Someone tell Hermes what he did to deserve Achilles, because he'll happily keep doing it for the rest of his life. The border between his skin and Achilles' on his stomach is blurrier, harder to parse, but there's still a patch of clearly different skin tone on him. He wriggles and sighs as Achilles drinks from his skin, his cheeks glowing gold with anticipation as his lover looks up at him from that perch. Gods, can he just have him in every way possible? Yes, actually, but he tries to be a little more restrained with mortals so he doesn't scramble their brains or overwhelm him.
So instead of answering immediately, Hermes clenches his fist in Achilles' hair, pulling him roughly into a kiss. This one has bite, teeth, hunger--and Hermes gives him a taste of what's to come, mingling with the flavor of him and ambrosia. The pulsing life in pregnant stars, the shimmering membrane between human societies, the breath of the divine in the profane and everyday--
"I want you," Hermes breathes into Achilles' mouth. "However I do, my hero."
His mouth. His cock. His body. Anything, anything at all is a blessing.
Achilles thrills in the kiss—the sting of teeth, the possessive grip of Hermes’ hands, the taste of his lips, it’s all mixed with those dizzying, intangible parts of Hermes’ being. Those rare glimpses of raw divinity have the same effect as a mortal lover baring a bit of tantalizing skin. … If that skin was the stuff of existence itself.
“You share so much of yourself,” he breathes. Hermes’ stars, his sprawling domain of connection, kindness, mischief and adventure. “Shall I show you some of me?”
Achilles is a finite being and Hermes knows the contours of his existence; maybe he has little new to offer, but Achilles feels compelled to reciprocate, to bare his soul as much as his skin.
Hermes plays with the clasp of Achilles' chiton, undoing it and letting the cloth fall free and bare his lover's chest. How long has it been since he's seen Achilles' bare skin?
The offer intrigues. Hermes isn't sure what Achilles means by that, but he pulls Achilles' hair, tugging him in another kiss.
"I'd love to see, darling."
Whatever Achilles means, being shown more of him would be perfection. Hermes loves him, every inch, from the mundane skin and bone to the beating passionate heart of a man that feels love and rage so intensely, so close together.
Hermes’ kisses are needy, but Achilles keeps his touch slow and deliberate; he nuzzles kisses into his jaw and neck, splays a palm on that mismatched patch of skin before he works those same fingers under Hermes’ belt, loosening it.
Achilles isn’t certain if this will work as he intends, but he’ll try it anyway.
With each kiss and caress, he makes an effort to open his own consciousness, just like he would in a prayer, but instead of thoughts, he offers emotions and memories. They’re gauzy, like a dream, and probably not at all accurate, but that’s what’s special about them. This is how Achilles remembers his life. This is what shaped him.
The first he shares is a brilliantly hot beach. He and his mother have retreated to the cool, blue shade of a tamarisk. He’s barely more than a toddler, curled at his mother’s side, his head rested against her stomach. The sea breeze billows her himation in a way that reminds him of rolling waves.
Thetis works tangles from his unruly curls and speaks to him in words that are muffled and unintelligible, like a conversation overheard from a few rooms over. All that’s important in this memory, though, is the warm tone of her voice. He says something … asks a question, maybe? He can’t remember, but he does remember the crisp sound of her answering laugh, how her body jostles under him. He remembers turning his head to see her fond smile. How it was before it became tainted by the fear of his fated death.
It’s a tender memory of maternal affection, of feeling safe and loved. Between kisses, he offers the essence of this moment to Hermes. This is what helped him become an attentive lover and a caring guardian.
Achilles continues undressing Hermes. He pulls off his belt and the rest of his chiton so his hands have more bare flesh to range across, more to kiss.
Hermes doesn't know what to expect, and it takes him a moment to realize what's happening. Achilles trying to invite him into a memory. Hermes doesn't make a habit of rooting around in mortal minds like some of his brethren, so it's an unfamiliar feeling. It's smaller, cozier than the mind of a god, but no less sincere. Perhaps more sincere for its limitation.
He sees Thetis. The way her smile creases her face, the warmth in her eyes, the gentle bounce of her body as she laughs. It's a quiet moment, one of those moments that don't seem like much at the time but becomes a tent pole of memory. Hermes never had a moment of maternal love quite like this--Athena was rarely so relaxed, and Hera rarely so warm. The memory makes him yearn for something he never had, but it's a sweet yearning. He'll never have this, but he's glad that Achilles did, and touched that Achilles wants to share it.
