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She’s done this many times before.
Climb Mount Olympus, that is.
Defeat Prometheus, that is.
Yet for the past several nights, she has avoided the Surface, choosing the Underworld route again and again. She has no need to collect more silver nor does she want to attend yet another one of Scylla’s rehearsals. She has defeated her grandfather many times before; there is no need for her to keep practicing her moves on him while she lacks the one final reagent that she can only get up there.
And she knows why she hasn’t returned to the Surface — things are different now.
Because Prometheus tricked her. Because she gave in to his cunning. Because she fucked him.
She knows the entire expanse of his body now. She had him straddled under her legs as she clawed at his broad chest, her center stretched wide and his large hands cupping the swell of her ass as he guided his cock inside her. She spent the rest the night with his musk trapped in her nose and his cum between her legs, and she could not wash him off until she returned to the Crossroad and drowned herself in the hot springs.
Even then, she could not get him out of her mind. No amount of blood loss, no amount of victory against her Underworld opponents could rid her of him. Even in her sleep, she would stir in bed, restless and unsatisfied.
As if she wanted more.
It didn’t make sense. That night was just like as other night. And she’s taken others to bed before. Others that were just as vigorous and indefatigable, others that could bend her and swallow her whole —
Although none quite as intent. Or unsettled.
Why did he let her have him, derive pleasure from him? Why did he smile when she came, and why did he hold back from crushing her when he held her face between his hands? Why did he call her by her name, and not by the role in the Fates he has prophesized for her?
He has been in her mind for nights — and she is not sure if she is more scared or more outraged. She doesn’t want to face him, doesn’t even want to imagine the smug smirk on his face knowing that he has witnessed her undoing.
But she needs to defeat Typhon again.
And in so doing, there is no avoiding the Titan himself.
She gathers herself, destroys the ever-forming Pylons in Ephyra. She jumps from ship to ship in the Rift of Thessaly. And finally, after shaking the salty air and gunpowdered air from her hair, she begins up Mount Olympus. The ground turns frostbitten, challenging the eternal fire under her soles. She dashes past the twin marble statues, feeling goosebumps grow over her skin with the cooler breeze. The air is thin, and she takes a long and deep breath, reminding her Underworld-bound blood of her Fate-freeing incantation.
She hears the faint shriek of an eagle overhead and looks up, scouting the sky for Aeto’s telltale golden wings, but sees nothing in the navy sky. She wonders if Prometheus is waiting for her.
But of course, he is. Why would he not?
He always waits for her.
She wonders also if he is still thinking of that night, if he’s been consumed as she has been since their time together — limbs tangled between each other and messy in each other’s arousal.
Despite as distracted as she is, ascending the mountain is easy with the boons of her father’s younger brothers. Melinoë surges at the shamblers and automatons, the force of the ocean and lightning to follow. She barely needs to channel Descura’s omega powers to eliminate her foes, and the Moon sends silver meteors to crush opponents at her call.
All too soon, she arrives at the penultimate platform. She sighs in front of Charon’s wares, feeling fortunate that the boatman himself isn’t here to witness how distraught she must look. Charon is accustomed to seeing her battered and close to death — not conflicted and stilted about her next move.
Redirecting her thoughts, she reflects on the plentiful coin at her behest. May as well purchase something to boost her abilities. A pomegranate, then? After all, she doesn’t know what the rest of the night will hold…
Well, Prometheus surely. Although what else, she cannot foresee — unlike the damned Titan.
They’ve done this many times before, she reminds herself. This night should be no different — not even if she knows how hot his body feels under her legs, or how soft and sensitive the scarred skin over his abdomen is, or how the stolen flames on his eternally burning arm do not harm her when he does not will it, but still tickles her all the same, lapping at her skin with the softness of lily petals.
Focus, Melinoë, she reminds herself.
He only gets in the way.
She looks at the heavy carved marble door at the top of the stairs, surrounded by Corinthian columns and a triangular pediment illustrating a prior Olympian battle atop. Usually, she blasts through the doors, rolling her eyes at what — or rather, who — is to come and try to stop her from getting to her family’s summit. But tonight, she takes an extra second, suddenly aware of how much of her skin is bare to the cold mountain air.
She clears her throat and steps forward, the door lifting to the arena ahead.
She finds him standing at the very center, waiting for her — as he always has.
He looks as he always does. Body tall and domineering, strong and relentless. But his eyes are always the most fearsome for her. He looks at her with a burning passion, and she can never tell the purpose of such intensity.
Nevertheless, she steps up to him, leaving a few meters between them. Any closer and she would need to crane her neck to look him in the eye — which she refuses. He holds her gaze.
