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Hermes is very tempted to dub this the most exhausting time of his life. And considering how long he's been alive, that's saying something.

He'd pulled off his most daring trick yet. He found the prettiest nymph he could and asked her to loudly tell her river god father that she would touch no man, no mortal nor god. Hermes knows his father well, and his father can never resist something he wants that someone else says he can't have.

Of course Zeus stole away to the surface to have his way with the nymph. And Hermes tipped off Hera without giving himself away--it was easy just by telling a peacock and letting the bird decide on its own that it wanted full credit for discovering the imminent infidelity and telling its mistress. Hera came roaring down from Olympus to find her philandering husband, and with the nymph as bait, Hermes sprung his trap.

The net that Hephaestus made for his wife, golden and impossible to break or escape from, sprung on Zeus and Hera together as they argued on the top of the mountain Hermes lured them to. Hermes spirited the nymph away with greatest gratitude and the sort of boon usually reserved for children of Olympians for her trouble.

That was when Hermes and Athena revealed themselves. The rage of the king and queen of Olympus was legendary. Hermes hadn't expected that Zeus and Hera could still hurt them, but some of the things said got under his skin like a thorn, and clearly did for Athena as well.

But nonetheless, they laid out their demands. Predictably, both Zeus and Hera refused. Hermes settled in to watch over the net and wait them out and Athena went to Olympus to grab control before the other Olympians had a chance to learn of what happened and possibly react negatively.

As Hermes predicted, they had the implicit support of Hephaestus, Hestia, Poseidon, and Dionysus. Ares, Demeter, and Apollo were angry and gearing to challenge Athena's authority, Artemis pulled awkwardly between Apollo and everyone else. Aphrodite cleverly abstained from declaring allegiance to anyone.

Olympus could have gone to war if Athena hadn't sent Apollo to speak to Hermes. With the wrath of their parents as distant background noise, Hermes grimly pointed out that their family had a terrible history of sons violently deposing fathers. As long as Apollo held power, he'd fear his children. Athena would never have children, and was the only hope to end this terrible family tradition.

Apollo didn't quite support Hermes' decision, but at least he laid down thoughts of declaring war on their sister. Hermes could only hope that Hestia would have the same success with Demeter, and Ares would languish without any conflict but his own.

So now, Hermes can only wait. The sky over the mountain is dark and stormy, almost nighttime at noon. The wind is cold and the ground shakes with the rage of two gods held together by netting. Hermes sits out of seeing range, tired of being the subject of verbal abuse for now and happy to let them torture each other with their shrieking.

It'll be worth it, he's sure. The hard part is over. He just has to wait them out, however long it takes.

So now hovers in the air, zipping in circles to burn energy, fighting the ever-present threat of being bored waiting for his father and foster mother to exhaust themselves.

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The teasing touches earn another soft huff of want and Achilles' hand rounds the bend of Hermes' knee to continue up his thigh.

"We'll find out. If I'm not ... well, I suppose there are worse ways to end up back in the Styx." Although arriving at the House fully nude and covered in suspicious marks might raise some brows (or elicit unwanted commentary from Hypnos).

Achilles pulls the scarf from Hermes' neck, and his hand wanders over the secret-filled baubles resting at his chest. He wonders if they all contain keepsakes from people he loves—Maia or his Olympian family or other lovers. That last possibility might have made Achilles burn with jealousy when he was younger, but now it pleases him to know that Hermes is well-loved, and loves enough to keep such mementos close.

It also pleases Achilles to see his smile back in full. "We may not enjoy another chance like this for some time."

"Mmmm. You're right there." With Olympus upended, it's unlikely that they'll return to equilibrium any time soon. Hermes is stuck on this mountain until his parents buckle, and after that, he'll likely be needed at his sister's side for a while smoothing out the transition of power. He probably won't be able to actually have alone time with Achilles for a while yet.

Hermes rocks their hips again, his interest clear in the folds of his chiton. He tugs at Achilles' belt, not quite undoing it yet but making his intent clear. He kisses the spot where Achilles' jaw joins his ear, taking the lobe between his teeth gently before tugging.

"Is there something you really missed? Something you fantasized about?" Hermes' breath is hot on Achilles' ear as he murmurs softly, like they still must be careful to keep a secret out here on a mountain. "There were things that I fantasized about."

Maybe there is some merit to continued caution. The storm has frightened away most everything alive, but that doesn't mean a hapless oread won't see the cave lit by a fire and assume Artemis is in. Or that any one of Hermes' allied siblings might stop by, thinking the quiet mountaintop means a deal was struck. He'll have to trust that Hermes' divine senses will pick up on any approaching visitors.

