Dionysus/Luke — noncon, abuse of authority
"I heard you were training the new brats today," Dionysus says languidly. His palm, warm and broad, rests on the side of Luke's upper thigh. His other arm loops around Luke's waist, keeping him seated on his lap. He's in a younger form today, all dark curls and pretty eyes, so beautiful that it hurts to look at him.
Back pressed to Dionysus' chest, Luke squirms reflexively, but the arm around his waist tightens like a steel band. Knowing a warning when he sees one, he stops moving.
Dionysus lets out a pleased sound, pulling Luke closer into his lap. His hand kneads at the soft skin of his thigh, rubbing slow, covetous circles that has Luke struggling to keep his breathing even.
"...Yeah," he mumbles, when it's obvious that Dionysus is waiting for an answer.
"Hm," Dionysus murmurs, violet eyes dark and lidded. His hand stops, and for a moment Luke optimistically thinks he's going to stop there —
"Mr D," he chokes out, when Dionysus' hand slips into the waistband of his pants. "I've still got my class —" He feels the heat of Dionysus' palm through the thin fabric of his panties, cupping his pussy. He makes an almost wounded whimper, mind blanking for a moment.
"I've told Apollo's brat to take over for you," Dionysus says, almost soothingly. "I told him you were feeling ill, and he was all too eager to help."
Lee? Luke wonders, but the thought slips past him in his hazy state of mind. He can't move, can't think —
Dionysus clicks his tongue, thumbing at Luke's clit just to hear him gasp.
"Pay attention, brat," he drawls. "Look at you — I've barely touched you and you're already so wet."
He slides a thick finger in, breaching Luke's walls, and Luke bites back a sob.
"Now, now." Dionysus' voice is smooth velvet, soft and dark, as he presses a kiss to Luke's jaw. His breath smells of grapes and ecstasy. "You know better than to call me that, cub. Not while we're here."
Luke falls silent. Still so stubborn, Dionysus notes, vaguely amused. Still clinging onto some notion of false pride and dignity, like he hadn't already belonged to Dionysus the moment he'd stepped into Camp Half-Blood for the first time.
Mortals. Always so prone to flights of fancy.
He adds another finger, then another, stretching the boy's hole with a wet squelch. Luke cries out at the sudden stretch, hand grasping Dionysus' wrist.
"No," he whimpers, "Dionysus, please, t-too much —"
Dionysus shoves his fingers up to the knuckle, and Luke chokes on a scream, throwing his head back against Dionysus' shoulder and eyes rolling into the back of his head. His legs twitch helplessly as he squirts, soaking Dionysus' palm.
"Good boy," Dionysus croons.
