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.
He breathes a ragged sigh once they’re fully, deliciously bare. Achilles takes them both in hand, pumping their lengths together in a solid grip. A roughness quickly returns to his movement. He clutches the back of Hermes’ neck with his free hand to keep him pinned in long, demanding kisses.
He shares the first time he took a man’s life: it was so fast and efficient, the memory is a blur. The only sharp detail is the thick, wet sound of a spear tearing through flesh and bone. The shock of air leaving the ruins of his opponent’s chest. Achilles didn’t bother—or didn’t want—to look at the man’s face.
That moment repeats itself again and again. There are glimpses of raids—the months and years that the Greeks spent laying waste to Troy’s neighbors. These memories come swathed in a fog of ecstatic, violent madness. It reeks of fire and blood and Ares’ influence. But his fellow Greeks sang Achilles praises as he wore the blood of entire families on his armor.
It’s not pleasant, but it’s still Achilles. He wants Hermes to have a taste of everything—even those moments that now bring him shame and disgust; there are precious few people he trusts to understand his struggle.
“I’m sorry,” he pants against Hermes’ ear. Is the apology meant for him? That he subjected Hermes to these memories of violence? Or for the countless people who suffered at his hands?
Hermes doesn't recoil from the violence. This is as much a part of Achilles as his wry sense of humor, or his curling hair, or his fiercely loyal love. It will always be a part of him, and it's a part that Hermes knew long before they fell in love.
And Achilles isn't the only one with parts of himself that grieves him. Hermes shares his, mingling with the blood and fire of Troy--the ugly underbelly of cities, the thief that knifes an old woman for her purse, the beggar kings that turn orphans loose to beg and scrape and steal for them, the hard-bitten lives of the downtrodden that are driven to steal for survival. Desperation makes people ugly. It brings the worst out of them and stamps out the kindness in their hearts. It's not an aspect of his domain that Hermes revels in, but it's an aspect that he must accept lest he ignore the reality of life as one of his begging or thieving disciples. And Hermes isn't a god who looks away from the raw, painful reality of suffering mortals, even as they often cause each other the most suffering.
Desperation makes people cruel. Prosperity gives them room to be kind. Commerce, diplomacy, athleticism, all of it at its best is meant to make a land prosperous so people can be kind, and theft is there to fall back on when a person falls through the cracks.
"Don't be," Hermes says, gasping between the kisses. It's almost like he's being conquered, with kisses like that, while his neck and body are held so firmly. It's not a bad feeling, not like this. "I love you."
Achilles’ breath catches in surprise before he recognizes what he’s seeing … and why Hermes is sharing it. This is why Achilles loves him so deeply. They can meet here without shame. Neither of them are free from darkness. “By the Styx— I love you, too.”
His hand slides up to twist fingers into Hermes’ hair. He uses this to pull his head back, stretching his neck for kisses and nipping bites, pinching and raking the tender skin with his teeth.
As much as he might try, as much as he might want to keep Patroclus out of this moment, there are other memories that Achilles can’t avoid. The next is upon him before he can quash it:
Fire in the hearth lights the shelter, but it gives no comfort. It only casts deeper, sharper shadows. Achilles’ thoughts are swirling with fury. Hours ago, Athena had stopped him when he reached to draw his sword on Agamemnon. Achilles’ hand still flexes in and out of a white-knuckled fist.
Patroclus speaks to him in a low, measured tone and rubs circles in the dip of Achilles’ tightened temples. There’s a different quality to his attention—it’s less like a lover and more like a man soothing an unruly hound. One he knows might snarl and snap at the smallest provocation.
In the firelight, Patroclus’ face is confused, anguished. At the time, Achilles assumed it was a show of commiseration, but now he knows better. It was grief. Pat was mourning the Achilles he’d once known.
There’s a question underlying the memory: is that version of him truly gone forever?
A few more coarse pumps of his hand, and Achilles gives an impatient huff against Hermes’ neck. It’s been far too long, and not even Achilles has the patience to tease right now. He abruptly shifts his hips and enters Hermes without further preamble.
Hermes surrenders to Achilles' unforgiving grip, keening loudly as his teeth rake against his throat. He scrabbles his nails against Achilles' back. As Patroclus appears in the memory, Hermes reflexively digs his nails in Achilles' skin, as if to say mine. Hermes isn't usually a jealous person, but the throes of passion leave him possessive and feral. His nails dig in deep, dragging long furrows in Achilles' back.
