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The island of Aeaea is a sight for sore eyes in the Rift: a serene oasis within the Thessaly’s now polluted waters — currents sparkling with metallic shrapnel, waves capped in gasoline, and splintered planks scattered over the surface, reminders of the slowly decomposing skeletons of wooden ships littering its bedrock. Circe has kept her home and its abode pristine in spite of all the ensuing chaos, the livestock unashamedly unaware of the war unfolding before them.
It’s why Melinoë rather likes taking pause to enjoy the scenery of the island in the enchantress’s company, although admittedly, tonight, she mulls over a thought — a hypothetical question, really — and lingers for more time than usual.
Maybe perhaps taking too long of a pause.
“Less decisive than usual, are we now, little miss?” Circe chirps, waiting as Melinoë peruses her choice of Fortunes.
Melinoë opens and closes her mouth, deciding that maybe this is better to address for next time but Circe catches on quickly to her hesitation.
“Now what is it, poppet? Don't hesitate around me!”
Melinoë still does anyway. “Well, I was wondering if...” She trails off, biting down on her bottom lip, propping her chin in her hand in thought.
Circe raises an eyebrow. “Well? Out with it!” she demands. “What is it? Tonight's selection doesn't quite fit your needs?”
“No, not at all. Nothing of that sort, Madame Circe.” Melinoë laughs nervously, shifting her hands to her hips as she prepares herself, clearing her throat. “I wanted to ask a question.”
“Well, of course!” The enchantress gives her a welcoming and open-armed gesture — if she is curious why Melinoë’s tongue is so tied, she hides her suspicions well. “What question shall I answer, then?”
Melinoë thinks her words over one more time, then nods to herself. “Theoretically,” she starts, “if one were to multiply one of your incantations, that wouldn't necessarily negate or reverse the foundation of the Magick, would it?”
Circe purses her lips, contemplating. “Well, certainly it depends on the Words themselves. Give me an example, why don't you?”
Melinoë feigns deliberation, tilting her head to the side. “Eh, well, I don't know…” She looks over the Fortunes at hand. “Say this one, the first one — the Word of Greater Girth. If one were to double or even... triple it, is the incantation truly as simple as multiplying the number of reagents and the repeating the recitation? Is it really just elementary math?”
Circe squints at the incantation, mentally calculating. “Actually… yes, for that one, multiplication would indeed work,” she replies. She trails off, reflecting on her answer, before both eyebrows raise. “And in fact, I think that one is limitless — you can keep exponentiating the growth to your heart’s desire, assuming you have the ingredients at hand!” She narrows her eyes, then adds in a mutter, “Although, of course, we have to take into account that the bigger you are, the more energy you consume and therefore the shorter the time the incantation will last.”
Circe’s eyes suddenly flit to Melinoë, a cattish look on her face. “Not that I’m presuming it would be you who we are making bigger.”
Melinoë stutters. “I— I see,” she says, snapping her lips shut so as to obviate her embarrassment. “What sort of time limitation are we talking about? On the order of hours? Or minutes, even?”
Circe blinks, studying her with pursed lips for a moment. Attempting to give no hint of an ulterior motive, Melinoë keeps stone-faced and does not avert her gaze, but Circe finds the evidence she is looking for anyway, and the corner of her lips slopes up into a wry smile.
“Well, perhaps the easier way to answer your question is to work backwards,” she explains. “How long exactly are you hoping to be a bigger size?”
Surprised by the directness of the question, Melinoë gulps. “Well... not so long, I suppose.” Her voice trails off, just above a mutter. “I was hoping for at least another four hours.”
Circe’s eyes squint, cast off to the side as she does the mental math. “Four hours would put you… somewhere in Olympus, wouldn't it?” Melinoë must give her a bewildered look, because she quickly assures her that she certainly does not keep track of Melinoë’s whereabouts beyond her island in the Rift. “You told me just last night that you’re usually back to the Crossroads before sunrise,” she explains. “I simply assume that my island marks the halfway point of your night.”
Melinoë stammers. “Oh, I mean, sometimes I'm able to ascend the mountain much faster, especially with… say, more offensive power and greater might like that your Word of Greater Girth would provide me. I’m simply ensuring I can make it to the summit without delay.”