“I knew you’d be back,” he says, voice low as gravel.
She thinks she sees the slightest of smirks over his lips.
She narrows her eyes. “You of all people know it takes no foresight to predict that,” she huffs. “You stand in my way, after all. Night after night.”
He scoffs, a sharp exhale out his nose. “In case you have forgotten, I did no standing the last time we met. You had me on my back — just as you wished me that night.”
Her breath hitches. She quiets the flutter in her chest, drawing her heels together. She says nothing, unwilling to betray her stance.
“Did you defeat the Typhon that night?” he asks. “I did not foresee your aftermath.”
“No,” she replies curtly.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I suppose then, I served my purpose after all.”
He looks at her with knowing eyes, but she won’t let him intimidate her. He thinks he’s funny? She will not humor him.
“You’re foul,” she curses.
“And you’re wanting,” he retorts. His eyes glow, unfocused, but she can feel him look her over head to toe. “You’re back for another round.”
An uncomfortable heat rises from under her collar as she senses his eyes on her. She grips Descura tighter, her skeletal arm crackling. “I’m not here for you or because of you. You’re just in the way of where I’m going next.” And then she adds under her breath, “As you always are.”
His lips twitch. “You gods… so self-assured in your integrity,” he remarks. “Faultless and earnest. Better than the rest of immortalkind. It must run in the blood — denial, that is.”
“Don’t act like you know me,” Melinoë snaps. “You know nothing about me.”
“Is that so?” he challenges. He steps towards her then, predator-like, until he stands just before her. He lowers to one knee, unbothered by Descura’s taunt.
Melinoë stands her ground, but even down on one knee, Prometheus stands taller still than her. She cannot help but angle upwards to keep his gaze. Her forehead only reaches as far as his collarbones. He is so much more massive than her — and she hates that.
She hates that he consumes her senses, and she hates that she can feel his oppressive presence radiate over her. He smells of wood and ash, faintly of iron and sundried linen. His flame-wielding arm flickers in the breeze. She feels her breathing shallow, and the heat from under collar — the flush she has tried so hard to quiet — rises ever upwards to her face as he leans in.
“Tell me then,” he says, his voice low. “Why do I know such… curious things about you? Why do I know how soft and wet you are between your thighs? Why do I know your body so well I can map you with my tongue? Why do I know how you taste when you come? Why have I seen you in so many states of undress, bent into so many different positions?”
“I’ve heard you cry out my name, shriek for mercy, plead me for more,” he presses. “I’ve felt you shudder under my mouth, choke on my fingers…” He pauses on this moment, swallowing thickly, as if catching himself. “I even know things you don’t yet realize of yourself. I know you want to be pushed into a wall, stuck between my body and the mountain. I know you like me tied back, begging to let me have you. I know you like my throat under your thumbs, pressing down until my lungs collapse. Why—”
And here, he moves in ever closer to her, the question whispered into her ear.
“Why do you think that is — Princess?”
She inhales sharply, only then realizing her air has run out. She parts her lips, but she is speechless — her throat is dry, her voice a meaningless rasp.
“This is what the Fates have weaved for us, don’t you see?” he murmurs. He brings his hand in, lifting her chin to hold her eyes on his. His hand is warm, flames tickling her lips. “You unlocked this thread for us that night, and now that you’ve done so, it is inevitable.”
She scowls. “Enough of your stupid prophecies,” she says, pushing his hand away. He gives away easily at her demand, despite the strength she knows he has. “That night was a mistake. Between Aphrodite’s charms and Ares’s bloodlust, I could barely think straight. What we had was a one-time encounter. Nothing more.”
He chuckles, a deep and resonant boom. “You lie, Agent of Change,” he replies. “I’ve seen your future. I’ve seen your pain, your pleasure. You will bed me. Many more times. You will tell me how you cannot stop thinking of me. You will tell me how you cannot resist returning to the Surface to seek me. You will tell me how you wish your fingers were the size of mine so that you can finish while you dream of me.”
Rage bubbles within Melinoë, her entire body flushing. She cannot tell if she is more outraged at his indecency or at the fact that he has said aloud the very thoughts she thought were secret.
Amused at her silence, he tilts his head. “Or maybe you will not tell me these things just yet.”
“No,” she barks. “You’ll never hear these words from me.”
He looks at her as though she is a petulant child. “Do not act as if you’ve only come to Mount Olympus to pass me by,” he purrs. “You know why you are here.”
