golden light and divine grandeur. White marble columns stretched towards the sky, and the air was intoxicated with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. The scent of ambrosia was dizzyingly sweet, blending with the rich perfume of nectar that wafted from overflowing barrels of wine.

It was a special celebration.

Nymphs danced and frolicked, chased by drunken satyrs and gods. 

You were wife of Apollo now, once his Pythia, always his slave, the slave of his heart...because that’s what marriage can truly be to those of passion.

Gods and goddesses reclined on cushioned seats of marble and blue velvet, their voices rose in a symphony of joy, and some in playful revelry. 

At the long central table, you sat proudly besides your husband, Apollo, the radiant god of music, sun, and prophecy. He looked like something carved from light itself, laughter dancing in his golden eyes as he leant towards you with a smile. 

You were so plain in your chiton, only a laurel wreath of silver and diamonds adorned your head, and despite it all, he always knew how to woo you.

“And here I thought Olympus couldn’t get any more beautiful,” he murmured into your ear, his lips nipping playfully at the shelf of your ear, “when I have been blessed with the goddess of starlight and true delight besides me.” 

Yes. That’s right. Mortality was not your burden any longer. You had been deified. And the deities of Olympus tonight were paying homage to your new identity. 

He was god of the sun and made you goddess of the starlight, shooting stars in particular the more Artemis, your sister-in-law and goddess of the moon, taught you to shoot your silver bow across the only black skies. 

Apollo, of course, did still often call you his Pythia. You couldn’t part with the title you’d been honoured with when you had met him for the first time. 

“Thank you, my lord Apollo...husband.”

Your cheeks grew warm, a small smile playing on your lips, until you felt a small chill besides you.

To your right, Hyacinthus of Sparta, the god of flowers, sat stiffly, wine untouched, his jaw clenched a little too tightly for someone trying to feign indifference. He didn’t speak to you, but his eyes did; dark and poisonous like nightshade.

"Strange," he murmured, "This seat used to have a much better view."

“I imagine it still does,” you replied tightly, lifting your goblet with delicate grace to your soft lips.

Apollo chuckled softly, but you could feel the tension radiating from both sides. You would’ve gladly placed Hyacinthus at Apollo’s left, as he always used to sit, before you. 

However, the god Dionysus had draped himself there instead, halfway drunk already and humming a bawdy tune to himself while tossing grapes at a nymph across the table.

Still, it was hard not to feel the weight of what had been...

Before you, Hyacinthus had held pride of place, by Apollo’s side, in his arms, in his favour. Now, he seethed quietly, hiding daggers behind passive smiles, slipping barbed remarks into soft silences.

“Apollo,” Hyacinthus said sweetly, “you haven’t touched your dates. I remember how fond you used to be of them.”

You glanced at Apollo’s plate, adorned with orange slices and dates the flower god had picked that morning. Instead he picked at the olives you had harvested. 

Apollo’s jaw tensed just a fraction before he answered, “Tastes change.” Then he reached for your hand beneath the table and popped an olive into his mouth. 

You gripped his fingers tightly, your smile never faltered; it was the small wins that counted at that moment. You had walked into Olympus prepared for divinity. You hadn’t expected to be caught in the crossfire of godly lovers.

The feast carried on, glittering and glorious. Music filled the air. Platters of ambrosia passed from nymph to muse. You raised your chin a little higher, back straight, gaze steady, even as Hyacinthus’s fuming glare burned into the back of your head.

Let him look, you said to yourself. You were not here to beg for space, not here to beg for your place at Apollo’s side... Not anymore…

You had finally claimed it.

You tried not to think of it, of all the quiet cruelties Hyacinthus had thrown upon you since your arrival on Olympus. You had tried, gods, you tried to meet him halfway with nothing but reverence. Every morning, you greeted him with a bowed head, your voice soft and respectful, “Good day, Hyacinthus,” hoping he might one day return the civility.

But he never did.