His mind is pulled in a different direction from his body. Half wanting to linger in the memory, and half wanting to focus on Achilles' lips, his hands, his curls. Hermes does a little of both, his fingers gentling in Achilles' hair and sighing as his clothes fall away, as Achilles' fingers find the still-slightly-tender patch of mismatched skin. Hermes hitches his hips up to give him enough leverage to wrap his legs around Achilles' hips, dragging his heel down his lover's calf.
"It's beautiful," he murmurs, maybe about the memory and maybe about Achilles, maybe both.
That’s enough to satisfy Achilles. A hand fumbles blindly for Hermes’ perizoma. He pulls it loose and tosses it aside. His flesh is no longer perfect, but now his scars tell a story of suffering, sacrifice, and triumph. A story that they share.
The next memory is a shifting collage of moments, all from the same afternoon. In fact, it might be familiar; it falls squarely in Hermes’ domain. A packed stadium sprawls to either side, and a blue, cloudless sky arches above. Feet pound the dust in a race. Javelins sail through the air. Sweat glistens on skin.
Achilles has beaten the other boys in every event, many of them older and larger. All of them visibly sulk at having been bested. But Achilles is faster, stronger. His body simply knows how to move and leap and throw and grapple. He scarcely breaks a sweat and he’s barely winded when he crosses a finish line or pins another opponent. The crowd cheers to see such a fine paragon of youthful vigor, of athletic prowess.
His muscles are thrumming and his heart pounds at the adoration of so many strangers filling the air. This is the moment when pride is lit like a fire in Achilles’ heart.
Under the willow tree, Achilles’ kisses match that burning confidence. He hooks a hand behind Hermes’ knee to help him find purchase while his hips dip down to grind hungrily against him. Under his tunic, he’s achingly hard and he brings a hand down to paw at his own belt.
Hermes wasn't there to see this competition, but he still remembers it in the distant way he remembers all things that occur within his domain. The thrill of victory, the roar of applause, the slick of sweat on the brow, the dust kicked in the air and lingering after competition--
Oh, he knows these feelings. Almost as well as he knows this feeling here, of Achilles grinding down on him and the ache of his bare cock against infuriating cloth.
He reaches down himself, panting as he impatiently undoes Achilles' belt himself and throws the folds of his chiton to the side somewhere. Achilles' perizoma gets similarly impatient, haphazard treatment while Hermes searches for his mouth for more hungry, needy kisses.
[The front door opens to a familiar golden glow, and Hermes comes sliding in. The glamour that hides his wings slides off just as easily as the door closing, and he shakes out his head as his orange wings unfurl like a tropical bird. He shakes out his legs as the glamour falls from them as well, allowing the wings at his ankles to fluff as he kicks off his shoes.]
[Dude that's so cool. That's always so cool. They fully stop what they're doing to perch up on a chair and just. Watch. Chin in hands. Unfortunately, they were washing a pan and... well. The water just keeps going. At least nothing's on fire.]
Okay? That? Is awesome. Every time. It's just like fwoosh, and then you're you again.
[They're just so delighted.]
[Until they remember the sink and they're launching over to shut it off.] Nope! No fire! I got it!
[Hermes scrunches his nose playfully as he spreads the wings, fluffing them up to pose.]
Thanks, I had to practice until they stopped popping out like a cartoon.
[His friend's utter delight at the wings--at everything new they learn and see--makes Hermes feel young again. He doesn't remember when the wings lost their novelty, but their reaction reminds him of his own excitement once upon a time. The god Hermes should always be delighted by the world .
All the more reason that Hermes should probably pass on his eidelon soon. But he doesn't want to have that conversation with his friend right now--it's all too heavy, all too bittersweet.
So instead, he chuckles at his buddy struggling with the sink. He puts his stolen cookie on a plate, pushing it towards his friend.]
By the way, I'd also prefer you not flood the place.
[Partially because they just see Hermes as this super cool guy. Like some kind of superhero. It's hard for them to picture anything undignified. Not that they see him as stuck up or anything - the complete opposite.]
[But that's idolizing for you (rimshot).]
Oh uhhh yeah. Sorry. It was just the one sink. Y'know? Not the tub. Definitely have never left the tub on. Ever. Anywhere - so!