“A particular enemy you're preparing for, then?” Circe asks her, pointedly. “A particular… someone?”
She looks at Melinoë with weary eyes, which is enough for Melinoë to know that Circe is completely through with her unsuccessful attempts to disguise the truth. Melinoë holds her breath, her cheeks puffed out a little before she deflates under Circe’s prying gaze.
“…Yes,” she then finally admits, defeated. “There is... someone.”
Before Melinoë carries on, Circe shakes her finger. “No, no! I do not need any more detail than that, little miss! You must remember that I've encountered my own fair share of dramatics myself! I do not care for such stories any longer and wish to remain completely unaware so that if ever your Headmistress inquires how your progress in the Surface has been, I have plausible deniability.”
Melinoë averts her gaze, feeling heat rise over her cheeks. “I see.”
Circe sighs out loud. “Now... were you truly serious about tripling in size?”
Melinoë hadn’t quite planned to ask Circe about multiplying her incantations tonight nor had she envisioned needing to know the specific measurements to aim for, so she peruses the island of Aeaea for inspiration. Her eyes land on Circe’s cottage, at the height of its eaves just before its straw roof.
She points up at it. “Up to the height of your cottage will do me well,” she declares.
Circle turns her head to where Melinoë points, then returns to her with a roguish glint in her eyes. “Titan-sized, huh?” she asks, offhandedly.
Melinoë crosses her arms over her chest, shrugging. “Bigger, actually,” she corrects.
“Alright then, poppet…” Circe replies, nodding slowly. “Fortune has it that I have just the right amount of reagent for you tonight!”
And so, Melinoë takes the opportunity quickly while she has it. Circe invokes the Word of Greater Girth — then again, and then yet again. Melinoë grows, and then grows again, until she is just shy of the Circe’s cottage, the points of her laurel high enough to brush the thatched edges of its roof. She looks down at herself, grateful the incantations also implicitly include her clothing — although admittedly nothing about the math has ever quite made sense to Melinoë.
But such is the nature of Magick, and Melinoë has long learned not to question something that benefits her.
Circe looks up at her, visoring her eyes with a hand over her brow, as if Melinoë is now as tall as the Sun Incarnate himself. She clucks her tongue.
“That's tripling the incantation,” she says, her other hand on her hip. “I think that's as close as I can get to your request. Can't be exact after all — dimensional math, and scaling, and all that! Is that all right for you, little miss?”
Melinoë considers, testing her strength. Zorophet is a mere hand axe in her new found size, and she can rest it over her shoulder without careening to the side. She’s happy with this power, but with her transformed height and unfamiliar eye level, she finds it hard to have a sense of how exactly she would size up against her opponents.
But there is one thing she wants to guarantee — and that is to be bigger.
Melinoë clenches her fist, looking over to Circe. “Let’s go for one more time,” she says.
Circe blinks, not even exerting the energy to give her a judgmental look. She peers into her basket of things. “Well, Melinoë, as I have just enough ingredients, that can certainly be done, but you're sure that you'll be able to fit through all the doors you have yet to pass through?”
“Positive,” Melinoë says. “It would just be for this night, I promise.”
“If you say so,” Circe says, nevertheless conducting the rites as Melinoë desires.
Melinoë closes her eyes, clenching her teeth at the growing pains that tear through her muscle and bone. When the agony abates, she opens her eyes, acclimating to her new height. Although she is perhaps only a tad taller than her last transformation, even those few extra inches boost her self-esteem — she can see past all the marshland brush of the island, and she can trace the border of Aeaea with her eyes uninterrupted.
Distantly, she wonders if this vantage point is why Titans seem so nonplussed at everything that happens — at this height, she can see miles ahead of what is to come.
Circe clears her throat, and when Melinoë looks to acknowledge her, she almost misses her figure, now so small in comparison. “Well, then, poppet,” she chirps. “I do hope this incantation serves to your purpose tonight. Do let me know if you encounter any issues — and please, be forewarned! This spell will last much less time than you’re accustomed to!”
“No need to repeat yourself. I should be on my way, then,” Melinoë affirms, gathering her things. As she bends down, she feels her bosom shift with gravity, and while, of course, nothing has changed in her proportions, Melinoë nevertheless still feels quite chuffed about the larger absolute size of her breasts and the longer line of cleavage.
