Archive of Our Own

Odysseus hadn’t wanted to go to war.

He had thought he was so clever all those years ago, getting all those kings to swear to not only respect Helen’s choice of husband, but defend it.  He had thought he was preventing a war, that no one would be stupid enough to oppose such a large and powerful alliance.

Then along came stupid, and suddenly Odysseus was being asked to uphold his end of the deal.

Odysseus did not want to leave his home, his family.  He did not want to ask the same of his people, so he came up with a trick.  Between his father’s condition and the rumors of his own eccentricities, it was easy to feign madness.  It had worked, too, right up until Agamemnon put a dagger to his son’s throat.

Odysseus had never been so afraid in his life.

Being glared down by the enraged visage of the unforgiving sea was a close second.

“You trespass in the home of my youngest child,” the earthshaker lists, deceptively calm.  “You steal from him.  You mutilate him.  You deceive him so he cannot ask for help.  Then you murder him on my shores, leave his body with no honors so I can watch him rot.”

Odysseus tries not to wince.  It really is quite damning when laid out like that.  There is no good response, but if he doesn’t find some footing in this confrontation, everyone will die.

“Lord Poseidon, Great Earthshaker, we never would have crossed the cyclops had we known he was yours.”  He glances up through his lashes and, seeing the god impassive and expectant, rushes to continue.  “We never would have shot that first sheep had we known it belonged to anyone.  Upon learning of the area’s inhabitant, we offered recompense.  He accepted our gift and presumably our hospitality, but–”

“You dare,” Poseidon cuts off, still so level, “Tell me my son is at fault for your murder of him?”

It is then the sea explodes, the tumultuous depths having enough of the surface’s façade and bursting violently forth.  There are screams as ships heave and veteran sailors skid across decks.  Odysseus has no time to check if everyone stayed onboard before the god is directly in front of him.  Poseidon roughly fists a long-fingered hand through his hair, lifting as Odysseus scrambles for some purchase.

“You arrogant, pathetic, self-righteous…!” Poseidon seethes as he bodily throws Odysseus against a mast.  “I should drown your entire fleet.  Make you watch as those under your protection die, then explain how they had it coming.”

“No,” Odysseus gasps, still with horror.

“You have a son, don’t you?” the vindictive gods spits.  “I’ll gouge his eyes first, let you find his corpse only after it’s bloated by sun and crawling with insects, their eggs in his flesh, his flesh in their teeth.”

“No!” Odysseus screams, throwing himself full postrate.  “Please, Poseidon!  Please!  I am at fault.  I killed your son.  The responsibility falls on no other.  Any price, any deed that may appease you, take it from me, but only me.”

Odysseus dares not look up.  The storm rages around them, men running and shouting as they try desperately to keep from capsizing, but the god says nothing.  Odysseus knows better than to try to fill this silence.

His head is suddenly yanked up, again by the curls.

“Pathetic,” Poseidon breathes.  “And if I’ll only accept a son for a son?”

Odysseus is choking on his panic.  “Anything– Anything but my son.”

Poseidon leans forward, locks their gazes.  “What if I want a new son?”

Odysseus scrambles to keep up.  Adoption?  Or…  “You mean… a woman?” he ventures.  “If you have your eye on someone in particular, I will do what I can to arrange it.”

He desperately prays he’s not referring to Penelope.  If the blue-haired god has set his sights on his wife, Odysseus will do whatever he can to divert such attentions.  (He ignores the traitorous part of his brain that knows he’s running out of options, that knows what Penelope would choose if given the choice between her honor and their son’s life.)

“You’ll do what you can,” the god repeats without inflection.

Somewhere to his left, there’s a crash and a cry of “Captain!”  Odysseus doesn’t look.

He expands, careful to avoid anything that may anger the god further.  “I cannot control the actions of others, but anything within my power, I will do.”

“And I have your word on that?”

Odysseus nods and hopes he hasn’t just condemned some poor girl.  (It’s an honor to hold the affections of a god, right?)  “My solemn promise.”

Poseidon studies him for a long moment, then gives his hair another firm tug, and they’re gone.

Athena’s realm had always been a strange thing.  It had taken him a long time to notice that he never physically went anywhere, that the incomprehensible star-like location did not exist.  When asked, she described it as the place their minds met.