... Because the way Hermes is grinding against him is far too tantalizing to call this off. Achilles presses forward to meet him, biting back a groan as the movement pulls his ear tighter against Hermes' bite.

"I missed your teeth. And your nails on my skin," he says on an exhale. "Make me feel alive."

Achilles runs his hand up Hermes' shoulder and plucks loose the clasp of his chiton. He traces the triangle of his half-exposed chest and wonders at how solid he feels. How impossibly solid both of them feel together—a god, whose true form is beyond comprehension, and a shade, the spiritual residue of a short life.

"I missed seeing the world as you see it—even if it's only a taste." To be mortal is to be contained, isolated by five senses and the limits of consciousness. They probably don't need to have sex to share that, but damn if it doesn't make it all that much better. "Show me the stars as you see them."

Hermes moans into Achilles' ear, savoring the hand on his chest and the almost pleading way his lover asks for what he wants. His chiton, the clasp undone, falls away and settles, clumped, at his waist.

"If that's what you want--I'll show you the stars."

Hermes cups Achilles' jaw, drawing him into a rough kiss, biting his lip sharply before pulling away.

"Let me take care of you this time." Giving Achilles everything he wants, showing him exactly how much Hermes loves him--that's what Hermes fantasized about most. He runs his thumbs along the arcs of Achilles' cheeks before undoing his lover's belt impatiently. "And you won't need clothes."

He rises from Achilles' lap, allowing his chiton to fall to the floor. All that's left is his perizoma (hardly hiding anything) and the necklace of charms sitting on his collar. He picks up the oil from the ground (he'll remember to replace it for Artemis later) and offers a hand to Achilles.

"Let's go outside. Easier to see the sky that way."

Achilles is left with a slightly swollen lip and a moment's blinking surprise as he watches Hermes rise. But he unfastens his tunic to slough away as he stands, leaving him nude but for the questionable modesty of his own straining loincloth. His eyes rove hungrily over the fire-lit lines of Hermes' bare physique as he takes his hand to follow.

Achilles is chagrined to leave the cave—cozy as it is, and free from prying eyes—but much like moments alone with Hermes, the open sky is a rare pleasure.

"Hmm. Is that what you fantasized about, then? Just 'taking care' of me?" he muses, and then, with a teasing lilt in his voice, "Surprisingly tame for the god of mischief."

"Where is there more mischief than in subverted expectations?"

Hermes walks Achilles out of the cave. In the wake of the storm, the sky is clear and bright. Millions upon millions of stars are visible to the naked mortal eye, with no other light to compete.

Hermes takes a pelt to lay on the ground. It'll make it a little more comfortable to sit.

"And maybe I was also thinking about what it might be like to fuck you." There's a catlike air of mischief about his smile as he steps onto the pelt and pulls Achilles close. He presses a kiss to Achilles' collar, then flicks his tongue over his nipple. "Does that sound fun?"

A pleased inhale—at the brilliant scatter of stars, at the warm touch—swells his chest against Hermes' mouth. Achilles catches his jaw and tilts it to look at him in the eye. From darkness and desire, his pupils are wide against his blue irises.

"I'd like nothing more," he breathes, his skin as close to flushed as a shade can get. He draws Hermes into a deep, needy kiss, snaking a hand up to twist into his necklace. Without parting their mouths, he uses the leverage to coax Hermes down with him to the waiting pelt. "Come here. Let's put your curiosity to rest."

Achilles never shared the anxiety other men had about whether they were giving or receiving; as the Best of the Greeks, he didn't care. And who in his right mind would ever pass on something so pleasurable as surrendering to the man that he loves?

Hermes hums and smiles into Achilles' mouth, allowing him to guide them on the pelt. He sits down on the soft fur, impervious to the night chill with the heat of their skin pressed to skin.

With all of Hermes' lovers, it's rarely a question who has the quote unquote 'right' to give--it's hard to outrank a god, after all--but he's always found the idea of bringing social rank into the bedroom to be uncomfortable at best. Why shouldn't he be a receiver if that's what he and his lover feel like? Why should what they do in the privacy of their bed (or pelt, as it were) have any bearing on their status?

But Hermes keeps in mind that, even if Achilles is the shade of a hero, he's still mortal and thus more fragile than a god. He moves to press Achilles' back to the pelt, pressing a kiss to his carotid before flicking his tongue against it.