She can’t stand his eyes anymore, so she averts her gaze, looking anywhere but at him. He demands all her attention however — the steady rise and fall of his chest, the raised scar tissue that disappears under his wraps, the flames that dance along the muscular line of his forearm.
Inevitably, she remembers how sturdy his body feels under her and how hard she can bite before draws blood. A traitorous heat pools between her legs, and a sudden impatience stirs her center.
“I pity you, being in such denial,” he says. “I’ll give you the choice for your fate tonight. You choose what we do tonight.” He cocks his head curiously. “Fight. Or fuck.”
It irks her really. His audacity. She fucked him once and now the Fates deem it so? One stupid night and now he thinks he has sway with her? Never mind that he has turned against her family and is working for Chronos, never mind that he has sided for the end of the gods while the mortals he apparently loves do not care for him, never mind that he has sent her back to the Crossroads over and over again barely alive!
She snarls, pushing him back so he sits onto the ground. Now level in height, she steps forward and reaches up to take a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back until she can feel the tension tug at his roots. She forces him to look up at her as she leans in.
“This isn’t over,” she threatens.
At this, he smiles. “It will never be,” he agrees.
She frowns. “Blood and darkness,” she scowls — then closes in to kiss him.
Given her choice, he reciprocates in equal force, taking both sides of her waist with his hands. His palms cover the entire curve of her body, his thumbs resting under her breasts. She feels her body give into his strength, and she sighs into his mouth as he swipes over her nipples.
“Ah…” she breathes, the fist around his hair loosening. In her other hand, Descura clatters to the ground.
“There you are,” he hums, the reverberation of his voice rumbling through her body. His hands slide downward until his forearms slip under her thighs to form a seat for her. She feels herself being pulled upwards as he stands to his full height, and inadvertently, she swings forward to rest her hands on his broad shoulders.
She pulls from the kiss to rebalance herself, flushing to see how fervently he looks at her — eyes large and glowing. He exhales, his hot breath fluttering over her stomach. He kisses her belly, and she shivers in anticipation. Prometheus smiles at her reaction, and while she cannot see it, she can feel the crease of his lips against the thin fabric of her tunic.
She scoffs. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re the one that always starts this.”
She raises her eyebrow, looking down at him — unwillingly noting his long eyelashes. “And what? You’ve no agency in this at all? Despite all that you told me the Fates let you see?”
“I no longer play an active role in my future,” he replies. “I’ve learned I cannot change nor influence the outcome.”
“Ah, so then you’ll simply do I say,” she concludes.
He looks at her coolly. “You gods will always do as you like.”
She likes this answer. Of all things, he’s said tonight, she likes those words best.
“Hm,” she murmurs, reaching behind her to unclasp the belt cinching her tunic down. “Why don’t you do the things you know I like best, then?”
Without missing a beat, he lifts her dress up and over her hand with a free hand. The clothing falls to the ground, saffron yellow bright against the frosted surface of the arena. For a moment, her skin prickles in the winter air but the chilly temperature is almost immediately replaced by Prometheus’s hot breath. He kisses the center of her chest, then presses the flat of his tongue over her nipple.
Her entire breast fits into his mouth, she realizes with dizzying pleasure as he does just so. Her back arches forward, pushing as much of herself into him as he sucks. As she shifts, she becomes distinctly aware of how wet she is, her arousal slick on his arm where she sits — no doubt Prometheus cognizant as well.
She rocks her hips toward him, her body impatient. She knows very well that he can give her what she wants, what she hasn’t stopped thinking about. He can make ruin of her.
“Patience, Princess,” he croons. “For all the times you’ve left me wanting, for all the times you’ve bypassed our eventual Fate — I should like to see you squirm just a little longer.”
Even as he says this, he adjusts her position so that she hangs over his left forearm. She feels a knuckle from his other hand trace back and forth between her folds, spreading her arousal messily over her center and all over his fingers.
He releases her breast from his lips, tenderly licking its pert nipple farewell before switching over and taking her other breast into his mouth. Between her legs, he circles her with his knuckle, occasionally delivering a pleasing pressure to her clit. She moans, grinding into his hand, her nails piercing his shoulders.
The tempting. The teasing. The denial. She cannot take it anymore.
“Please,” she begs. “Please, Prometheus. Please.”
“Desperation looks good on you, you know,” he murmurs.
“I thought you’d do as I say, hm?” she chides — then gasps when he suddenly lifts her up, her thighs spread across his cheeks and her center at his mouth. He takes one long languid lap, making her toes curl. She hugs his forehead to keep herself upright but there is no need, as his hands lock her firmly in place on his face.