(Odysseus wonders where she is now, why she doesn’t offer any support against her uncle’s wrath.)

Poseidon’s isn’t like that.  It’s real in a way Athena never cared to make hers.  The only indication Odysseus hadn’t just been dragged beneath the waves is the ease with which he can breathe and the soft glow that leaves no shadows.

“Well,” Poseidon prompts, fingers finally untangling from his curls, “aren’t you going to start?”

Odysseus glances up in confusion that quickly grows as he notices the god’s bare form.  “What?”

He tsks.  “Polyphemus was the weakest and most peaceful of my cyclops children, yet you honored him with a warrior’s end.  He was under my protection, so you must face consequences, but since you left his pride when you took his life, I will allow you to keep your life for the price of your pride.

“You offered anything within your power, King of Ithaca.  Now suck.”

The situation suddenly shifts into horrific focus.  Odysseus is on his knees before a being that is impatient, bare, and erect.  The words ‘a son for a son’ echo between his ears alongside newly sickening possibilities of how Telemachus could have been taken.  He’d be ten now, but the gods were not known to be considerate in their tastes.  Odysseus swallows any protest and leans forward.

This is not an act he has much experience with.  He had never performed it himself, having no interest in men.  Penelope had tried it a few times, but they stopped entirely after she confessed how strange she found the salty taste and how awkward the shape of it was in her mouth.  It had left him curious enough to bring a bead of precum to his own lips, and he figured she had a point.

Poseidon’s is far saltier and Odysseus wonders if it’s due to his domain or if all god’s taste this way.  He is also significantly larger.  Do artists depict the divine inaccurately on purpose, or did Poseidon assume this form in a deliberate attempt to make things more difficult?

There is no way that can all fit in his mouth.  Odysseus tries to break it down logically, like it’s just another puzzle designed to force him to develop nontraditional solutions.  If it can’t go in, go around.

Odysseus loved kissing his wife.  From her oil soft neck to her calloused fingers to the plump of her breast, he had a map of her body imprinted on his lips.  He remembered one of the last nights they had to truly lounge in eachother’s company.

A small troupe of sibling musicians had arrived in Ithaca and were given a stranger’s welcome.  They were traveling, they claimed, to learn the music of every isle.  They were very good, though they denied any familial connection to the muses, and asked if they may honor their hosts with a performance.

That night, the palace flooded with revelers who wished to hear.  All were welcome, and some vendors took advantage, filling the air with rich, fragrant spices.  The joy was infectious and lasted long after the siblings had retired for the evening.

On the way to their own courters, Odysseus continued to hum, spinning his breathless and giggling wife.

“You’re happy,” she had stated, eyes bright as the door shut.  “Did you partake in very much wine by any chance?”

Odysseus threw his arm across his chest in mock offense.  “You wound me, my dear.  I am drunk only on my love for you.  Each day, you glow brighter and my heart grows to match.”

“Uh-huh,” she deadpanned.  “Definitely the wine.”

Odysseus had intended to protest more but became distracted by the fingers woven through his own.  He drew her hand up to his mouth and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

“What are you doing now?” she asked, fond.

He deliberately unfolded each finger, placing a peck on each tip, then kissed the palm.

“So pretty,” was his only answer.

Then, still half humming a Naxian tune, he moved to her inner wrist, her forearm, the inner elbow.  He traced his lips all the way up her arm to her neck, her ear, her breasts.  He placed a hand on either side of her swollen, pregnant belly.  “Beautiful,” he breathed, and kissed there, too.

When they made love that night, it was lazy and sweet.

Odysseus is feeling significantly less playful as he kisses up Poseidon’s shaft.  Instead of reverent pecks, he exaggerates the act, making them as warm and wet as possible.  He moves down the length until he inhales wiry hair, then works back towards the head and starts down the other side.  Poseidon makes an impatient noise.

“I said,” he growls, “to suck.”

Odysseus is suddenly gagging as hips are thrust forward.  He’s able to pull back a bit but doesn’t dare disobey entirely.  He brings his hands up to cover as much of the shaft as possible, keeps the head in his mouth, and sucks.  Doing so while his mouth is wide enough to avoid any contact with teeth causes his cheeks to hollow.  Poseidon groans low in his throat.