Hyacinthus had been Apollo’s favourite long before you. In so many ways, he had even been Apollo’s consort long before you. Not in title, not his ‘wife,’ no, but in the quiet, constant ways that mattered more. Their bond was carved into the marble walls of Olympus itself, beautiful, immortal, and impossible to ignore. And you? You were the interloper. The unwelcome new verse in an old, beloved song. 

Hyacinthus walked the halls of Apollo’s Olympian temple like he owned them, moved through Apollo’s light like it was his by birthright. You didn’t fault him for that. You understood. 

It’s just that... Hyacinthus was no soft flower; rather, he was the serpent beneath the lily, beautiful, poised, and venomous when no one was watching. He was a rose before the fool picked and pricked his thumb upon the thorns...

And many times you were a naive fool.

He’d mutter cruel things just out of earshot of others, “Your days are numbered, mortal slut," he once hissed as you passed, “You cannot survive the sun himself. You will wilt. And die."

And then there were the rules. Petty, spiteful decrees. He stood in the way of your wifely duties often. Even going so far as to forbid you from washing Apollo's laundry. 

“Careful,” he had once murmured with a false smile as you reached for Apollo’s dirty chlamys one day, “We wouldn’t want the sun god dressed in earthly muck; after all, the scent of a Pythia’s desperation doesn’t wash out easily.”

You had frozen at that. 

“The least you could do would be to bathe, but alas, you’d pollute any water source you touched, I fear.”

His words stung, but it was the other things that truly hurt. A shove in the corridor. A conveniently rising flower root to trip you when no one else was looking. The elbows too sharp in the halls, the ever-so-accidental nudges that nearly sent you tumbling from the marble steps. Bruises bloomed on your body, which you chose to ignore and chose to blame on Apollo's eager lovemaking and passion.

That is when you managed to have enough alone time with the god Apollo himself. As you were not fond of fucking in front of his... companion.

At night, Hyacinthus refused to sleep besides you. There seemed to always be an excuse or reason why he couldn’t, so, every night Apollo would sleep in the middle between his pythia and his flower. Hyacinthus would curl around him possessively, his violet eyes daring you to complain. When their passion would flare, Hyacinthus made no effort to be discreet. The moans, the cries, gods, and the words were all loud enough to echo off marble walls. 

“Oh, Apollo, no one knows you like I do…”

No pillow nor blanket could protect your ears. Hyacinthus wanted you to hear. The flowery deity revelled in your humiliation.

But it wasn't jealousy that gnawed at you. Truly, it didn’t. You loved Apollo, yes, but you had known what it meant to wed a god. You’d long made peace with Apollo’s past, that he would not forsake his beautiful Hyacinthus. You’d accepted long ago that Apollo’s love was vast enough to hold more than one heart, and your heart was big enough that it was happy to share him. Jealousy was not at your door; it was the constant rejection of your goodwill. You didn’t want dominance. You wanted kindness. Maybe even friendship.

You had hoped, naïvely, perhaps, that love could be shared.

But kindness and love were the things Hyacinthus would not grant you.

And then came the final dagger.

At the banquet, as you lifted your goblet to your lips, Hyacinthus leant just slightly and knocked his elbow into his own cup.

You shrieked unexpectedly as the cold splash of deep red wine cascaded over your head. His wine soaked your hair and your robes, turning the pale white chiton you wore translucent in humiliating patches. Your breasts were displayed, and your nipples hardened under your dress. Dionysus drunkenly cheered at the display, and the nymphs around him giggled at the misfortune.

You froze.

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” Hyacinthus said smoothly. He leant back, taking a sip from a stolen cup of wine on the table within arm's reach, but not before you caught the smug smirk he quickly tried to erase as Apollo turned his head.

Apollo turned instantly, rising from his seat, his eyes sharp. He’d seen it. You knew he had. But he said nothing. He had not defended your honour against his lover. He had not defended you on the night of your deification...

“Come,” Apollo instead whispered warmly as he helped you to your feet. His hand was gentle at your back, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nodded stiffly and stood shakily, shame burning hot beneath your skin, but then you heard it. A quiet chuckle, just under Hyacinthus’s breath.

“He always did like his little mortals messy,” Hyacinthus chuckled into his empty cup.