He traces over her with his tongue, the mix of his spit and her arousal dripping down her ass and onto his chest. He is slow and determined, not missing a single inch of her. He teases her with the point of his tongue, shallow flicks that leave her avid. She can do nothing to accelerate her climax; in this position, she is helpless against his strength and relentlessness. He consumes her methodically, with steadfast intent — and it drives her mad.
He completely overwhelms her. And as much as Melinoë never likes to lose control, she suddenly finds a certain craving for being overpowered and disarmed. Indeed, the Titan of Foresight is right — for a moment, she wonders what it is like to be trapped under his body, crushed under his delicious weight.
“In the name of Erebus, please!” she pleads. “I’m so close.”
He laughs, then steps to the edge of the area, all the meanwhile keeping his face between her legs. He pushes her into the wall of the arena, and she hiccups as her back flattens into the hard rock behind her. His hands now free from keeping her upright, he pins the backs of her knees to either side of her, spreading her flush. Then, after pressing a kiss onto her forehead, he bows down to eat her out.
He’s right. He foretold as such. She loves this. And so, folded between the mountain and his mouth, she comes — and everything from Tartarus to Gaia shakes.
Melinoë recovers, an aftershock pulsing through her body as she comes to, her breath catching up to her. He looks over her body then dips his head down to give her one last lick, as if to clean her up. He treats her so carefully, in such contrast to the damage she knows he can deal. The orange-blue flames of his right arm dance, cutting sharp shadows over his nose and cheekbones and making the slicked-bottom half of his face shimmer as he lifts his head up to meet her eyes again.
“You want more,” he says, after a moment. He says this so matter-of-fact it feels smug.
She’s suddenly reminded of her lurid position, pinned and spread flat over the arena wall. She convinces herself that his fire is the reason she feels so hot.
“Don’t be so coy,” she retorts, taking his neck and pulling him in to her lips. She kisses him, tasting herself, and wonders how many times he’s held back — how many times he’s seen her undone and yet did not utter a single word about it, patient until the one fateful night when she wanted more than riddles from him.
All those times he was waiting for her… She realizes that for how much she has been occupied by him since their last night together, Prometheus has been consumed for eons — how long as he foreseen her in harmony with his body, how long as he foreseen her consummated.
He has wanted her since the beginning of Time. She has occupied him since the creation of man.
This is why fucking him feels so good. This is why fucking him feels so right.
And she cannot get enough of it.
“Get down,” she commands, after a bite of her lip.
He snorts, then obliges her just so. He pulls back from the wall, shifting his hands to take her sides and drop her gently to the ground. He sits, a dull thud shaking the arena, and props himself up on his elbows. She stands between his legs, undoubtably seeing the way his pants protrude all too obviously. She steps forward, setting her foot on the base of it — noting how stiffly it pushes back and how her foot just covers its girth.
He exhales through pursed lips, watching as she leans forward to add more weight to her foot. She likes seeing him react to this — knowing that he has tolerated greater amounts of pain with barely a blink of an eye.
She bends down, her foot still on him, taking his sash in one hand — her damned grandfather’s logo marking it. She pulls it off in one sharp motion, as if she invoking the dissolution of him herself, and throws it to the other side of the arena. Free of the colorful tassels around his waist, she sees the telltale splotch of wet fabric.
She looks up at him, pulling her foot away. “Take it off,” she says.
He does. In doing so, she finds herself exactly where she was the other night, confronted by his size. The smell of his musk hangs heavier now in the air, and she sits on her knees, reaching forward to take his cock in both hands and bending it forward to bring the tip to her mouth.
“By Gaia…” he curses, groaning when she flits her tongue in the slit on top.
She cannot swallow him whole, not in the way that he can take her. Even so, his cock stiffens between her hands, and she pumps up and down its length. As she does so, he leaks more pre-cum — some which she drinks, the rest which dribbles off her jaw and down her chest. He tastes bitter and unbridled, and she feels her center rumble with a renewed pleasure when he calls upon the Chthonic gods.
His hand reaches to her, tracing the valley down her spine. She leans forward, allowing him purchase as he dips down past her ass. His hand is quick to find her cunt, and he slides a finger into her. She moans, cock still in her mouth, and she feels his tip threaten the roof of her mouth.
She takes him to the knuckle, easy with her arousal. Lubricated, he fucks her fervently, his finger gliding in and out. He adds another finger, and she barely notices if not for the warm burn of a stretch. Inadvertently, her ass lifts up higher from her heels, offering his hand a better angle. With this, he curls inside her, pressing against her walls. Her mind grows fuzzy, her hands now on either side of his hips to keep herself propped up.