Odysseus continues, hoping to finish as soon as possible.  He flexes his fingers, swallows the Earthshaker as far back as his throat will allow, then slowly pulls back, maintaining that warm suction all the while.

“See,” the god groans, “I knew that silver tongue was good for something.”

As he works, Poseidon slowly curls forward.  Odysseus must be doing something right because he can feel a deep contented rumbling from where chest meets back.  He swirls his tongue.

Then there are hands on his ass.

Penelope had always loved his ass, his thighs.  She liked his back, too.  Oftentimes, after training or long days or just because, she’d volunteer to give him a massage.  He’d lay on his front while she straddled his waist and rubbed the tension from his shoulders.  Her expert weaver’s hands worked out knots with startling efficiency.  She’d slid back as she kneaded her way down his body until he was nothing but a contented puddle, but she always seemed to require twice as long to work below his waist.

“My love,” he had told her as her hands traced up his thighs until they caught on the plump of his ass, squeezing.  “I have gone so far beyond relaxed that I am in danger of coming out the other side.”

“Oh no,” she’d said, then sunk her teeth into the crease where leg began.

Poseidon’s hands are each large enough to engulf a cheek.  He roughly flexes his fingers and pushes them apart.  A warm breath falls between.

Odysseus swallows more, sucks harder in the hope that he’s almost done.  A being with so many children shouldn’t be that hard to get off, right?

Then an oil slick finger probes at his entrance.  Even knowing its likelihood, the action surprises Odysseus into jerking forward, promptly choking.  It takes a minute for him to calm his coughing and swallow back bile, at which point there’s already a second finger inside.

The sensation is intensely uncomfortable and his hole instinctively contracts, trying to force out the intrusion.

“Relax,” Poseidon gruffly orders.  “Are you trying to hurt yourself?  Or do you want to go back on our deal?”

Odysseus remembers the offered alternatives, his brothers, his son, and tries to force some tension from his frame.  He can’t entirely stop the flinches when Poseidon moves, moves inside him, but he doesn’t allow the stiffness to remain.  He tentatively reaches back out to the flushed and hanging member.

“Enough of that,” Poseidon dismisses, drawing back.  “Turn around, hands and knees.”

Odysseus does, even as his arms shake.  A large hand pushes on his upper back, forcing him to his elbows with his ass propped up in the air.  Kneading hands bruise thick flesh, and then there is a third finger.  Odysseus bites back an embarrassingly high-pitched keen.

The blue-haired god hears anyway and it sets his off.  “Now you choose to be quiet?  Now?  You, the ever so proud king of Ithaca, who values his words over any weapon?  Now you are struck dumb?”  He leans until his breath is hot in his ear, fingers still scissoring.  “Tell me, Odysseus, what are you thinking?”

There is no good answer.  Honesty would be an insult, but too much flattery and he may decide this isn’t punishment enough.  “You’re… big,” he settles on.

Odysseus had once been considered large himself.  As a child, he had easily outgrown his agemates.  He was an active boy and he used his every physical advantage to get both in and out of trouble.

But then the other children had kept growing and Odysseus had stopped.  The day his younger sister had overtaken him in height was a true low point in his youth.  He was teased, of course, especially when he returned home with the long-legged Spartan princess on his arm.

Odysseus would never be Great Ajax, brandishing his unwieldly shield with ease.  He was no Diomedes, capable of charging gods.  But there was a reason he was counted among their number, why Diomedes had always chosen him to watch his back.  There was a reason Odysseus not only survived the bloody ten year conflict, but survived it with the only intact fleet.

And at home, in the evenings, Odysseus could lean forward and find his face already at her neck.  Penelope would wrap her arms around his broad frame and they would truly circle him.  It was in those moments that Odysseus felt a faint pity for those like Eurylochus who never felt what it was to be held.

Caged in by Poseidon’s hulking frame, Odysseus truly feels small for the first time in his life.  Poseidon chuckles lowly, twisting his fingers one final time before removing them.

Odysseus takes in the sudden emptiness and is surprised to find it’s not the complete relief he expected.  His ass notes the loss, clenching around nothing in the moment before fingers are replaced with something heavy and blunt.

“No!” he yells, jerking forward.