It was quiet. Deliberate.

That sound cracked something in you.

Your fingers stiffened in Apollo’s grip. 

Don’t cry. Don’t give him that.

But the heat behind your eyes betrayed you. The tears came fast and hot, and before you could stop yourself, you smacked Apollo’s hand away.

“I don’t need your help,” you snapped, not in anger at him, but from the boiling rage you could no longer contain. Your breath came in shallow gasps, tears spilling freely now.

You turned and fled.

And before Apollo could follow, the music blurred behind you as you stormed from the banquet hall, wine-stained and humiliated. You didn’t stop until you reached Apollo’s temple house, slamming the stone door behind you and collapsing to the floor, your sobs echoing against the walls.

For once, Olympus didn’t feel like paradise.

It felt like a cage.

You tore the ruined robes from your body; each wet drip was a splatter of humiliation. You let the fabric fall to the floor in a soaked, crimson, stained heap. Naked and trembling, you flung yourself across Apollo’s vast bed, the silken sheets cool against your flushed skin. 

You crawled towards his side, his place, and buried your face in the pillows, breathing him in with every broken sob. You curled into the scent of Apollo, as if it could protect you. As if it could erase the wine on your skin, the sting in your eyes, the laughter that still rang in your ears like a fucking curse. 

Your eyes looked around the room. Vines and flowers curled up the pillars. Plants hung from pots around you. The soft, gauzy curtains that framed the massive round bed in the centre of the room were embroidered with morning glories and little suns.

There was nothing of you in this bedroom. This bedroom didn’t even feel like it partially belonged to you. It rather appeared like you were just existing and not acknowledged other than in title in this marriage between Apollo and yourself. Everywhere you looked it was Hyacinthus and Apollo.

You didn’t understand. Why did Hyacinthus have to hate you so deeply?

You hadn’t come between them. You hadn’t whispered poison into Apollo’s ear or tried to pull him away. You were not the thief in this story; you were the offered hand, the answered prayer. Apollo had chosen you, not as a replacement but as an addition, a companion of his own will. You had merely said yes to love, to devotion, to a god who promised the sun would rise for you.

Yet Hyacinthus didn’t see you as anything but a vermin rat come to steal the cheese; that was Apollo. And every shove, every cutting word, and every cruel smirk made that blisteringly clear. His beauty, still so radiant, so terrible in its perfection save for the scar on his forehead, twisted into something cold and sharp every time he looked at you. He was not happy to be a simple flower or beautiful garden; he would create a tidal wave of weeds to push you out. 

Eventually, the tremors in your chest began to ease, like waves retreating from a storm-wracked shore. Your body, exhausted, betrayed you with heaviness. Your eyes grew heavy. The pillows cradled your damp cheeks, muffling the last of your sobs as you slipped into a restless sleep. The ache in your chest softened into a nasty throb. Somewhere in the space between dreams and waking, you whispered, no, whimpered his name, Apollo, like a prayer, a plea.

And somewhere on Mount Olympus, he had heard it.

You didn’t know how long you’d been asleep. Time had become softened by grief and exhaustion until sleep had stolen your mind like a tide pulling back sand from the shore. Yet that peace was destroyed. 

A violent crash shattered the quiet, a vase, the sharp, unmistakable sound of porcelain exploding against marble. You jolted upright with a gasp, heart hammering in your chest. You tried to summon your now, but before the silver weapon came into your palm,

Another noise followed immediately: a grunt, the thud of bodies colliding, and the scuffle of feet slipping against the stone floor before tripping on the carpet rugs. Instinctively, you clutched the blankets to your bare, naked breasts, the silk twisting in your fists like a shield. Disoriented, your eyes blinked against the drowsy haze, adjusting to the dim light flickering from the firepots. 

And then you saw them.

Two figures stumbled through the doorway, locked in a struggle that belonged more to battlefields than to bedchambers. Hyacinthus was being dragged forward by Apollo. Hyacinthus hit the floor with a choked grunt, his knees scraping the ground. Apollo stood over him, one hand buried tightly into Hyacinthus’s long brown mane. He wrenched his head back in a brutal arc.

