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“You idiot.” The god taunted. The man before him breathed, looking more as if part of the storm he’s released than a mere mortal swept up in it. “Look, King. You’ve sealed your fate, trying to what? Outsmart me?” He snarled.
The man looked up at him through soaked curls, and with an exhausted body long away from battle, almost drowned only moments ago, brought forth with another chance by what? Divine intervention?
The King cared not of the gods, whatever they’ve done to get him off that wretched island or out of the freezing, overpoweringly lung-filled death he was almost subject to. Only the Lord before him.
“You’re going to call off that storm.”
“Making orders? You’ve been a long way from home, King.” The storm raged, the god did not smile. “This isn’t any of your other obstacles, you can’t wit a sacrifice into taking the fall, or killing me.”
“Exactly.”
The man picked up the trident. It felt heavy in his hands, foreign, but not unsuited. He took a step.
The god raised an eyebrow, the man took another step.
The god reached for his trident, the storm raged. Just how much did the divine care about one mortal?
“Wait,“ He said, suddenly backing into the rock he was already against, suddenly the prey, a shark at the bottom. “Wait!-“
The first thrust of the trident felt earth-shattering. The first removal felt like the aftershocks.
The god gasped, a pain so unfamiliar drowning his being in agony. He slumped off the rock, clutching the wound, gold staining his fingers. The man twisted the trident in his hands, blind wrath seeping through his veins.
“How does it feel to be helpless?” A strike through his chest, the god feels his form spasm. The removal spurted a fountain of ichor, his body soaked in it.
The trident swapped hands, “I watched my friends die in horror!” The third strike embedded deep in the same wound, the cries of man and god mixing into a sickening harmony and the man steadied a foot onto his chest, pulling it out, the barbed edges tearing divine flesh as it did.
“I heard their final moments!” The god groaned, the hole re-entered with yet another strike.
The man was growing tired now, mortal flesh momentarily guided now heaving, one arm dropping a desperate strike, the pain even worse with the sloppiness. “Look what you’ve turned me into!”
The god’s eyes widened. “Look what we’ve become!”
“Enough!-“ The order was ignored, cut off by another removal.
The god fought forward, attempted to sit up, “Stop your-“ Another strike, another gravely demand ignored, another blow of humiliation at the god.
“Havent I suffered enough?!”
“Stop this!-“
The mortal glared, “you didn’t stop when I begged you.” A strike through the throat, a silencing. One of the prongs struck him through the eye, a fulfillment. Their faces almost met with how far the trident had gone through. Tragedy, rage, exhaustion, humanity staring the god in his bloodshot eyes, staring down amazement.
The god fell again, pinned down by the trident’s penetration, and the mortal climbing onto him, caging him between his legs.
Golden blood glowed as it flowed uncontrollably, the display an illuminated eye of the hurricane. One could hardly see where the ichor started and the trident, still thrusting endlessly into the god, ended.
The man looked down at the god within his jaws, the bearing of teeth—not to bite but to smile, the grasping of hands—not to stop but to root. He wasn’t the man that looked down the wall of a burning city, a sin dropped onto the ground soon after. He wasn’t the man that looked off the side of a ship, entertaining a cruel mockery of his love, a sin disposed into that same sea.
The predator looked at the prey, and the prey smiled. Pride.
“You…” Poseidon choked, “monster.”
The trident began to come down, “Didn’t you say that ruthlessness is mercy upon?-“
“Alright.” The trident stopped, the man raised an eyebrow. “Please..?”
The trident was discarded, not that either of them noticed, sights focused in on each other. When Poseidon grinned wider, his bleeding throat was grabbed.
“Please!” He reiterated.
“Call off the storm.”
“How will you sleep at night,” an attempt at a laugh only released more glowing fluid, yet the mocking tone persisted, “after everything you’ve done?”
“Next to my wife.” The storm blew, waves lessened but did not subside.
“So you can learn.” He groaned as the man squeezed, legs twitching from under him.
“Poseidon-“
“You’ll get home.” Just with that, Odysseus almost jumped off of him, but a quick hand held him by his collar and brought him back down to eye-level. “Indulge me.”
“Giving orders?” Poseidon glared, a playful thing. “Brought down by your own weapon, and you think you can exert yourself over me? Who’s pinning you down, Poseidon?”
“Keep that spirit, I like it.”
“What do you want.”
The hand tugged on his collar, and their lips crashed together. Teeth and spite swirling together.
It takes a moment for Odysseus to widen his eyes and pull back. “You’re bleeding.”
“Clever.”
“What do you want here?” He scoffed.
“You.” Poseidon’s face came closer, but a hand in his hair stopped him in his tracks.
“You’re pathetic.”
“Music to my ears.” Odysseus pulled, and Poseidon let out a blood-soaked moan. He scowled. “Oh, come on…”
Odysseus kissed him again, kept his bleeding mouth closed with a fierce grip and did little more than nip at his lips.
Poseidon bucked his hips, at which Odysseus parted from his mouth. Poseidon gasped like a fish out of water, chased his departed lips before being stopped dead in his track by a roll of the man’s hips.
Poseidon groaned, for once the sound not dripping with pain. Another roll and he moaned, each twitch to meet the movements awarding him with a sharp tug at his hair.
They laid there, swept by wind and water, meshing together in a desperate display of lust. The wind howled, and so did the god.
“Good, good…”
“Shut up.” Odysseus demanded. Poseidon only beamed. “Are you close?”
“You’re hard.”
“Are you close?”
“Oh please, you can’t want it to end that badly.” Odysseus shut him up again, teeth against tongue.
“Are you close?” Odysseus growled, almost whispered, against his lips.
“Yes,” his hips rolled with an insistence, Poseidon looked up at him, prey smiling up at the predator with unsettling passivity, “please?”
He shook as he came. Body aching with pleasure and pain. Eyes rolling as his flesh throbbed. The god felt like he was dying, the god felt alive.
The storm dissipated.
Bonus:
“I must say,” Poseidon said much later, reclined in a recovery area on Olympus, despite his objections (“I don’t care that you want to feel the ‘after-taste’,” Apollo had said, “just be normal for a moment, deary me.”), “your mortal has quite an arm on him.”
“Keep provoking her,” Apollo said, currently holding down Athena from jumping out of her hospital bed and giving the sea god another stab wound, “and I’m kicking you out.”
“I’m more injured than her!”
“No you’re not, and she was here first.”
“Loser.”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?-“