How's magical god realm? [Oh hey, cookie! They'll even eat it over the plate. Not like a gremlin.]
[Hermes chuckles, scrunching his nose in amusement. He has a feeling that his buddy has indeed left water on in a tub, but he’s happy to let them get away with that.
At the question, his smile grows a little more opaque and he pours himself a glass of water. It’s always hard to tell what’s going on in his head when he smiles like this.]
Honestly it’s like a soap opera up there. Aphrodite is getting ready to find someone to pass her eidolon onto again, which makes it like the fifth time in less than a hundred years. So Polly is moping extra hard, Persephone is in an even worse mood than usual, ‘Thena is pretending that everything is fine and normal…
[Hermes sips his water before pausing.] I’ve told you all that goes into passing on an eidolon, right?
[Oh, that look. That's - okay, it's not bad. But they get the feeling they probably shouldn't be stuffing a cookie entirely into their mouth for this. Just eat it like a normal person. Unfortunately, that means breaking it into smaller pieces to fiddle with the crumbs a bit.]
[And there it is. Sort of.] Fifth time's a lot, yeah? You guys don't do it often, but... she does. And it's not great.
[Look see, they're putting the pieces together. Thinking out loud. And then awkwardly rubbing at the back of their neck.]
Uh. It's - real permanent. You go poof for a bit, too. Mentally. Right?
[ Hopefully, he isn't going to be given a nasty look or comment at him trying to take anything from Olympus. Even if he's been let in, he's also aware he isn't allowed the same freedoms as everyone else. Still, he said what he said; he'll get that flower for him. ]
[Namely, trying to stop the bleeding. Luckily gods are very sturdy, and Olympians even sturdier, but Hermes does not appreciate being grounded while he handles this.]
dreamwidth really went, i don't want anyone to be able to make tags
[ It isn't as snide a comment as he would give to his sister or even the Flame Thief. Hermes has earned the right to hear something like concern; something like softness from him.
Of course, those "soft" feelings are mangled and barely recognizable in him, but he still is able to catch the shadow of them when he talks to some people. ]
[Hermes recognizes the tenderness for what it is, and dutifully doesn't acknowledge it. He knows his brother struggles showing that kind of thing, and struggles even more acknowledging it for what it is. He doesn't think that Heracles is as broken as he clearly believes himself to be--just bitter and hardened from circumstance.]
I'll be careful, promise.
[He's just going to press an old blanket against the injury to slow the bleeding down. Luckily, he doesn't have to worry about things like infections. But this will be easier once Heracles is there with the iris.]
[ The iris isn't as difficult as he thought it would be to get. Too much going on for people to worry what he's doing - he shows up, smashes in a few heads of shades, and leaves one flower richer.
Perhaps, if things weren't so chaotic, he would be stopped and questioned. He doesn't take the time to think about it as he heads to where Hermes says he is - each leap crossing unfathomable amount of distance.
It's falling with style to where he needs to go, anyway.
And so with a loud thump, he arrives. ]
Got your flower. You still breathing? [ His steps are hurried even if his words are not. ]
[Hermes hears the loud thump. He's curled up in an old arm chair, pressing a blanket up against his injury. The floor looks like someone's gone through to paint gold leaf on it with all the ichor, and Hermes' bag sits next to his chair, Chellen turning her head to examine her person.
The injury is the sort that would have killed a human within seconds. It's a large slice straight through his side, the sort that could spill organs out of the body. But here he is, tutting like he's been mildly inconvenienced, and he smiles at Heracles with wings fluffing as he arrives. And when he speaks, it's with his usual chipper, breezy charm.]
Still breathing! Lucky I'm sturdy. [He reaches into his bag, careful not to aggravate the injury, and pulls a bottle of Nectar from it. One of the bottles that M had given him, sweet girl she is.] Would you put the flower in here? M taught me some beginner magic for this sort of thing.
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“You share so much of yourself,” he breathes. Hermes’ stars, his sprawling domain of connection, kindness, mischief and adventure. “Shall I show you some of me?”
Achilles is a finite being and Hermes knows the contours of his existence; maybe he has little new to offer, but Achilles feels compelled to reciprocate, to bare his soul as much as his skin.
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Achilles isn’t certain if this will work as he intends, but he’ll try it anyway.
With each kiss and caress, he makes an effort to open his own consciousness, just like he would in a prayer, but instead of thoughts, he offers emotions and memories. They’re gauzy, like a dream, and probably not at all accurate, but that’s what’s special about them. This is how Achilles remembers his life. This is what shaped him.