There’s a hand around his throat.  “No?”

Odysseus tries to catch his breath, to think.  He’s known this was coming since the god’s attention first turned to his ass.  Poseidon’s fingers had already made their home inside his ass.  His dick had even been inside him via his mouth.  Why is this different?  What dignity did he have left to lose?  Odysseus had already concluded this fate was the best-case scenario in dealing with the Stormbringer’s wrath.  This newfound, illogical squeamishness changes nothing.

“Sorry,” he gets out.  “Continue.”

The grip on his neck tightens, not yet choking, but present.  Odysseus can’t see him from where he’s faced forward.

The response comes low and deep.  “If you want me to do something, beg.”

Odysseus grits his teeth.  “Please,” he adds, “continue.”

“Continue what?” the god asks in that too calm tone from the ship.  “Be specific.”

After everything, this indignity has Odysseus seething.  Poseidon was correct when he accused Odysseus of having pride in his words.  To be forced to use them against himself grates.

“Please, my lord,” he says, voice as small as he feels.  “Please fuck me.”

Poseidon thrusts in at once and Odysseus screams.

Odysseus is no stranger to pain.  The tumbles of childhood, the impalement of war, even a light goring from an enhanced, magical boar.  But there was something intimately agonizing about being torn apart from the inside.

The pain in his ass is expected, if not significantly worse, but Odysseus hadn’t expected it to burn up through his naval to his diaphragm.  His muscles all seize, his lungs wring and heart stutters.  His limbs give out as black spots dance.

There’s a harsh slap to his chest.  “Breathe,” he hears.  “Breathe you stupid mortal.”

Odysseus gasps and the black spots fade.  He gasps and gulps through the pulsing lava until awareness creeps back in.  There are fingers carding through his curls, oddly comforting.

“Pathetic,” the god sighs, softer than he had yet heard.  “I told you to be specific.”

Odysseus breathes and tries to still his trembles.

The god doesn’t move inside him, but his hands wander.  They splay across his chest, circle the nipples and knead the flesh there.  Deft fingers trail down his sides, dip into his naval, and give a quick squeeze to his thighs.  They card through the hair down there then circle his member.

Odysseus focuses on his breathing.

The god squeezes and pulls down, gently at first, then firmer.  As the ache has time to settle, his body becomes abruptly aware that it’s been a decade since it felt such an intimate touch from another.  It’s with something sick and numb that Odysseus feels himself stiffen.

Poseidon rhythmically works him with one hand, the other kneading his left breast as he slowly pulls out the slightest bit.  He pushes back in at the same sluggish pace.  Odysseus whines at the movement and doesn’t care that Poseidon hears.  There’s a brief pause before he repeats the same slow action.

While still sore from that initial punishing thrust, there’s no new pain.  Poseidon is slick inside him, almost gliding whenever Odysseus can bring himself to unclench.  He picks up the pace, jerking him in time, and a very different sweat breaks out across his brow.  It’s still strange, but he’s not getting any softer.

Then Poseidon repositions his hips, thrusts down, and–

“Ah!”

Odysseus had always been distantly aware of the typical role of the eromenos.  There were those who flaunted their relationships in excruciating, others who were fond of crude humor.  He hadn’t paid it much mind, not until the fourth year of the war.

He had intended to propose a new strategy that would help limit the movement of the allies of Ilium and uncover what had to be a hidden supply line, but the best suited troops were the Myrmidons.  Going to Achilles first had its risks.  Once the prince had his mind set, he could not be dissuaded, no matter the consequence.  But to bring a plan involving his men to Agamemnon without prior approval would be a great disrespect.  It ultimately hadn’t been much of a choice, as he didn’t particularly care if Agamemnon was displeased.

Eager to bring the war closer to its end, Odysseus had disregarded the hour and made his way to where the Myrmidon shelters were set.  The watchmen had easily recognized him and informed him that Achilles had retired for the evening meal.  Odysseus had seen the candlelight and heard the movement, so didn’t think much of announcing himself as he entered.

While they never outwardly defined their relationship, neither Achilles nor Patroclus had ever hidden that there was one.  Wherever Achilles went, Patroclus would follow.  Less widely acknowledged, but still known, was their fondness for Briseis.