But then he processes the emotional underpinning of the memory. The anger. The pride. The retrospective shame. The blurring identity, where did the people we used to be go?
It sparks a memory, one much more personal than the wide expanses of his domain. Olympus, gleaming, beautiful beyond mortal imaginings. And across the marble floor of their throne room is a trail of ichor. Hephaestus dragging himself on the stomach to his forge. It's a humiliating spectacle. All Olympus watches him go, cowed into silent observation by Zeus' thundering temper. Even Hera, on whose behalf Hephaestus defied Zeus, is silent.
Apollo rests a hand on Hermes', almost casual, but it comes paired with a soft, psychic snap that Hermes should remember the way of the world. The powerful are in charge because they can hurt the weak, and no amount of pleading or begging will change that. Don't be the next Hephaestus.
Hermes knows it's his big brother urging him to not end the spectacle, to not aid their brother in his moment of greatest need. But Apollo overestimated his brother, and needn't have worried. Hermes is too afraid to think it's even a possibility. Too afraid to even signal his disapproval with a frown. So he watches with an opaque smirk as his brother drags himself on his belly through their home, and he does nothing. Coward.
As he's entered, Hermes' breath catches. It hurts, but it's a good hurt. He wraps his legs around Achilles' waist, angling his hips to let Achilles get as deep as possible inside him. He whimpers in Achilles' ear, raking his nails across his back.
Achilles arches his back against Hermes’ clawing nails and he hums approval at his sounds of pain and pleasure. “Keep singing for me, magpie.”
As a mortal, it’s uncomfortable to see Hephaestus, a god, in such a miserable state. It’s worse yet to feel Hermes’ fear. Achilles can’t think of a time he’s known his lover to be so frightened. At least, not that he ever showed. But it explains why he—and the rest of Olympus—lived so long with the status quo. They need only look to Hephaestus for a reminder of what happens to those who defy Zeus.
What would he have done in the same situation? Is it better to keep the peace, or stubbornly defy authority? Achilles only knows he did the latter and suffered dearly for it.
The memory of consuming grief looms dark on the edges of his consciousness. It threatens to flood in, but Achilles refuses to inflict that on Hermes. He won’t let it sour this moment. It’s easier to think of the rage and vengeance that came in its wake. Rivers choked with bodies. Xanthus and Balius’ labored breath, their tack jingling as they pulled his chariot around the walls of Troy, Hector’s corpse dragging, desecrated in their wake. Such brutality did nothing to ease his pain.
He only began to feel any relief after Priam’s—and Hermes’—visit. He felt less like a witless, raging dog and more like a man.
Achilles rocks forward, further lifting Hermes’ hips in a bid to pin him tighter, get closer and deeper still. Through Hermes’ raking nails and the sweet gratification of his own greedy thrusts, Achilles can feel the soft flutter of feathers against his lower back—the graceful wings at Hermes’ ankles pressed close.
Hermes needs no encouragement. He cries out with every thrust, gasping and keening as he digs his nails hard into Achilles’ back, ankle wings fluttering spasmodically like he might be flying if Achilles didn’t have such a good grip on him.
Hermes remembers that night in the tent. He remembers the lead up—gods arguing in Olympus. Apollo furious, slamming his hand on the table and demanding that Hector be returned at once. Hector’s shade was forced to linger at the Styx without funeral rites to allow him to move on, and if his body was allowed to rot without the rites, he’d wander the earth forever. It was sacrilegious, and Apollo wasn’t about to allow one of his favored to be abused like that. Aphrodite, of all people, Ares, and Athena all pushed back when Apollo declared he’d smite Achilles there and then if he didn’t give back the body. Aphrodite because she wanted grace to be given to a grieving lover, Ares because he delighted in the violence Achilles had been feeding him, and Athena because she’s Athena. Athena was the one to ask Hermes to find a way to stop Achilles’ rampage, because she knew he was beyond her wisdom’s reach and she didn’t want to see her favored put down like a rabid dog. Hermes cooled tempers in Olympus, confidently declaring the body would be returned that night.
Hermes never doubted for a moment that Priam’s grief would penetrate the fog of Achilles’. Hermes remembered the over-confident and passionate boy, and he knew he was still there, just hurting so badly that he couldn’t appreciate the pain of others.
