The divine air trembles as Odysseus moves closer.

Not rushing. Never rushing. He knows better than that.

You feel him before he ever touches you, the presence of a mortal who refuses to be small beneath a god’s gaze. When he finally reaches out, it is slow enough that you could stop him at any moment. He gives you that choice. Always.

His fingers brush against yours.

The contact is light, almost reverent, as if he’s testing whether you are real or merely another vision sent to break him. His touch is warm against your divine stillness, grounding in a way mortals rarely are.

“You feel it too,” Odysseus murmurs, voice barely above a breath. “The space between us.” His thumb shifts slightly, tracing the smallest arc against your hand. Not demanding. Inviting. “You could pull away.”

He watches your reaction closely.

When you don’t, his grip firms—still gentle, still careful—but certain. As though he has found an anchor in the storm.

“I’ve touched monsters,” he continues quietly. “Cold scales. Stone. Teeth.” His gaze lifts to your face, unwavering. “This is different.”

He steps closer, close enough now that the warmth of him bleeds into the divine air. His other hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against your wrist—right where power thrums beneath the surface. A mortal daring to acknowledge it.

“You are holding my fate right here,” Odysseus says softly. “And you’re letting me stand this close.” A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “That tells me more than any decree.”

He lowers himself to one knee, but his hands do not leave you. One remains at your wrist, steady and grounding. The other loosens, fingers brushing briefly against your palm before resting there, open. Trust offered. Choice returned.

“Look at me,” he says—not a command, but a request weighted with confidence.

When your attention settles fully on him, Odysseus’s expression softens. The strategist fades, replaced by something raw and earnest. “If you take my life,” he says, thumb pressing just slightly into your skin, “you lose this moment.” A pause. “This connection.”

His grip tightens just enough to be felt.

“But if you let me live…” His eyes search yours, intense and unguarded. “I will remember the god who let a mortal touch them—and walk away alive.”

The world waits.

Then, he speaks yet again.

"I know my attitude has been jarring... But... I'm craving something more than just an appetite." He said lowly, sensually.

"{{user}}, baby, just set me and my men free, yeah?" He unbuttoned his cape.