The raw physicality of it struck you silent. This was no lover’s quarrel; it was a reckoning.

“Apologies for waking you, my dearest Pythia,” Apollo grunted tightly. He looked at you then with a smug smile, “But my lovely flower has something he would like to say to you.”

His fingers flexed in Hyacinthus’s hair, pulling harder.

“Don’t you?”

Hyacinthus’s violet eyes, sharp and shining with resentment, flicked towards you; they made your breath catch.

“Sorry,” he muttered, spitting the word like poison. It was not an apology. It was a performance. Mockery.

Apollo exhaled a long, disappointed sigh, the sound of thunder just beginning to rumble on the horizon, “Don’t lie to her, Hyacinthus. You’ve tested my patience enough as it is.”

For a moment, silence hung in the room like smoke.

Then Hyacinthus tore himself free, shoving Apollo’s arm aside with a snarl. His chest rose and fell with quick, heavy breaths, and his eyes, once filled with mocking laughter, now burned with contempt.

“You want an apology?” He hissed, stepping forward, jaw tight with fury, “Fine. Here it is.”

You froze as he advanced. He wasn’t talking to Apollo anymore. Every word was a dagger aimed at you.

“I am not fucking sorry.” His state, unapologetically cruel, “Why should I apologise to a cheap little slut? A mortal trinket dressed up in godly affection?”

He sneered, taking another step closer.

“Why sully our home, our bed, with her stench? If you must take pity on the worshipping masses, fuck her in some dusty backwater temple and leave this place sacred. Pious little cunt she is; I bet she’d be grateful, knowing exactly where her place rightfully was.”

Your place was rightfully here; you were the wife of Apollo, not Hyacinthus!

Your throat tightened. The sheets around your body now felt like little more than a shroud.

Hyacinthus scoffed and rolled his eyes, “She clings to your sheets pretending to be worthy of your love, but we both know the truth. She belongs at your feet. Grateful. Obedient. But never fucking equal to you or me, my sunlight!”

Each word was a blow, sharper than the last. His disdain wrapped around you like a barbed rosebush, leaving no part of you untouched. He was trying to strip you bare, not just of dignity, but of worth. Of identity. You felt yourself shrinking beneath his gaze, every breath a little shallower than the last.

You had never hated anyone before...yet in that moment, as his words echoed off the stone walls, something inside you changed. You hated him, you despised him, you loathed his very existence...

Hyacinthus stood before you, furious and radiant, his beauty weaponized. Even now, with spite dripping from every syllable, he was painfully, infuriatingly beautiful. And he knew it. That had always been part of the problem. The gods saw him and called him divine before he ever spoke a word. He was not Aphrodite herself, but he was near her second if it were not for the milky scar on his forehead.

Apollo appeared unmoved; only the hints of a smirk on his lips guaranteed the flower god's life, “And there it is. The real raw truth of Hyacinthus. A jealous, vain, and sensitive flower.” He cupped his famous lover's cheek lovingly, wiping away a stray tear that escaped from Hyacinthus' hateful eyes.

“Have I not given you my best years?” Hyacinthus sniffled, “Why bother giving me immortality when you mean to only replace me? You made that sad piglet your bride! Her!” He frustratingly pointed a finger at you, “Above me!? I let it slide with the nymphs; even I partake in their delights, but they do not live among us, festering and polluting our lives!”

“Replace you?” You gawked with horror before trying to soften your voice, “Lord Hyacinthus, I am not replacing you.”

“Oh, and what the fuck would you know, you filthy whore?!” he sneered. You bristled and clenched your teeth angrily.

Hyacinthus didn’t stop.

“She will never understand you,” he snarled at Apollo, “Not the way I do. Not the way gods do. She can’t comprehend eternity; she doesn’t know what it means to burn for something beyond time. She’s a passing comfort, Apollo. Flesh and breath and need, nothing more.”

You forced yourself to stand.