Odysseus never saw much use in the taking of beautiful women as war prizes, though he knew he was strange in that regard.  He had spoken to Briseis, though, and she seemed a terribly practical young woman.

“It would be different if I had somewhere to go,” she once confided, “but if I wasn’t with these men, it’s just be another.  Achilles is about as descent as it’s possible for a soldier to be, I think, and Patroclus is kind.  I may as well stay, at least until the fighting’s over.”

So to see the three of them together had been no real surprise.  The way they were arranged, however, froze Odysseus in his tracks.

Briseis had sat beside them, the only one still clothed.  She had one hand in Achilles’, the other combing damp red-gold locks from his eyes.

Patroclus had been facing away from the entrance, the long, lean expanse of dark skin and tightly corded muscle on clear display as he moved.

And Achilles?  The strongest of the Achaeans laid on his back atop the purple quilts, spread wide by the firm grasp on his calves.  He had immediately locked eyes with Odysseus but couldn’t completely prevent the crooning exhalations as Patroclus, unaware, continued to drive into him, murmuring jumble praise.

Briseis had been the second to notice and she had a far more visceral response.  “Get out!” she shrieked, and he had.

The next few days were exceedingly uncomfortable.  Patroclus wouldn’t look at him while Achilles wouldn’t look anywhere else.  He watched him with the intensity of a man contemplating the best way to disappear a body.  Odysseus knew the importance Achilles placed on his reputation, knew what was said of men who allowed themselves to be dominated in such a way, and so had sworn not to tell anyone what he saw, but Achilles had not budged in his suspicions.  Finally, Odysseus had pulled him aside and confessed that he enjoyed taking his wife in his mouth.

Achilles had given him an incredulous and disgusted look.

“You should keep that sort of thing to yourself,” he declared, and everything had pretty much returned to normal after.

Odysseus wonders now if this is what Achilles felt then.

He sees stars as every nerve that had previously been torn apart floods him with electric warmth.  Poseidon is ruthless, striking that spot again and again, moving both hands to better grab at hips.  His face is wet and his cock is weeping.  Odysseus closes his eyes and allows each thrust to drive thought from his mind.

He’s so close when Poseidon suddenly pulls out.  Odysseus isn’t proud of the needy whine he makes, but soon he’s being flipped onto his back and refilled.  It only takes a few tries for Poseidon to relocate that spot.

“Look at me,” the god orders through grunts.  “Look at yourself.  Fuck.  Look at you.”

He takes one of Odysseus’ hands and lays it on his stomach.  With each thrust, he can feel the way it bulges.

“Fuck,” he answers, lacking the brain capacity to truly register anything just then.

Poseidon digs the heels of his hands into his torso, roughly pushing up to his chest where he rubs his thumbs across his nipples.  It should hurt, the brutal manor in which he grasps flesh, but it doesn’t.  He repeats it, then again.

Odysseus’ heels dig into Poseidon’s back, his nails into the seabed.  Poseidon’s thrusting hard as he kneads his sensitive chest.  Odysseus throws his head back and comes with a cry.

Odysseus pants heavily as his senses slowly return.  Poseidon, while no longer inside him, is still running his hands all across his body.  Feeling sensitive, Odysseus looks down.

“What.”

His chest both looks and feels swollen, like all the skin pushed up decided to stay there.  His nipples stand, brown and pert.  His abdomen, while still lean, tapers in further than he’s used to.  And below that–

Odysseus sits up and scrambles back.

His softening cock shrinks with each second, scrotum pulling in on itself.

“What did you do?” Odysseus gasps, hand flying to his smooth throat at the pitch.

Poseidon grins a sharp baring of teeth.  “I told you exactly what I wanted, a son and your pride, and you promised anything within your power.”  His expression turns more crooked, hungry.  “It is now within your power.  You should really ask more follow up questions before making deals with gods, little mortal.”

Odysseus looks back down to his now settled feminine form and tries desperately to swallow his panic.

“No,” he breathes, then more frantic as he claws at his skin and it stays.  “No.  No no.  No no no no–!”

“No?” the god repeats, a mocking cruelty in his voice.  “Would you rather the other options?”

At the deja vu, Odysseus’ head snaps up to take in the blue-haired god.  The still erect god.