"Tell me if I work too quickly." Hermes presses another more playful kiss to Achilles' mouth, his lips twisted in a smile. "I know what a slowpoke you are."

With one hand, Hermes undoes the knot holding Achilles' loin cloth together and takes him in hand. He runs his hand up his lover's shaft, just remembering how he feels before flicking his thumb against the center of the tip.

Leaning back, Achilles' view is filled by Hermes, wings bright against the dark expanse above. The mountainside here wasn't scorched by lightning, and the brush and ground cover still glitters with clinging rainwater. The lazy wind in the trees reminds him of the rush of sea water combing through beach stones.

"I am a slowpoke. I want to savor this," he says with a breathy laugh, cut short by a pleasured hum. Contrary to his words, Achilles' hips give an impatient twitch into Hermes' hand. "To remember it ... Something to keep me while we're apart again."

His throat bobs with a swallow and he traces the top of Hermes' wing, from the tiny, fish-scale feathers at its base to the sweeping primaries. A fond smile plays at his lips and crinkles his eyes. "The memory of our first time together—I think about it often."

Hermes will never stop being fascinated by the flickers of Achilles' expressions. The growing crinkle in the corners of his eyes as he examines Hermes' wings. The swallow when Hermes grasps him. The way his mouth curves into a smile.

"I think about it too." Hermes presses a soft kiss to his lover's lips, belied by the way the tip of his thumb traces a vein up and down Achilles' shaft. "After all we'd been through, it felt so good to share with you."

Not just his body--though that had also felt great--but bits and pieces of the expanse of him beyond what mortals see. Achilles had asked to see it, but Hermes had been more than happy to share and be known by a man who'd proven to be a dear and loyal friend.

Hermes hums softly, pressing a kiss to Achilles' chest as he squeezes his thigh, teasing, before reaching for the oil. "Let's make some more good memories to tide us over, hmm?"

"Yes, let's," he says with a slight hitch as the muscles in his abdomen tense at the meandering progress of Hermes' thumb.

Achilles spies Hermes reaching for the oil and catches his hand. He gives his fingers a kiss before he takes the bottle for himself. "Allow me."

He plucks loose the knot in Hermes' perizoma and lays the garment aside, then rubs a helping of oil between his palms until it's warmed. Eyes locked on his lover's face, Achilles clasps a hand around the base of Hermes' erection and gives a slow, twisting drag along his length, first through one slick fist, then the other. Even with the oil, his hands are still rough from hours of fletching—and decades of warring before that.

Something Hermes has really enjoyed learning about Achilles is how he likes to tend to his partner in bed. It really isn't surprising when one thinks about it--despite his reputation as a brash and indomitable warrior, Achilles is a man driven by his devotion to those he loves.

And oh, he can feel that devotion now. Hermes moans as his oil-slick calluses drag on the sensitive skin of his cock. He flicks out his tongue to wet his lips, his cheeks luminescent with a golden flush. He shows his appreciation with a gentle squeeze around Achilles' shaft, pressing his thumb just into the tip.

"Do you need prepping, darling?" Some people need it more than others. Hermes doesn't know what Achilles gets up to with Patroclus, but he may be used enough to this that he doesn't need help to relax. Or maybe he does. All Hermes really wants is for Achilles to be comfortable.

The sound of Hermes' moan cutting through the stillness, his skin bright in the darkness—it stokes Achilles' own desire hot in his core.

But he exhales and refreshes the oil on his hands. He gives Hermes another couple of firm strokes for good measure, appraising his size in the process; he's not much different than Patroclus. Maybe a bit longer, slightly less girthy?

"I'll be fine, love. I'm well accustomed to this." He smiles reassuringly, plants his feet and cants his hips against Hermes in invitation. "Just start slow."

Hermes huffs out a half-chuckle. "'Slow' isn't what I'm good at, but I'll try for you, darling."

Hermes takes himself in hand and braces against Achilles' hip, guiding himself in position before pressing in. It's very, very tempting to go at it with his usual speedy abandon, but he bites his lip, digging his nails in the meat of his lover's hip as he forces himself to stay slow. He groans as he enters Achilles, savoring the feeling of his lover all around him, his feathers fluffing and fluttering.

And as he goes, there's also the gentle push of Hermes sharing a portion of himself in another plane. His free hand scrapes his nails on Achilles' thigh. The stars grow brighter, more plentiful, filling the sky until there's more star than space. The ground shifts, but it's a rhythmic shift, like it's always been moving minutely but only now is it possible for Achilles to feel it.