The blanket slid down your body as you rose away from the round bed; you let the sheet fall at your feet. You let Hyacinthus see you, vulnerable, naked, yes, but not broken. Let him look at you without embarrassment now. Let him gaze at your naked body without humiliation. 

There comes a time when some people are too pissed off to put on clothes during an argument; this was the first time.

His eyes widened. He froze. Looking you up and down as you stormed to stand closer and look him in the eye. Your fists clenched. How dare he call you a whore! 

“If I’m just a comfort,” you huffed, “then why do you see me as a threat?”

That made him pause. Just for a breath. His nostrils flared. His lips parted, though he said nothing.

“You hate me because I threaten you,” you hissed, “because you know what he sees in me has nothing to do with godhood and everything to do with what you’re not.”

Silence crashed like a wave.

You stepped forward, unflinching beneath his glare, “I’ve never tried to take him from you. You think I’m here because I begged, because I schemed?” You looked to Apollo then, and though his eyes were locked on Hyacinthus, his body tensed as your voice lifted.

“I’m here because he asked me to stay! Because he chose me! And I know,” you turned back to Hyacinthus, letting the fury that had boiled under your grief finally crack the surface, “I know enough to know that since I arrived you have made my life practically impossible. On par with a living hell! I wish I was not his bride, knowing I would be treated like this by his lover for all eternity!”

The silence that followed was long and frightening. While your chests rose and fell with panting hate and your fists were both raised, the god of the sun shook his head. 

Apollo moved fast, stepping between you and Hyacinthus, not shielding you, but holding space, arms slightly outstretched as if balancing the fire and ice that now filled the air. 

If Apollo hadn’t stood between you both, you most likely would have become a bloodbath of clawing, kicking, and screaming, like two hellish cats in heat.

Apollo’s golden gaze swept over the two of you. 

“Now,” he said, each syllable slow, “I’ve had just about enough of this. Jealousy. Ambition.” His eyes narrowed slightly in disappointment that stung deeper than rage, “Where is the love?” he asked, tilting his head, “Where is the devotion? The willingness to please me, your husband, your great love, your god?”

He didn’t raise his voice. There was no cruelty in his words. But that magnetic authority clung to every syllable, curling around your spine and coaxing your breath to still in your throat.

Hyacinthus looked away first. His mouth was twisted, but no words came. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms, jaw tight with hate and something else, hurt, maybe. Or jealousy’s raw twin, loss...

“I loved you before the stars knew your name,” he whispered bitterly to Apollo, “And now you let her crawl into the place we made together.”

It was not sympathy nor pity Apollo offered his lover or you, his wife...

A smirk tugged at the corner of Apollo’s lips as he surveyed the two of you, “Surely,” he continued, “you can both do better than this?” 

He rolled his golden eyes. Without waiting for a response, Apollo extended a hand towards Hyacinthus. 

And for a second you thought you had lost favour entirely with the god; your heart felt like it was being stabbed.

But his spare hand held out to you.

Apollo now didn’t force; he guided. Hyacinthus and you followed, drawn as if by divine instinct, and Apollo gently ushered you both down onto the round bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, heat pooling between the three of you like liquid gold.

“Hyacinthus,” Apollo murmured, his voice like warmly poured honey, “you’ll stay here.” His fingers turned towards you, “And you, my Pythia, back where you belong, on your back.”

His tone was not harsh, but it left no room for question. You lay against the pillows lazily on your side, trying your hardest not to stab Hyacinthus with your piercing glare. You rested your cheek on your curled fist. 

 Hyacinthus, he sat at Apollo's side, waiting impatiently. Gods, you hated him. 

“I want you both here, with me,” Apollo said, and this time there was something lustful in his voice, “Not because you must. But because you want to. Because your hearts burn for me as mine burns for you.”

Hyacinthus and you glanced at one another at the same time in disbelief of what Apollo had just said.

Your gaze lifted back to his, your breath shallow, your heart pounding beneath your ribs, “My lord,”

He raised a hand, silencing you with a gentle gesture, “If you love me, you shall both obey me,” he said, crawling closer until his knees brushed your outer thigh, “No more defiance, no more hate, only love and obedience to me, yes?” He looked between you and Hyacinthus, his expression softening with something deep and unshakable, “You love me… don’t you?”