Hermes remembers the tent. It smelled of blood and sweat and overwhelming grief. He remembers standing aside, separate from the action as Priam collapses at Achilles’ feet. He sees Achilles, somehow looking less human at first in the light, almost glowing with violence, but all of it seeming to bleed out in the face of Priam’s tears.
Hermes stayed politely to the side, knowing that the enormity of both men’s grief would never be adequately salved by this, but maybe it would stop festering. And he didn’t want to distract from that by being a god in their presence.
It’s illuminating to see that moment from an outside perspective: to see gods quarreling over mortal affairs, to see how Hermes intervened, to see himself blazing with rage and how quickly the flames abated at Priam’s supplication.
His own memory of that time is foggy with grief and madness. Seeing it through Hermes’ eyes provides some clarity—even some needed compassion for himself in that dark, miserable moment.
Achilles shifts his hand to cup Hermes’ face. He meets his eyes for a moment, then captures his mouth in a kiss—deep with gratitude and love. His hips slow to a steady roll to match this careful adoration.
It’s impossible to say in words just how much he loves Hermes, so Achilles says it with his memories: Hermes with a real smile—one that wrinkles his nose and creases his eyes. Hermes laughing, bright and clear at a joke at Zagreus’ expense. Hermes savoring honey cakes by the hearth. Hermes quietly granting a mortal his blessing, with no expectation of thanks or praise. He shares these and dozens more, all saturated with Achilles’ affection.
Hermes whimpers in Achilles' mouth as the pace slows, but it's sweetly agonizing. He's ready to complain about it, when Achilles floods him with memories of himself.
Hermes wasn't ready to see himself from Achilles' eyes. He wasn't ready to feel how much Achilles loves the scrunch in his nose when he smiles, the way he laughs, the way he blesses mortals, the way he looks when eating honey cake with firelight on his face. He wasn't ready for how deep and sincere all that love and affection is. He wasn't ready for how... kind he appears in Achilles' eyes.
Achilles loves Hermes. He knows that. But Hermes doesn't always quite appreciate how much someone can love him. A part of him is always stuck feeling like love must be constantly earned, rather than freely given.
Hermes breathes shakily, his eyes stinging as he returns Achilles' kiss. His nails pry loose of Achilles' skin, his grip gentling as he twists his fingers in Achilles' hair.
He answers with his own memories. Achilles' rare smile and laugh. The way his brow creases when he's getting stubborn. But more than anything, Hermes remembers Achilles as courage. Hermes remembers fear as the background noise of his life. Fear of facing his mother, fear of defying his father, fear of revealing any kind of vulnerability to anyone in the family. It was so normal for him that he didn't even recognize it for what it was anymore when he was so carefully picking his words in his and Achilles' early conversations, calculating how to communicate his meaning without saying anything incriminating.
And he remembers how shocking it was for Achilles to choose to defy Zeus for him. And then he did again. And again. Achilles almost made it look easy. And that gave Hermes the courage to open his mother's letter. To stand up to his father. To believe that his siblings can have his back. Hermes can't adequately explain how much he loves Achilles, and how seismic his effect on Hermes has been in such a relatively short time.
Before he spent more time among them, Achilles assumed gods didn’t know fear at all. Not like mortals. He’s surprised to learn just how much fear Hermes hid under that charming, cocky smile. He moves so fast, it’s hard to imagine fear could even catch up with him.
But Achilles is even more surprised to see the positive impact he’s had on Hermes’ life. He’s willing to accept some credit for Zagreus’ upbringing, but other than that … what good has he done? He helped the Greeks defeat Troy, but was it worth all of the lives he took in the process? The pain he subjected Patroclus to? Would he have had a better, longer life without Achilles?
Achilles has long thought that nothing after death counts; his violent legacy is written in stone. But Hermes has just shown him proof that Achilles couldn’t be more wrong. His story continues. He’s improved the life of a god—a god who he loves.
He takes a sharp inhale, his breath catching with a wave of emotion and he becomes more acutely aware of his body, joined tight and hot with Hermes. His pace immediately redoubles with sharp, deep thrusts and his hands instinctively, possessively take Hermes’ hips in an iron grip. His back arches and muscles flex, pulling his skin tight against the lattice of marks Hermes has left. A pleasured moan thrums in his chest.
Hermes gasps as he's pinned and Achilles drills into him. He pants, keening as he scratches his nails into Achilles' scalp, pulling his hair into a fist. Hermes' back arches, and he bites the curve of Achilles' shoulder, digging his teeth in as his nerves all start to flare at once, tingling up his spine with every thrust. He's close, and he scratches and bites and holds Achilles for purchase.