She hopes he notices.
“Thank you so much, Madame Circe!” she exclaims to the enchantress, bidding her a hasty goodbye as she leaps to the next ship.
Keeping the running clock in mind, Melinoë speed-runs the Rift, enjoying the way the ships waver on the ocean waves when she first lands on their hulls. Icarus bumps into her tonight, as well, looking ever-panicked — and yet simultaneously, beguiled? — at her size.
At the banks of the Thessaly, Eris only rolls her eyes, muttering something about how utterly predictable she is. And for those insults, Melinoë pummels her off the beach within minutes of catching Strife in close-range — which is decidedly much easier now with Melinoë’s longer reach.
Automatons are squashed under her palm, and Dracon fire feels like small insect bites on her skin. Melinoë delights in relying on brute force rather than strategic Cast placements — she need not backstab when she can simply hit Satyrs from above, obfuscating their shields.
Finally at last, she reaches the entryway before the summit of Mount Olympus, the marble door before her not at all large in her frame. She can, in fact, outstretch both arms and comfortably span both ends of the gate, and she does just so just to prove a point.
The door rumbles open, and she steps to center of the arena, mischievous smirk over her face. As always, her anticipated opponent stands in wait. She thinks she sees his eyes flash and his lips part, but certainly she notices how his face tilts upwards to greet her imposing height.
Her heart skips a beat — and whether this is because her awaited moment is finally here or because of seeing him himself, she at least admits to herself she is excited to see how tonight will play out.
“Hello, Titan,” she greets, delighting also in her smoother, deeper voice.
“Agent of Change,” he replies. Aetos screeches, and the eagle beats his wings to lift up and away, bid farewell by his master. “Aetos spotted you much more quickly than in prior nights.” He pauses, giving her a very obvious onceover. “I see why now.”
Melinoë's lips split into a wicked smile. She steps closer to him, and her grin widens as she closes the distance between them, confirming that, indeed, she is — for once — taller than him, looming over him by a full head.
And for once, his eyes lift to meet hers.
“I'm bigger than you now,” she announces, painfully obvious.
If he is impressed, he doesn't act so. He looks at her through his eyelashes, as if she still stands meters below him rather than above his eyeline.
“A new incantation now, was it?” he asks.
Melinoë gives a small shrug. “Something of that sort,” she says, folding her arms over each other. She thinks she sees his eyes follow her motions, looking over her forearms before pausing at her chest, gazing with a bit more intent than usual. She feels a blush rise over her face and wills it away. “Are you intimidated?”
Here, he smiles, eyes meeting hers again. “Our father and mother towered over all four of us, did you know?” he tells her then. “The both of them.”
She narrows her eyes. “Well, of course. They are a full generation of deity before you.”
“Yes,” he continues. “My father held up the westward pillar of the skies in one hand, so strong that a single throw of his spear could pierce the heavens, and my mother possessed a wingspan that spanned a continent, her voice so resonant, the oceans would rumble with her single word.”
Melinoë purses her lips, befuddled by his irreverence. Then again, the Titan has always been one to spew nonsense. “Why are you telling me this? I’m not here to recount stories of your family.”
He cackles, a single raspy note. “What I mean to say, Princess—” And here, he reaches his hand up to the back of her neck, forcing her head down until his mouth brushes against her ear. “—is that I’m not scared of you.”
Melinoë cannot help how her breath catches, a sharp gasp just loud enough to be audible.
Before she hears him smirk, she knocks him away, pushing him forward — her strength mighty enough for him to be thrown into the arena wall. His body cracks the wall, then with a loud thud, he falls to the ground, stone rubble showering down on his hair. A thin line of blood trickles out the corner of his mouth, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand, smearing it over his cheek. He stands to his feet, giving her a low mirthy chuckle.
“Maybe you'll finally actually put up a good fight this time,” he remarks, the glow of his eyes and burn of his flames brightening.
“I always put up a good fight,” she counters. “In fact, I more often than not defeat you — even in my smaller size!”
He tilts his head, more gravel falling from his head. “Well, yes, when you have the aid of all of Olympus, the Underworld, and even the favor of Primordial Chaos, of course, you will inevitably surpass me,” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t need foresight to know this.”