You both nodded, almost in sync. 

“Good,” he said, his voice barely more than a breath. His fingers reached out, brushing along your cheek with a tenderness that was the same as when he had met you, “Pythia… spread your legs. Show him how beautiful you truly are.”

Heat crept into your cheeks, but the command, though softly spoken, was irresistible from the sun god. You obeyed, slowly easing yourself back, thighs parting with a vulnerability that was not weakness but an offering to Apollo. And when you looked up, Hyacinthus was already staring, lips parted. 

You realised then it was the first time the flower deity had ever seen your cunt...seen your body as naked as this. No wonder he was so alarmed at the sight of you standing up nude.

You didn’t look away from him, “He’s not worthy to see me,” you spat, cold and clear.

Apollo’s smirk returned. He leant towards Hyacinthus, “Look at her. Isn’t she divine?” His lips traced the throat of Hyacinthus, leaving soft kisses.

Hyacinthus swallowed hard, unable to look away; he did not answer. Apollo brushed a hand over the back of his neck. His tongue licked the shell of his ear, “You both belong to me,” he moaned, golden eyes flickering between you and Hyacinthus, “And perhaps, in time... to each other.”

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t believe in your husband’s words. To belong to Apollo was an honour and a blessing; to belong to Hyacinthus was terrifying and a curse. You wondered if he felt the same. After all, Hyacinthus was still staring at the gift between your thighs.

“Show her,” he murmured, his voice heavy with command and promise, “Show her how much you love me as if she were me.”

Hyacinthus’s jaw clenched so tightly you could hear the grind of his teeth.

“How? After everything I’ve done...when she now hates me,” he muttered.

“I do,” you boldly confessed, before you could stop yourself, “But my hate is honest. And I’d rather serve that than the poison you hide behind childish antics.”

The words landed between you like a blow. Something in Hyacinthus stilled.

Silence stretched.

And then, like a truce extended across a battlefield strewn with pride and old wounds, Hyacinthus reached for you. His hand hovered, trembling with something more than uncertainty, something like fear.

“May I?” he asked, his voice almost lost in the hush.

“Don’t ask to touch me like we’re equals, not when you don’t see me as one,” you snapped coldly, “Just obey my husband.”

Hyacinthus leant in, his lips met your thigh in a kiss so soft, almost like an apology stitched into the flesh.

But he wasn’t sorry. Not really. He hated you. You hated him back. That kiss wasn’t affection, it was obedience. A peace offering made in skin and silence because Apollo commanded it.

 You hadn’t realised you were holding your breath until it escaped you in a quiet exhale. 

Above you, Apollo watched, sprawled across his Olympian bed like a king of gold and wrath. His eyes were warm.

Your heart thudded in your chest as Hyacinthus looked up at you from between your thighs. His violet eyes burned beneath the scar carved deep across his forehead. Resentful. Calculating. Curiosity. The tip of his pink tongue slid out, dragging slowly across his lower lip, wetting it, tasting the air, as if preparing to devour you. 

Then...

A single touch.

His tongue brushed over your folds, barely a lap. It was a cruel tease.

Your thighs quivered, involuntarily.

And he felt it. You could feel his lips upturn. 

His tongue circled again, more deliberately this time, spreading your slick, tasting you slowly. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as his breath hitched, just slightly.

Then he pushed in. 

“Ah!” you gasped. 

Hyacinthus licked slowly and deeply, filling you with the full length of his tongue before pulling back to swirl over your clit. He lapped once, twice, and then flattened his tongue and dragged it up your slit in one long, devastating stroke.

You whimpered, head tipping back into the silken pillows. The moan escaped you before you could bite it down. You arched into his mouth.

His tongue was relentless. Like every flick and curl was a brutal slap and punch that he couldn’t deliver with fists, not in front of Apollo at least.

 His scar brushed your lower belly as he moved, and part of you wanted to push him away, wanted to slap him, wanted to grind harder into his mouth just to reach that release.