The stars that make up the fabric of his body are visible. A constellation that would adorn the sky, should he ever consign himself there. They're bright and shimmer overlaid on skin. Memories shudder and blur with his pleasure--the blurry image of Achilles' face, his hands covered in Hermes' ichor as he methodically plucks damaged feathers and puts them aside; the reflection of glowing water on Achilles' skin as he pins Hermes down on the beach; the gentle acceptance of Achilles' arms when Hermes read his mother's letter, and he was almost fit to turn himself into stone from the pain and vulnerability; Achilles, kissing him and declaring his love in the land of dreams under the shade of whale bones; Achilles, still a toddler, chasing after a hummingbird he doesn't know is a god; Achilles, laughing at some joke Hermes doesn't remember making, but he remembers how all the weight seems to lift from his lover's shoulders as he laughs.
Hermes loves Achilles ardently. He's not a god of love, but it still threads through all the memories, treasured and warm and so real that it hurts.
Achilles gives a pleased grunt at Hermes’ bite and the desperate scrabble of his nails. It reminds him of one of the beasts Hermes so enjoys changing into. It’s primal, unrestrained, unabashed and leaves Achilles equally wild with lust.
But the scattered stars across his skin glitter in delicate contrast. It evokes memories of that night on the mountain, where Hermes blended with the black velvet of the sky during their lovemaking. Achilles shares the wonder and awe he felt in that moment, at the reminder that, for all their flaws, the both of them are made of something beautiful and eternal.
As his pleasure reaches its peak, Achilles floods Hermes with rapid-fire glimpses of moments he treasures. Achilles’ chest flutters, his spirits lift, when Hermes appears at the House gates in a flurry, bearing a message from Olympus. Hermes’ head rests on his lap, his brow slack and peaceful while he sleeps. The joy on Hermes’ face as they dance with mortals at Anthesteria, and the taste of wine on his lips. A jewel-feathered hummingbird cradled in his hands, tiny and indescribably precious, so very like those he used to chase in his father’s garden.
Achilles buries his face against one of Hermes’ wings, panting into his warm feathers as his thrusts reach a crude, frantic pace. The deluge of his memories comes to an abrupt halt, the slate of his mind wiped clean by his climax. He gives a gasping cry and his hips stutter with the last strokes of his release.
Hermes is overcome. He's never seen himself through the eyes of someone who loves him so much. And not because he's a god and can bestow blessings and achieve things no mortal can, but because he's... him. All the things that would be left behind if one day he lost all his status and power.
He's swept away by the combined weight of love and pleasure, the feral and the divine. He digs his heels into Achilles' skin, scratches long crooked lines in his back, and digs his teeth into his shoulder, screaming into his skin, into his own climax. He spills on his stomach, his mind splintering into stars, stars, stars.
And then he slowly comes back to himself. To the mossy ground against his back. To Achilles' face against his wing. He almost wants to cry with how much he loves this man, with the intensity of this long overdue lovemaking.
But instead, he pries his nails and teeth loose, leaving behind the rabid marks of a lover. And he strokes Achilles' hair, resting his cheek against his, and murmuring, "I love you so much."
“I love you, my dear,” Achilles whispers into his ear. They just finished sharing the depth of that love in mind and body, but the words still have their own affirming power. They deserve to be said, again and again.
Achilles props himself up enough to press the tips of their noses together. The warm glow of his orgasm hums in his core, but his skin is alight with the sting of Hermes’ amorous wounds. Achilles gives hin an exhausted smile. “Even if you happen to be a wildcat.”
He presses a soft kiss to Hermes’ nose and the corners of his mouth curl a bit more. “After all this time—after all this sneaking about—it was nice to hear you yowl. There’s no sweeter music.”
Achilles allows himself a bit of his old pride at that; it’s great to please any partner, but satisfying a god is extra special.
"And it was nice to yowl. And also scratch you up like a wildcat's prey."
Hermes giggles softly, scrunching his nose as Achilles kisses it. He relaxes into the moss, letting his heels drag down Achilles' calves and his ankle wings flutter against Achilles' skin. After all that, it's hard to believe he's ever doubted Achilles' love for him.
"I feel like I keep saying this, but let's not wait so long for next time, hmm? I've missed this."