“Oh, so you think my success is just because of my family's boons and my weapons?” she taunts. “You must think it’s so unfair, huh?”
He sneers. “Nothing in life is fair, Melinoë. You, of all gods, know that,” he replies. His eyes drop to glance at her axe. “Drop your weapon. I want to try your raw strength.”
Something about the way he says this makes her heart skip a beat, still threatening despite his lower stature. Melinoë swallows. “No fire then, for you,” she demands.
He smiles. The flames of his arms immediately extinguish, fire crackling into his burnt flesh before disappearing into the black cinder.
“Now that we’re matched in size, let’s see how strong you actually are,” Melinoë challenges. “And maybe we will expose how you’ve relied on your size and stolen flames alone!”
He drops into a fighting stance. “Well, then, Melinoë. Come! Show me what I know you can do.”
She rushes at him, and so they fight, trading punches and dodging each other’s advances. Melinoë is quick to confirm her most-feared suspicions: Prometheus is truly a good combatant — fast, nimble, decisive, and powerful. She only keeps up because of her drills with Odysseus and Schelemeus and because she’s fought the Titan before, having thoroughly studied his patterns after her more embarrassing defeats.
She has the advantage here, in that he has never fought her bare fists before, but what pisses her off most is how he still smiles through their fight — completely unbothered and, in fact, delighted in her trial against him. She wants to knock the smile off his face, and her anger allows her to land powerful hits. And even so, this makes his smile even wider.
Fucking freak, she thinks. She ducks from a high kick in her direction, whipping over her so close that she can feel the wind behind the force whip her hair.
But then she realizes — she doesn’t have to dodge. She’s still fighting as though she is three times smaller than him, as though a single blow from him will knock her off the mountain. She reminds herself: She is bigger and heavier than him now, and she can take his hits without recoil.
And so, she keeps this mind. She advances, setting him up for a position in which she knows he will favor another high kick. Predictably, he sets himself up for one, and this time, she grits her teeth, preparing herself. His leg whirls around, and she catches his shin in both hands.
A pause. For a moment, they meet eyes, and she thinks she sees his eyes widen — then she throws his ankle to send him stumbling backward facedown to the ground.
He flips over, scrambling to return to standing, but before he is able to recover, she hurls herself at him, pinning him down. She sits on his chest and pulls his hands over his head, letting her weight settle over him. He can easily wrestle out of this, she notices, but he instead looks up at her, as if enjoying his view. She feels his muscles relax, as if giving into her victory.
She laughs. “Looks like I'm the winner,” she huffs at him.
He grants her a smile. “That you are,” he concedes. He licks his lips, tilting his head. “You know, we never discussed a reward.”
She pulls her eyes from his lips. “No, we haven’t,” she murmurs.
“What do you want, Princess?”
She thinks of how her legs are split over his sturdy body and how under her dress, her center is directly pressed against his skin, sliding in her arousal. She wonders if he can feel the heat of her body as well as she can smell the musk of his sweat, and she wonders if her new size can make for new positions. Her eyes meet his, and she recognizes the same curiosity in his eyes.
“You,” she replies, and without another wasted moment, she leans down to kiss him.
When she withdraws from his mouth, she releases one of her hands from his wrist, making sure to first ensnare it with her other hand to keep his hands in place above his head. With her free hand, she runs her thumb over his mouth, smearing her green lip paint over his lips.
“Congratulations,” he hums against her finger.
“Shhh…” she whispers. “I’m not done with you yet.”
She hushes him with another kiss, and she slides off his body, letting her hand roam down his chest and abdomen, trailing her fingers in the shameless slick she left on him, until she reaches the bulge between his legs. She palms him, enjoying how her extended reach allows her to keep one hand pinned over his wrists and the other hand at his groin. He is easier to control this way — not that he doesn’t already fold at her touch.
He groans into her mouth, his hips shifting into her hand. Once his member stiffens enough, she pulls him up and out of his linens, and impatiently, she pulls down at his clothing enough so that his upper thighs are exposed, the remainder of his lower legs deemed unimportant to disrobe. She presses a kiss to the center of his chest, then kisses a line down his body. She pauses her descent to blow at the small curls that start just below his belly, then advances downwards until her mouth reaches his cock.