He was good.

Too good.

Better than Apollo had ever been, but you’d never admit such a thing aloud. 

He was not sloppy or impatient; rather, he was methodical. He began to suck gently, lips forming a perfect seal around the swollen nub, before dragging his tongue in tight, spiralling circles that made your toes curl.

You blinked through the haze of it, daring to look down again.

“Look at her,” he said, “Don’t hide in her cunt like a coward. Look her in the eyes.”

Hyacinthus lifted his gaze, his tongue never stopping. The hate in his stare made you clench around nothing. A slow, humiliating orgasm built inside you, not pleasure, not exactly, but something twisted and needy.

His hands slid up your thighs, thumbs massaging the tender flesh as he tongue-fucked you. You couldn’t help yourself; your fingers tangled in Hyacinthus’s hair, thumbing at his scar, not pushing him away but guiding him, silently urging him on. You bucked against his face. He growled; the sound sent a vibration directly into your core. 

“Be nice,” Apollo warned, “Remember it’s me you’re trying to impress.” 

You hated that your thighs were trembling, that your cunt ached greedily for more, and that you wanted his mouth to stay exactly where it was.

You looked up at Apollo desperately, lost for words. His lips split into a white-teeth smile. His palm cupped your breasts, fondling them and pinching at your nipples playfully. 

He chuckled, “He is better than you thought he would be, isn’t he?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Hyacinthus’s tongue thrusts into you again, harder this time. The rhythm is brutal and beautiful, two strokes deep, one to your clit. Over and over.

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Say it,” Apollo ordered, his eyes turned hard, and he twisted your nipple.

Your moan was half a sob.

“He’s, ” you choked out, eyes fluttering, “he’s better than I thought. AH! Thought he would be”.

Apollo smirked like he’d just won something.

Apollo’s hand slid into your hair, grounding you, steadying you, “There,” he murmured, “Now, my flower… How does my Pythia taste?”

Hyacinthus moaned softly against you before answering, “She’s… soft. So sweet and warm. Like honey and salt. Gods, she’s…” He lapped up to your clit, “Delicious.”

Apollo hummed, clearly pleased. 

Hyacinthus’s nails sharply dug into your hips. His nose pressed flush against your clit as his tongue moved lower, wetter, and faster. He was trying to drown in you. To ruin you with his mouth.

And it was working.

Apollo leant down and kissed the space beneath your ear before purring, “Release for me, my pretty Pythia.”

You released hard, body seizing; you sought out Apollo’s kiss and moaned, ugly and broken, into his mouth. 

“That’s it, let us hear those pretty sounds,” Apollo groaned appreciatively.

Hyacinthus’s face was soaked with your essence, his chin dripping, brow furrowed. Lips...smug and smirking. 

Apollo’s large hands splayed possessively across your stomach and breasts, kneading the supple flesh.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment as you panted; you swallowed hard. 

Lost in bliss, you barely registered Hyacinthus leaning in to lick lazily at your drenched pussy.

“Mmm, doesn’t this feel wonderful, my dear Pythia?” Apollo purred in your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin, “To have such skilled hands and tongue worshipping your divine body?”

Hyacinthus seemed happy to prove himself again with his efforts between your thighs. His head ducked down again.

“Oh, please!” You keened, overwhelmed by the sensations assaulting your body. Your thighs trembled and clenched around Hyacinthus’s head as he tried to repeat the torture. 

“That’s enough, my flower,” he chuckled darkly, “Stop.”

Hyacinthus paused instantly, mouth still pressed to your skin. He breathed out, slowly, like he was trying to come back into himself. His gaze flicked up towards Apollo first, then to you, seeking approval, or perhaps mourning the loss of closeness that had only just begun.

Apollo’s hand slipped from your nape and rested on Hyacinthus’s shoulder, “You’ve pleased me,” he praised, “but now, I want to see you. All of you. As you were made, without shame or shadow.”

Hyacinthus blinked, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed, “You mean…?”

“Yes,” Apollo replied, “Remove your toga. Now.”