The first he shares is a brilliantly hot beach. He and his mother have retreated to the cool, blue shade of a tamarisk. He’s barely more than a toddler, curled at his mother’s side, his head rested against her stomach. The sea breeze billows her himation in a way that reminds him of rolling waves.
Thetis works tangles from his unruly curls and speaks to him in words that are muffled and unintelligible, like a conversation overheard from a few rooms over. All that’s important in this memory, though, is the warm tone of her voice. He says something … asks a question, maybe? He can’t remember, but he does remember the crisp sound of her answering laugh, how her body jostles under him. He remembers turning his head to see her fond smile. How it was before it became tainted by the fear of his fated death.
It’s a tender memory of maternal affection, of feeling safe and loved. Between kisses, he offers the essence of this moment to Hermes. This is what helped him become an attentive lover and a caring guardian.
Achilles continues undressing Hermes. He pulls off his belt and the rest of his chiton so his hands have more bare flesh to range across, more to kiss.
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The next memory is a shifting collage of moments, all from the same afternoon. In fact, it might be familiar; it falls squarely in Hermes’ domain. A packed stadium sprawls to either side, and a blue, cloudless sky arches above. Feet pound the dust in a race. Javelins sail through the air. Sweat glistens on skin.
Achilles has beaten the other boys in every event, many of them older and larger. All of them visibly sulk at having been bested. But Achilles is faster, stronger. His body simply knows how to move and leap and throw and grapple. He scarcely breaks a sweat and he’s barely winded when he crosses a finish line or pins another opponent. The crowd cheers to see such a fine paragon of youthful vigor, of athletic prowess.
His muscles are thrumming and his heart pounds at the adoration of so many strangers filling the air. This is the moment when pride is lit like a fire in Achilles’ heart.
Under the willow tree, Achilles’ kisses match that burning confidence. He hooks a hand behind Hermes’ knee to help him find purchase while his hips dip down to grind hungrily against him. Under his tunic, he’s achingly hard and he brings a hand down to paw at his own belt.
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Okay? That? Is awesome. Every time. It's just like fwoosh, and then you're you again.
[They're just so delighted.]
[Until they remember the sink and they're launching over to shut it off.] Nope! No fire! I got it!
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[Partially because they just see Hermes as this super cool guy. Like some kind of superhero. It's hard for them to picture anything undignified. Not that they see him as stuck up or anything - the complete opposite.]
[But that's idolizing for you (rimshot).]
Oh uhhh yeah. Sorry. It was just the one sink. Y'know? Not the tub. Definitely have never left the tub on. Ever. Anywhere - so!
How's magical god realm? [Oh hey, cookie! They'll even eat it over the plate. Not like a gremlin.]
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[And there it is. Sort of.] Fifth time's a lot, yeah? You guys don't do it often, but... she does. And it's not great.
[Look see, they're putting the pieces together. Thinking out loud. And then awkwardly rubbing at the back of their neck.]
Uh. It's - real permanent. You go poof for a bit, too. Mentally. Right?
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Brother, you make me sigh.
Very well. I'll get an iris for you, too.
[ Hopefully, he isn't going to be given a nasty look or comment at him trying to take anything from Olympus. Even if he's been let in, he's also aware he isn't allowed the same freedoms as everyone else. Still, he said what he said; he'll get that flower for him. ]
dreamwidth really went, i don't want anyone to be able to make tags
[ It isn't as snide a comment as he would give to his sister or even the Flame Thief. Hermes has earned the right to hear something like concern; something like softness from him.
Of course, those "soft" feelings are mangled and barely recognizable in him, but he still is able to catch the shadow of them when he talks to some people. ]
think it is a cloudflare problem :(
Perhaps, if things weren't so chaotic, he would be stopped and questioned. He doesn't take the time to think about it as he heads to where Hermes says he is - each leap crossing unfathomable amount of distance.
It's falling with style to where he needs to go, anyway.
And so with a loud thump, he arrives. ]
Got your flower. You still breathing? [ His steps are hurried even if his words are not. ]
sorry - so much happened
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Though had it not happened, you and I and Lyra might not be here now.
[ The Fates work in strange ways. ]
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Thank you for trusting me, of all people, magpie.
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Take care, love, you make stoke my pride … and my hubris with it.
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