"Only to start," Achilles specifies. He could have tolerated a bit of roughness—would maybe even request it on a different occasion—but it's true what he said: tonight, he wants to savor this.

And that's exactly what he does. He draws a long inhale of the night air when he feels the warm, hard press of Hermes’ tip poised at his entry. When Hermes begins pushing, he closes his eyes and his chest deflates with a sighing exhale. Relaxed and welcoming.

It doesn't matter if his partner is a god or a mortal, there's bliss in this vulnerability. Particularly when—even after death—he's obliged to be the indomitable hero. He’s had enough taking and conquering.

"I'll ask you to speed up soon enough," he murmurs, bending a leg to drag his heel along Hermes’ lower back. "For now, I just want to feel every inch of you."

And Achilles opens his eyes to a kaleidoscope of stars, and the earth against his back becomes another spinning, glittering body among them. His senses roll and he gasps, but the nails against his skin and the press of Hermes inside of him draws Achilles back to the bounds of his body.

Hermes moves his head, cocking his wing so Achilles can see the stars better as he maps out a trail of kisses along his lover's neck. As the stars intensify--or perhaps they were always this intensity, and it's only now that Achilles has the ability to see--Hermes' outline blurs, like a painter has gently dragged their thumb against his edges to create a halo. Stars--small, young, bright--dot his golden skin, until it appears that he's made by a fine, incomprehensible, but ever growing lattice of them.

He rolls his hips until he's buried in Achilles to the hilt. He kisses him softly, and his kiss tastes like the memory of primordial sky, passed down from universe to titan to god.

"I love you." Whispered softly like this, it's like a piece of the world--young and small in comparison to all around it, but undeniably great and painfully, exquisitely human--is saying it.

Hermes pauses a moment, deep in his lover, and cups his cheek. "How are you feeling?"

Just a check in to make sure he's not overwhelmed, either physically or mentally.

Above them, with the stars ever closer to their full glory, there's the vaguest outline of whale bones across the sky.

Achilles can barely find the patterns Chiron once taught him; instead, the sky is cluttered with myriad constellations, anonymous and endlessly complex. And Hermes, he can now see, is one of them come down to walk the earth.

For all of those cosmic underpinnings, Achilles can still taste apricots and chestnuts on his lover's lips. His skin is still warm and solid where Achilles' hands grasp his back. He's tight and full where their bodies join.

“This is everything I wanted. And more besides,” Achilles says in an equal whisper, soft and reverent. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

He clings closer and rocks his hips up from the pelt, pressing against Hermes in a bid for movement and friction.

Hermes' breathing hitches. His eyes are stars, brilliant and bright, bright enough to be visible to the naked human eye. There are similar bright stars at the tips of his wings, on the corners of his smile, on the crowns of his wrists--the outline of a shape that he could be one day if he ever joins the stars.

There's more there. Just beyond a veil, almost close enough to touch, but held back. There are layers of what Hermes is, what he truly looks like, and he'll never show Achilles all the layers at once if he can help it.

He takes the reverent reassurances as permission to return to his usual rougher style of lovemaking. Hermes nips at Achilles' throat and rolls his hips, picking up the pace quickly and digging his star-studded nails into the meat of his thighs. Underneath them, the motion of the earth more closely resembles breathing than anything. Gaia, in all her glory, always underfoot, just as Ouranos is always above.

Hermes leaves long scratches along his lover's thighs, sucking a bruise on his collar as he jerks their hips together roughly, hissing between his teeth.

This view of the earth, the stars ... everything sets his world on a different axis: wars waged for earthly goods, for coveted women, for glory, or gods and men desperate to take and hold power—it's all rendered insignificant against the backdrop of this splendor. This light will persist long after mortals, civilizations, and perhaps the gods themselves have returned to the primordial dust of chaos.

Achilles strains to understand how Hermes' true shape fits within this, but just as he's close to grasping it, the image—the idea—of his divinity shifts like a ray of light bent through water. it easily evades his clumsy, limited perception.

But even in the bounds of his knowable shape, Hermes is still plenty: his clawing fingers and hungry mouth, the power in his bucking hips. The peak of each plunge jostles Achilles' bare erection between their pressed bellies. He releases a guttural groan, as the initial pain burns away and a deep pleasure swells in its place.

Achilles twists a hand into Hermes' hair and drags him into a rough, desperate kiss. When he finally releases his mouth, it's to pant out a few ragged syllables: "I love you."