Hermes can't help but feel it's mostly his fault that they haven't had more time together. First it was because he was too cowardly to face his lover after their fight and let himself be made too busy to do anything but deal with Ares' troublemaking, and then he was the one dumb enough to be outmaneuvered by Ares and wounded so grievously.
“Quite the bite, too.” He gently touches the arced set of teeth marks champed into his shoulder. That’s one benefit of taking up with Hermes after he’s died: if he was still alive, he’d be an absolute mess of scars by now. As it is, his shade more or less pulls itself back together. He shifts over to lay on the moss, still tucked close against Hermes’ side.
“Mm. I agree. The Fates have certainly conspired against us. Perhaps we should seek Aphrodite’s blessing?” he teases. Given her jealousy, Achilles can’t imagine she would ever grant it.
But Achilles genuinely hopes the worst has passed for now. Ares is imprisoned. Zeus and Hera have gone to the stars. The only lingering concern is Atlas, perhaps Gaia.
And … of course, the small matter of raising their relationship to Hades. Are they better off now that Achilles isn’t serving directly under his roof? He isn’t quite sure. Is there any precedent for gods carrying on with mortal shades? They could well be the first.
Hermes sighs in delight as Achilles shifts to lie next to him, turning to snuggle close. "She'd probably want to sleep with you in exchange, and then I'd have to fight her. I don't think Athena would be too pleased with me."
No need to pick more fights on Olympus if they don't have to. Hermes would like time to recover from all the other fights he had to pick.
Hermes tucks his nose against Achilles' neck, humming against his skin. "But we should have more time now. We'll be working together much more closely."
Hermes isn't thinking of Hades. He'd be more than happy to just never bring the matter up and act like Hades ought to have known after he one day discovers it, because Hermes intended to stop actively hiding the relationship after Achilles was no longer in Hades' House.
“Fine. We’ll avoid causing any fresh quarrels, and pray the Fates will reward us.” Achilles chuckles softly and combs fingers through Hermes’ hair.
“How has it been? The return to your work?” It feels like it’s been a very long time since Hermes has consistently fulfilled his psychopomp duties. Or his messenger duties, for that matter. “Do you suppose Lady Athena will be calling on you for counsel?”
Athena is a very competent ruler, but she’ll still need someone like Hermes to help with delicate matters of diplomacy and to keep an astute eye out for treachery. Delivering messages and souls seems much lower in priority while Olympus is stabilizing under a new queen.
Hermes hums, smiling and closing his eyes as Achilles strokes his hair. He slings an arm affectionately around his lover's waist. "It's been nice. I love my work, and I hate being bored."
And things like sitting around waiting for his father and foster mother to break, or waiting for his body to hurry up and heal enough to function again--all that is boring. The tedium of waiting drives him mad. But now he doesn't have to wait.
"Athena will keep me closer to her side than Pop did, I think. He liked me best to play tricks so he could hide things from Lady Hera, or maybe save one of his mistresses she was trying to destroy. Athena likes me best acting as her left hand. Apollo might become her right, if they work out their differences." Of which they don't have too many, by divine standards. Athena finds Apollo to be temperamental, and Apollo thinks that Athena is too consumed with maintaining a false image of being above it all. Just enough conflict to mean it's a process to learn how to work together with a new hierarchy, but not so much that Hermes expects violence.
Unsure if Achilles even knows the left and right hand analogy, Hermes elaborates, "The right hand is most visible. The left hand works in the background. But they're both just as close to the head." Athena knows that Hermes' best work is done when people aren't focused on him. When he's a mediator, when he's a trickster, when he's a spy. Apollo does his best work in the open, straightforward and unapologetic.
The gentle trickle of the fountain, the cool air on his bare (somewhat sore) skin, and Hermes’ loving touch sets Achilles utterly at ease. It’s almost as if the two of them could be normal lovers, basking in the glow of their lovemaking and discussing their lives. He moves his hand to stroke a wing, smoothing out feathers between the pinched pads of his fingertips.
Achilles hopes acting as Athena’s left hand will have the added benefit of making Hermes a less visible target for any kind of attack or retaliation from Olympus’ enemies. He selfishly hopes Athena and Apollo will take most of the blows, should it come to that. Hermes is fast and clever, but his older siblings have more raw power.
“And you’re a fine liaison with the Underworld. Lord Hades doesn’t seem to mind you as much as the rest of his family.” Hopefully it stays that way once he learns of Hermes’ dalliances with one of his shades. “He’s only beginning to warm to Lady Athena. And he barely tolerates Apollo. I suspect he’s too like Zeus.”