This is not the first time she has faced him like so, and usually his member is unreasonably large to actually get past her lips — but at her titanic dimensions, his size is now just right. His girth fits within one of her hands comfortably, and he remains large enough for her lick a long stripe from the base to the tip. She milks a breathy sigh from him, flicking her tongue at the slit on top.
“You know, you haven’t experienced yet all that I can do with my mouth,” she murmurs, slowly pumping him with her hand. She situates herself between his legs, lying on her belly with her feet up. Her eyes flit up to meet his. “Shall I show you what I can do?”
His lips part. “Fuck,” he whispers, then his head falls back.
Melinoë smiles, dragging the flat of her tongue over his cock. She follows the wet stripe of her mouth with her fingers, pressing her thumb along the ridge, then envelopes the tip into her mouth, sucking gently. He inhales sharply, shifting his hips as he lifts his head to meet her eyes. She holds his gaze, playfully pulling his member from her mouth with a wet pop before slapping his member against her cheek. She giggles, seeing his completely transfixed expression; she thinks she rather likes the power this position bestows her — to have control of his pleasure right under her tongue.
“I wonder how fast I can make you come, now that I can fit you in my mouth,” she wonders out loud, absentmindedly. “All of you.”
His eyes widen, as if threatened. “Melinoë,” he rasps in warning.
No, she does not care what he has to say. Decidedly, she takes him in, letting her tongue floor his cock as she lowers her mouth over him. He fits in her perfectly, stretching the circumference of her lips but with just enough give for her drool to leak out over his member. She spreads her spit over the remainder of his length with her hand, lubricating him as she pumps him.
She watches him pant, his eyes glazed over in desire. His breath stutters to the rhythm and pressure she provides him. Amusedly, she notices how he is easier to understand now when rendered wordless than when he speaks cryptically about the future — it is so obvious to tell what he likes from what he really likes.
She strokes his cock in time to her mouth, humming satisfactorily when she sees how she has half his member between her lips but still has plenty of capacity left. She can take him whole, but she will take her sweet time getting there, she decides, seeing his eyelids flutter every time her mouth dips into him. Hips arched up and the muscles of his abdomen flexing with her movements, he looks at her through his thick eyelashes, eyes like the setting sun. His cheeks are dusted with a flush, jaw slack and his mouth half-open as he contains his breathing, spit flecking on the exhales when he almost lets go.
Pretty, she thinks.
She wants to ruin him.
She flips her tongue and presses it to the roof of her mouth, letting his tip hit the floor of her mouth the next time she lowers herself over him. He gasps, feeling the give against his head, his body tensing at the sudden change. He sits up, reaching his hand to the back of her head.
“Fuck, Melinoë,” he murmurs, fingers combing her hair — albeit making more of a mess of it than smoothing it out.
She thrums happily, mouth otherwise occupied by him, and after coaxing yet another stifled moan from him, she decides to take him deeper. She resets her mouth first, popping her lips off his cock and pressing a chaste kiss to the length as she smears the mix of his pre-cum and her saliva with her thumb. She shifts positions to give herself full range of motion, sitting on her heels between his legs and leaning over him. Once ready, she wraps her mouth over him, then drops down until her lips are—
But suddenly, she recoils, feeling his tip hit the back of her throat. She looks down, finding that she has not quite reached his base. Quickly, she lifts her head up to hide the matter and releases his cock from her mouth, stroking him with her hand in the interim.
So perhaps she has overestimated her ability. Even with her compensated size, he is… quite large.
She swallows, concealing her gag. Distracting him with a purposeful handjob, she discreetly peers up at him, checking to see if he noticed her blunder.
But he has — because he smirks when she meets his eyes.
“What was that about fitting me in your mouth, again?”
She sneers. “Is that I can,” she contends, nevertheless.
“Hm,” he simply replies.
She wants to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face. She scoffs, then swallows before taking his cock back into her mouth, downing him until she feels his—
She chokes, instinctively pulling herself back. Blood and darkness, she curses, giving herself a small breather before diving back down, forcing herself to take him whole. She holds her breath, pushing her face into him until her lips are flush to his base, his soft curls tickling her nose. She counts to three, staying just to prove a point, then pulls away, resurfacing with a sharp gasp. A glob of thick spit falls onto him, snapping from her bottom lip.