“Ah, Prometheus!” she cries. His cock escapes her mouth, slapping her chest wetly. Desiring more, she bows down, backing herself further into his hand.
Soon enough, her face rests between his hips, her bottom lifted to the heavens as he finger-fucks her. Her breathing grows jagged and open-mouthed, and she drools over his skin, pleading him for more. More fingers, more force, more… anything. Whatever he gives her, she will take.
“Melinoë,” he hisses, then suddenly pulls his hand out from under her. She whines, feeling very empty. He lifts her face to look up at him, his fingers cool and wet on her skin. “You’re bewitching, you know,” he rasps. “Even centuries of seeing you in my visions does not match you here with me right now.”
“Huh?” she responds, mind muddled.
Why does he still talk in riddles? He doesn’t make any sense — at least not while the only thing she can think of is how much she wants him inside her.
“Please,” she croons, the word muffled as he wipes her lips of spit. “Please fuck me.”
She must look a certain way to him because he takes a sudden sharp breath in.
“You wretched gods…” he curses, before lifting her body atop him, her knees on either side of him. She rests her hands on his chest, uncaring for how painfully she grasps his skin — she knows that he can take it.
She feels him edging between her folds, anticipating his size. Already he feels so large without so much as the tip teasing her center. Her heart flutters in a feeling between alarm and expectation — but she knows she’s handled him before, and she knows she’s ready enough to have him whole. And oh, does she want him…
Unable to wait much longer, she cedes to her impatience, dropping her weight onto his hips. She gasps as he enters, still surprised by his girth and how much she stretches to fit him. The initial effort only has him halfway within her, but as wet as she is, she incrementally takes in the rest of him, his length disappearing into her as she sits squarely atop him.
He fills her up so completely, leaving her no room to think of anything else but fucking him. Again, she thinks. Again. She steadies herself, lifting her hips up to drive him into her, but he takes her waist, holding her in place.
“Easy, Melinoë,” he coos, kissing her forehead. “I’d like to savor this. Not often we come together like so.”
She huffs in protest. “Why should that trouble you? Aren’t you the one that foresees us fucking for the rest of millennia? You’ll have me many more times, won’t you?”
He smiles, the same way he does after defeat. “I treasure our every encounter,” he simply replies. He presses a kiss onto her lips, wrapping his arms around him so that she is pressed against him. His hips thrust upward, shoving his cock back into her to remind her his strength.
“Yes,” she murmurs, her voice stifled by his skin.
Yes, as he rams into her again.
Yes, as he gains momentum.
Yes, as everything around her drowns into the background. She is left with nothing but how he stretches her and how he fills her and how her very center winds into tight tangles. Mind numb, she latches onto him as his strength grows unhindered and as he becomes unchecked — solely intent on pleasure.
“Melinoë!” he growls as he releases — hot like fire inside her.
She, too, relinquishes control and yells out his name, certain that all of Olympus can hear her and that she rivals even the Father of All Monsters in her cry.
Prometheus slowly returns from pleasure, releasing her from his arms, and she lifts herself up to slide off his body and on the cool ground next to him. She rests her head on his bicep, covering herself with the warmth of his flame-burdened arm.
Last she found herself tangled in her arms, she felt shame and embarrassment more than anything else. Then anger and rage that he remained in her thoughts. But now that she has come to him again, she feels more tired than anything else.
Tired of what? Tired of…?
She shakes the thought from her head and looks up at him.
“Do we call it even then?” she asks him.
He looks down at her, studying her for a moment. “I shoulder defeat better than you,” he simply replies — as ever, cryptic.
She presses her lips together, then sits up. His arm falls to the ground by her side. “I suppose I’ll get going then,” she announces.
He says nothing as she traverses the arena, picking up her tunic and rewrapping her body in the fabric. She fastens her belt around her middle, then bends down to pick up Descura.
He’s sat up now, legs crossed and flames crackling his ever-burnt, ever-healing arm. He watches her, and she tries to ignore the slow drip trickling between her legs.
“I’ll see you later then?” she remarks, awkward.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “And I’ll remain here, waiting for you, as I do every night,” he says.
She doesn’t hear the usual amount of ire in his voice that she is used to, but she thinks she might have missed it with the sound of her fast heartbeat.
Now that this has happened twice… Does this change anything?
She cannot tell. He still looks at her in the same way he always does — distant and cold, yet intense and ravenous.
She finds it hard to look away, and even when she does, she feels his eyes on her.
Far up the summit, she still feels his burning gaze — even as she defeats Typhon that very night.
Even when she returns to shadow and lies in her bed to rest, she still sees fire.