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Free of captcha’s tyranny
“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.
no subject
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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He shares the first time he took a man’s life: it was so fast and efficient, the memory is a blur. The only sharp detail is the thick, wet sound of a spear tearing through flesh and bone. The shock of air leaving the ruins of his opponent’s chest. Achilles didn’t bother—or didn’t want—to look at the man’s face.
That moment repeats itself again and again. There are glimpses of raids—the months and years that the Greeks spent laying waste to Troy’s neighbors. These memories come swathed in a fog of ecstatic, violent madness. It reeks of fire and blood and Ares’ influence. But his fellow Greeks sang Achilles praises as he wore the blood of entire families on his armor.
It’s not pleasant, but it’s still Achilles. He wants Hermes to have a taste of everything—even those moments that now bring him shame and disgust; there are precious few people he trusts to understand his struggle.
“I’m sorry,” he pants against Hermes’ ear. Is the apology meant for him? That he subjected Hermes to these memories of violence? Or for the countless people who suffered at his hands?
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His hand slides up to twist fingers into Hermes’ hair. He uses this to pull his head back, stretching his neck for kisses and nipping bites, pinching and raking the tender skin with his teeth.
As much as he might try, as much as he might want to keep Patroclus out of this moment, there are other memories that Achilles can’t avoid. The next is upon him before he can quash it:
Fire in the hearth lights the shelter, but it gives no comfort. It only casts deeper, sharper shadows. Achilles’ thoughts are swirling with fury. Hours ago, Athena had stopped him when he reached to draw his sword on Agamemnon. Achilles’ hand still flexes in and out of a white-knuckled fist.
Patroclus speaks to him in a low, measured tone and rubs circles in the dip of Achilles’ tightened temples. There’s a different quality to his attention—it’s less like a lover and more like a man soothing an unruly hound. One he knows might snarl and snap at the smallest provocation.
In the firelight, Patroclus’ face is confused, anguished. At the time, Achilles assumed it was a show of commiseration, but now he knows better. It was grief. Pat was mourning the Achilles he’d once known.
There’s a question underlying the memory: is that version of him truly gone forever?
A few more coarse pumps of his hand, and Achilles gives an impatient huff against Hermes’ neck. It’s been far too long, and not even Achilles has the patience to tease right now. He abruptly shifts his hips and enters Hermes without further preamble.
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As a mortal, it’s uncomfortable to see Hephaestus, a god, in such a miserable state. It’s worse yet to feel Hermes’ fear. Achilles can’t think of a time he’s known his lover to be so frightened. At least, not that he ever showed. But it explains why he—and the rest of Olympus—lived so long with the status quo. They need only look to Hephaestus for a reminder of what happens to those who defy Zeus.
What would he have done in the same situation? Is it better to keep the peace, or stubbornly defy authority? Achilles only knows he did the latter and suffered dearly for it.
The memory of consuming grief looms dark on the edges of his consciousness. It threatens to flood in, but Achilles refuses to inflict that on Hermes. He won’t let it sour this moment. It’s easier to think of the rage and vengeance that came in its wake. Rivers choked with bodies. Xanthus and Balius’ labored breath, their tack jingling as they pulled his chariot around the walls of Troy, Hector’s corpse dragging, desecrated in their wake. Such brutality did nothing to ease his pain.
He only began to feel any relief after Priam’s—and Hermes’—visit. He felt less like a witless, raging dog and more like a man.
Achilles rocks forward, further lifting Hermes’ hips in a bid to pin him tighter, get closer and deeper still. Through Hermes’ raking nails and the sweet gratification of his own greedy thrusts, Achilles can feel the soft flutter of feathers against his lower back—the graceful wings at Hermes’ ankles pressed close.
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His own memory of that time is foggy with grief and madness. Seeing it through Hermes’ eyes provides some clarity—even some needed compassion for himself in that dark, miserable moment.
Achilles shifts his hand to cup Hermes’ face. He meets his eyes for a moment, then captures his mouth in a kiss—deep with gratitude and love. His hips slow to a steady roll to match this careful adoration.