He gives her toothy grin. “You did it,” he tells her, annoyingly commending. The hand he has on the back of her head falls forward to her face, and he wipes a tear from her eye with his thumb.
“I told you I could,” she retorts, knocking his hand away from her.
His cock twitches. “And what of making me come?” he asks, grin widening.
Shut up, she wants to tell him — but she cannot with his cock in her mouth. She takes him before he can say another word, turning his next syllable to a groan. She adds a second hand to his base, pumping up and down the shaft as she sucks the head. Incentivized to make him come before he can even process it, she increases her speed, letting her spit drench his member so that he is slick in her effort.
She looks up at him, seeking to meet his eyes. She’s found that he’s vulnerable to eye contact, often averting his gaze or closing his eyes to keep his orgasm at bay — and so just for this once while she wants to wipe the arrogance from him, she wants to make use of that weakness.
However, this time when she locks eyes with him, he does not veer away, watching her expectantly. This pisses her off, so she intensifies her suction and moves away her hands from his shaft, flattening her hands onto his hips and letting her mouth swallow the full of his member. Her eyes smart at the stretch, and she blinks the tears away. She bobs here, letting his cock press into the back of her throat repeatedly, and when she needs a moment to breathe, she pulls back halfway, looking up at him with half his cock between her lips.
He looks completely unfazed, mouth still curled in a cavalier smile.
“Need some help?” he offers. He circles his fingers in her hair, and it’s only then that she realizes his hand is positioned at the back of her head again.
Of course, she can’t say a word with his cock in her mouth. She concedes to his help, blinking once and diverting her gaze. She relaxes her neck so that he can dictate her to his own liking, and he ventures a try, pulling her face into him to test her give.
“My pretty girl,” he coos, then shifts his body, sitting up with his other hand propped behind him and pulling up one knee to steady his hips. He trials the new position, gently pressing down on her head. “You like that, don’t you? Choking on me?”
She makes an affirmative sound; it comes out like a whimper. He laughs once, through his nose, before pushing her face down onto him. She cries out, a short yelp before her voice is blocked off by his cock. She feels herself gag and innately, she reflexively rises up — but his sturdy hand keeps her lips firmly flushed against him, holding her there for several long seconds as drool pools out her mouth uncontrollably.
He releases her finally, fisting her hair and pulling her up, meeting her eyes. She must look ruined, she thinks, feeling a cool breeze all over the bottom of her face and even down the front of her neck.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, tilting his head. His eyes briefly linger on a spot below her chin, where she presumes a bubble of spit hangs, before returning to her eyes.
“Mhm… yeah,” she replies hoarsely. She smiles, feeling then how swollen her lips are. “Will you come for me?”
He hums. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
With that, he angles her back down over him, and she loosens her jaw, letting him enter her mouth to his liking. His grip on her head tightens as he drives her, and as his restraint eases with his impending climax, his hip thrusts up into her mouth. He hits the back of her throat over and over again, his rhythm starting to fall apart.
“Fuck, Melinoë. Fuck,” he moans, his eyes closing.
He breathes out sharply, rutting into her a few final times until he comes. She feels his cock pulse in her mouth, then his warm release into her mouth. His hold on her loosens, and she pulls back a few inches, allowing herself to swallow. She sucks what she can from his cock, swallowing the mix of his spend and her spit until her lips pop off his head. She looks at his member, satisfied that she left nothing but a thin glisten over his entirety.
She wipes her chin with the back of her hand, clearing her face but finding she can do nothing about the spillage over her dress. He recovers with a groan, lifting his body up to seated position.
“Congratulations,” he commends her. “I think you’ve set a record for yourself.”
She gloats, folding her arms over her chest. “I win,” she brags. “Again.”
He raises an eyebrow, as if to contend that perhaps he also was a winner in this last round — but wisely, he says nothing to undermine her most recent victory. “You want another reward, then?”
Melinoë nods her head, and to this, he imitates reaching behind himself, shuffling through an imaginary pouch to toy with her. “I should have a feather somewhere…”
“I don’t want another damn eagle feather,” she pouts, crossing her arms over her chest.
He chuckles, turning back and leaning in close to her. His face nears hers, head angled to offer a kiss.