Hermes allows himself to be pulled in for the kiss, his hips not faltering in their unforgiving pace. He digs his fingers into Achilles' thigh until he's bruised half-moons in the flesh, eager to leave behind marks as if his lover might forget him in the time it takes to organize Olympus.

But that lovely phrase. Hermes smiles, letting out a hard breath before hitching Achilles' hips under Hermes' knees, giving himself a better angle to thrust deep.

"I love you too."

His breath is hot as he bites another mark on Achilles' collar. Everything, from his scrabbling star-studded nails to his nipping teeth seem to yell, Mine mine mine mine. Like he has to make up for lost time, lest another Olympian come along and take his place. For all his grand cosmic nature, part of Hermes is unbearably human, and that part wants to keep Achilles close as much as possible.

Hermes takes Achilles in hand, stroking him in time to each thrust, fast and hard and unrelenting. Above them, stars are moving. Imperceptible to a mortal eye, but clear to a god's, as the titans and gods and mortals consigned to the sky make their journey across the body of Ouranos. It's like watching an eternal pilgrimage.

Achilles rolls his head back, neck long and tendons tight, his curls a bright halo in the starlight. With the shift in position, Hermes' thrusts hit the mark just right, and it doesn't take more than a dozen sharp strokes before Hermes' dry grip is wet with precum.

Achilles sucks in a breath through his set teeth and releases it with a low moan, reveling in the ferocity of Hermes' affection—to be so claimed, so wanted and with such greedy desperation. Through the haze of gratification he rakes blunt nails across Hermes' ribs and manages a hoarse whisper—an assurance that no other god will ever be a threat, "I'm yours."

The only person—mortal or god—Hermes has to share with is Patroclus. Perhaps it's more heroic hubris, but Achilles will gladly push his limits to keep them both safe and happy.

That's just what Hermes wants to hear. Hermes isn't the sort of god to be jealous of mortals, but he is the sort of god who's jealous of other gods. He's too familiar with their games to trust them near a lover he holds so dear.

Hermes keens loudly, panting as Achilles claws his ribs. He leaves trails of golden scratches, glowing and glittering with starlight. The slick of his lover on his hand and clench of his pleasure tight around him presses on his senses, the stars that stud his skin becoming ever brighter.

He braces one hand on the grass, driving his hips forward harder and faster, keeping his grip firm as he matches his pace with every stroke. As struck by the stars as Achilles is, Hermes is similarly fixated on his lover's face, his body, the way his muscles and tendons strain as he moves. Hermes keeps his eyes squarely on Achilles, as if memorizing him.

"Beautiful," he pants softly, reverently.

Achilles' eyes are full of stars, but most beloved among them are those that make Hermes: the points of his face, the sweep of his wings, the curve of his shoulders, and all the space between.

He fights to control his breath and cling to this precarious moment. His knees bend, his heels spur against Hermes' ass and thighs. He feels like a vessel overfull and ready to spill with just another drop, or a lyre string tuned tight enough to break with even the most delicate pluck.

"Hermes," he hears himself moan, the sound stuttering against the clap of their hips. It's a feat of endurance: another stroke, another thrust. Just a moment longer at the precipice with his lover made of bright, hot stars.

Hermes buries his face in Achilles' curls, breathing hot in his ear and moaning his lover's name as his hips stutter in their pace. He gives one last stroke, his free hand digging half-moons into his lover's chest.

And then he releases. He cries out, back curling, pressing his nose hard against Achilles' neck as he empties in him. His nails dig deeper as his climax rolls through him, and then he's done with a gasp, the starlight fading.

Already, he's tugging back on the threads of Achilles' perception, taking away the visions before he sees more than he can handle. But there's an air of loving satisfaction to it, to be so pleased that he could share anything at all, even if it's not everything.

The cry against his neck, the nails buried in his flesh, and the last deep press of Hermes' hips—together it's the last drop that breaks the tension, the plucked note that snaps the string.

His hands dig into in Hermes' hair, then paw up to find the base of his wings. Achilles' back arches up from the pelt. He bites back the cry that boils up in his chest, but it still hums through his teeth. Thrusting against Hermes' hand, he comes in a few sharp pumps across his own stomach.

... And shuddering, chest heaving, he sags back. The world settles around him in sudden, dark stillness: the mountain cloaked in cool night, the stars returned to a delicate, distant scatter of glittering sand across the sky, and Hermes still anchored warm and solid between his thighs. Achilles' mouth curls into a tired smile, and he presses a breathless kiss to his lover's temple. His hands wander in slow trails along the bare sides of Hermes' body in love-drunk, blissful gratitude.

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