It’s impossible to say in words just how much he loves Hermes, so Achilles says it with his memories: Hermes with a real smile—one that wrinkles his nose and creases his eyes. Hermes laughing, bright and clear at a joke at Zagreus’ expense. Hermes savoring honey cakes by the hearth. Hermes quietly granting a mortal his blessing, with no expectation of thanks or praise. He shares these and dozens more, all saturated with Achilles’ affection.
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But Achilles is even more surprised to see the positive impact he’s had on Hermes’ life. He’s willing to accept some credit for Zagreus’ upbringing, but other than that … what good has he done? He helped the Greeks defeat Troy, but was it worth all of the lives he took in the process? The pain he subjected Patroclus to? Would he have had a better, longer life without Achilles?
Achilles has long thought that nothing after death counts; his violent legacy is written in stone. But Hermes has just shown him proof that Achilles couldn’t be more wrong. His story continues. He’s improved the life of a god—a god who he loves.
He takes a sharp inhale, his breath catching with a wave of emotion and he becomes more acutely aware of his body, joined tight and hot with Hermes. His pace immediately redoubles with sharp, deep thrusts and his hands instinctively, possessively take Hermes’ hips in an iron grip. His back arches and muscles flex, pulling his skin tight against the lattice of marks Hermes has left. A pleasured moan thrums in his chest.
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But the scattered stars across his skin glitter in delicate contrast. It evokes memories of that night on the mountain, where Hermes blended with the black velvet of the sky during their lovemaking. Achilles shares the wonder and awe he felt in that moment, at the reminder that, for all their flaws, the both of them are made of something beautiful and eternal.
As his pleasure reaches its peak, Achilles floods Hermes with rapid-fire glimpses of moments he treasures. Achilles’ chest flutters, his spirits lift, when Hermes appears at the House gates in a flurry, bearing a message from Olympus. Hermes’ head rests on his lap, his brow slack and peaceful while he sleeps. The joy on Hermes’ face as they dance with mortals at Anthesteria, and the taste of wine on his lips. A jewel-feathered hummingbird cradled in his hands, tiny and indescribably precious, so very like those he used to chase in his father’s garden.
Achilles buries his face against one of Hermes’ wings, panting into his warm feathers as his thrusts reach a crude, frantic pace. The deluge of his memories comes to an abrupt halt, the slate of his mind wiped clean by his climax. He gives a gasping cry and his hips stutter with the last strokes of his release.
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Achilles props himself up enough to press the tips of their noses together. The warm glow of his orgasm hums in his core, but his skin is alight with the sting of Hermes’ amorous wounds. Achilles gives hin an exhausted smile. “Even if you happen to be a wildcat.”
He presses a soft kiss to Hermes’ nose and the corners of his mouth curl a bit more. “After all this time—after all this sneaking about—it was nice to hear you yowl. There’s no sweeter music.”
Achilles allows himself a bit of his old pride at that; it’s great to please any partner, but satisfying a god is extra special.
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“Mm. I agree. The Fates have certainly conspired against us. Perhaps we should seek Aphrodite’s blessing?” he teases. Given her jealousy, Achilles can’t imagine she would ever grant it.
But Achilles genuinely hopes the worst has passed for now. Ares is imprisoned. Zeus and Hera have gone to the stars. The only lingering concern is Atlas, perhaps Gaia.
And … of course, the small matter of raising their relationship to Hades. Are they better off now that Achilles isn’t serving directly under his roof? He isn’t quite sure. Is there any precedent for gods carrying on with mortal shades? They could well be the first.
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“How has it been? The return to your work?” It feels like it’s been a very long time since Hermes has consistently fulfilled his psychopomp duties. Or his messenger duties, for that matter. “Do you suppose Lady Athena will be calling on you for counsel?”
Athena is a very competent ruler, but she’ll still need someone like Hermes to help with delicate matters of diplomacy and to keep an astute eye out for treachery. Delivering messages and souls seems much lower in priority while Olympus is stabilizing under a new queen.
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Achilles hopes acting as Athena’s left hand will have the added benefit of making Hermes a less visible target for any kind of attack or retaliation from Olympus’ enemies. He selfishly hopes Athena and Apollo will take most of the blows, should it come to that. Hermes is fast and clever, but his older siblings have more raw power.
“And you’re a fine liaison with the Underworld. Lord Hades doesn’t seem to mind you as much as the rest of his family.” Hopefully it stays that way once he learns of Hermes’ dalliances with one of his shades. “He’s only beginning to warm to Lady Athena. And he barely tolerates Apollo. I suspect he’s too like Zeus.”
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