“What do you want then, my Princess?” he purrs.
She smirks, pushing his shoulders to knock him back to the ground. She climbs up onto his chest, cradling his head in her hands as she scoots up his body, slotting his neck between her legs. The hem of her dress settles over his chin. She can tell he knows what she will ask for, as his hands grip the back of her thighs, ready to lift her up onto his face, but she demands it out loud anyway.
“Your mouth on me,” she orders.
He sits her on his mouth, his lips kissing her seams. She is already well-aroused, and he moves to using his tongue, pressing the flat over her entrance. With her change in size, his mouth is no longer overwhelming in size but he is still warm and wet, enough to make her stagger over. She falls forward, her hands splayed over the ground near his head. She rides him, grinding herself against his face and delighting in how his nose rubs her clit and how his tongue flutters in her center.
Her thighs squeeze his head, finding herself climbing closer to a finish. She feels him murmur something against her skin, the vibration of his deep voice delightfully stimulating her.
“Ah, fuck — Prometheus!” she gasps when he shifts her slightly. The adjustment hits her at a very sensitive point, and she feels a spark of pleasure wave over her body. “Right there,” she begs, holding herself in place and seeking the same sensation, pressing her weight into his face.
He groans, his fingers squeezing her thighs. Whatever he does is perfect, because the same feeling surges within her again. She squeals, sitting up and pushing herself down on him.
“Please, yes!” she moans. “Oh, Gods!”
She chases her orgasm, everything around her fading to black. She is so, so close, and she rolls her hips back and forth over him again, and again, until—
A snap sounds from underneath her, echoing in the thin mountain air.
She gasps, freezing in place. She looks down, lifting herself up an inch, and Prometheus’s hands falter from her legs, dropping to the ground. His face falls to the side, his eyes dulled and glazed over. The rest of his body is completely limp, unmoving and still.
“Prometheus?!” she exclaims, stepping off his body and kneeling next to him. She turns his face back up to center, her eyebrows rising when she feels how his head turns with very little resistance and with a lot more range of motion than she expects.
Horrified, she covers her nose and mouth with her hands.
Has she… broken his neck?!
As if expecting this all a prank, she gingerly reaches out to touch his face, but suddenly, his eyes snap back with a bright glow, refocusing on her. He gives her a smile, shaking his head as if to crack his neck.
“Right then,” he says. “Where were we?”
He reaches out to take her hips again, but she puts her hands out in protest. “What?! No!” she cries out, pulling away from him. “You just died!”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve killed me many times before, Melinoë,” he reminds her. “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly become squeamish.”
“Y-Yeah! But this is different!” she sputters. “I— I killed you while riding your face!”
“And?” He looks at her, astoundingly unbothered. “I will not let death stop me from making you come,” he simply replies. He studies her, and she thinks she sees a shadow of a smile over his lips, probably amused at her outrage. “And you shouldn’t, either.”
Suspended in alarm, she is unable to stop him before he lifts her back onto his face, keeping her in place with a strong grip. This time, she obligingly sits — still, her eyebrows knitted together and her lips rounded in a shape of shock. She cannot believe what just happened, and yet while this is so, his lips and his tongue are quick to cloud her thoughts from the earlier events.
“Wha—?” she gasps. “Oh, fuck!”
Mind befuddled and body confused, Melinoë comes shortly after — surprising even herself at how powerfully her orgasm ripped out of her from seemingly out of nowhere, as if reminding her the full night’s worth of foreplay.
Prometheus releases her from his arms, letting her lie next to him as she catches her breath. He turns to face her, kissing her forehead and running his fingers through her hair.
“You know, discounting that brief time I was out, I think I’ve also achieved a record for myself,” he claims smugly, sweeping his lips with the back of his finger and licking her arousal off.
His arrogance stirs her out of her daze. She sits up, pointing at him. “That was appalling!” she exclaims. “I never want to do that ever again.”
He chuckles. “Really? You never want to ride my face again?”
She hits him. “You know what I mean! Do you know how much of a turn-off it is when you die in the middle of sex?!”
“And yet you still came, didn’t you?” he teases, with a shrug. And while she tries to find something to counter his argument, he adds, “Don’t you Gods love it when sacrifices are made for you?”