“Please,” he begs.

“Please what?” he ruthlessly pushes.

“Please don’t.”  Odysseus is openly weeping and he doesn’t care.  “Please stop.”

“The deal still stands,” Poseidon reminds.  “Are you sure you want to break it now?”

After everything that’s been taken, how can Odysseus be expected to give more?  After everything he went through, how can he allow it to be for nothing?

“Please,” Odysseus repeats, steels himself.  “Please fuck me in the ass.”

“No,” Poseidon dismisses.

Odysseus is crying so hard he feels like he’s drowning.  “Then please– please fuck me gently.”

Poseidon cups his hands around his face, brushing away the tears with his thumbs.  “You keep those silver eyes on me, girl, and I’ll take care of you,” he promises.

So Odysseus watches while he’s laid back down.  He watches as the god crowds him, form over unfamiliar form.  He struggles to meet that ravenous gaze as he feels something push inside, grating against too sensitive parts.  The initial push is slow going and gentle, but Poseidon doesn’t wait before moving again, setting an increasingly faster pace.

Odysseus remembers his first time with Penelope.  He’d been so afraid of hurting her, even knowing blood was supposed to be a good thing.  He was so nervous that he snuck down to a brothel two days before his wedding.  The working women had seemed content taking his money without laying with him.  They talked him through foreplay, how to work her open.  They recommended a special oil just in case and stressed the importance of having a rooster for the sheets.

“Women aren’t supposed to bleed from sex.  If she does, you’re doing it wrong.”

It was a year before he worked up the nerve to tell Penelope what he had done.

“You sweet, ridiculous man,” she had told him, eyes alight with warmth and humor.  “Do you have any idea what people would have–”

“Eyes on me,” Poseidon growls, punctuating it with a hard thrust.

Odysseus’ back hurts from where he’s being forcibly rocked against the ground.  He feels physically sick to his stomach from too much pushing its way up and trying to rearrange his innards.

“Fuck,” Poseidon groans, “you reek of owl.  Fuck, keep those pretty eyes on me.”

Odysseus watches him become more and more undone.

Where is Athena?  Does she not hear him, or did the sex scare her off?  The idea vaguely amuses him.

One time, when he was much younger, he allowed his thoughts to drift south while they were connected at the mind.  He was an adolescent and it was only for a moment, nothing to do with her, but she had gotten so upset she didn’t talk to him for–

“On me,” Poseidon snaps.  “You’re here with me.”

Odysseus thinks he should be getting close by now.  How much longer can even a god last like this?  Maybe Odysseus should be doing something with his hands to speed it along.  Penelope had always liked–

“You’re with me, bird brain!” Poseidon roars.  “I won’t let you close your eyes.  When will you get it through your thick– fuck!”

His hips stutter and his pace becomes frantic until he bottoms out, shaking.  That too-full sick feeling in Odysseus’ stomach grows.

Their noses nearly touch, Poseidon keeled over and panting hot breath directly onto Odysseus’ face.  The god doesn’t seem to notice, eyes closed.  Odysseus waits, numbly, for whatever comes next.

With a shuddering inhale, Poseidon slowly pushes himself up onto his arms.  He leisurely slides free with a slick squelch.  Odysseus says nothing, just watches as the god takes a final moment to inspect his handiwork before pulling away entirely.

“Well,” he snaps, “are you going to lay there all day?”

Odysseus tentatively pushes himself pushes himself up.  He’s aching in places he hadn’t thought possible and is weighted down a bone deep exhaustion.  As he struggles to his feet, he can feel the thick ejaculate slide free and ooze down his legs.

(He wonders if there’s blood.  He doesn’t check.)

“Will that be all, my lord?” Odysseus hesitantly ventures.

The god snorts, looking tired himself.  “Unless you want more?”

Odysseus desperately wants to take the out, but he needs to be sure.  There cannot be anymore unexpected conditions.

“Has your rage been appeased, Great Earthshaker?”

Poseidon waves him off, suddenly bored.  “So long as you or they don’t cross me again, your crew and family are safe from me.  Now leave.”

Odysseus looks around the otherwise empty underwater-like place at a loss.  “And how can I return to them?” he asks.

Poseidon’s grin is sharp.  “You swim.”

The sea crashes down.