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“My friend, what is it that traps you?” The god cocked his head, an inquisitive smile breaking through like the rays of rathe dawn. “An unruly tide as a foe cannot have trounced the mighty Odysseus, or has it?”
He rolled his eyes. Hermes had aided him through Calypso’s clutches, albeit without him knowing initially, but he was nonetheless frustrating. And calming, in his own way.
Although he was a God of trickery and awfully sly, Odysseus couldn’t shake off the feeling of prompt relief whenever he glanced at the caduceus of the messenger. For him, Hermes was a bearer of good news: of salvation.
The sun had set and the fire in Hermes was not receding in similar fashion. No, it was when the liberating sun bid a radiating farewell that the swift messenger began his ceaselessly musing about Ithacan shores, seldom about Olympian affairs. He’d question Odysseus about his determination to arrive to those familiar, saline coasts, and in the same breath, without a reply registered, taunt him about abject tales during his stay on Troy.
The god would occasionally stare at him in sovereign disdain, other times in delight. Odysseus had yielded to his unpredictability already.
“I can assure you,” Odysseus huffed, hand raised towards that beaming star. “There is nothing to fret over, nothing to be trapped by.”
The night haunted the day. Darkness followed, and the star had revealed itself.
Said night had obscured all sight of nearby life, engulfed in its ambrosial cradling. The uncharted waters Hermes had warned him about abated at times, solely providing bittersweet reminders of forlorn days with his crew; memories of hope, of six hundred men jeering at the consummation of the war.
But those memories were a distraction. Bygones. Indubitably, Odysseus did miss the rowdy fire in camps, veneer of a hero longlasting. Odysseus missed home. Missed Penelope, missed Telemachus. But missing was not going to help him get home, specifically with such sentiment being wistful rather than ruthless.
It was the night he looked forward to: the north star. The road home.
“Friend.” The riff of the voice sounded contentedly distant before wholly deafening. He blinked thrice before discerning Hermes was in front of him, the same height as his face, laid down while simultaneously not touching the ground. Instead of the star, all Odysseus could begrudgingly see was Hermes’ smug face after the trickster had walked in front. “You appear more haunted than a virgin who was taken as a spoil.”
Walked with those divinely blessed with speed sandals. Accursed instead of blessed, if you asked him.
“You’re blocking my view.” He retreated his hand from the air slowly, too close to Hermes for solace. He was exceedingly weary to put on a good mien for the god. “Your comparisons are full of wit, but nonetheless unequivocally misleading.”
A complacent, shrill chuckle was his first reply.
“Fool mortal, you err more by the second than I in previous instances, in the current, and in those hereafter.” Hermes had placed a finger on his chin, lifting it up slightly. Odysseus bit back several colorful remarks, opting to narrow his eyes. “I am here to help you, is all. Else you find your doom on your own, that is.”
Odysseus turned his head, eyebrows furrowed in discounted vexation as he forced a tight smile. The god had taken no umbrage, choosing to retreat his hold and merely stare at him with a vain grin.
He was grateful for that. He wouldn’t avow such, but he was. Calypso did not have the courtesy to pay heed to vehement denials, always giddy and wrathful, ire not something Odysseus was deprived of. Ire, in the shape of silken, tender hands pushing him further into her bedding. Her defiant abjuration came too late for him to feel truly happy. Too late to feel merry and hope.
Seven years too late.
At least the god of utter deceit in the pantheon had the qualms to not debase him, to abstain, in the presence of cold refusal.
Yes, he missed Ithaca. He missed normalcy; the anchored regiment of his island, normal in its own abnormality. But for now, Hermes would do in his odd way.
“I thank you for the concern, Hermes.” He said, brief and with pithy.
Last time he ran his tongue, Polites died and Athena left. Last time he ran his tongue, six hundred of his men had died. Last time he ran his tongue, the remaining had died.
Hermes nodded, acknowledging him. “Little king.”
Last time he ran his tongue, Calypso had allowed him to go. In a sense.
“King is fine.”
Hermes shrugged.
Odysseus walked away, to the other side of the raft. Hermes fiddled with either his staff or the wind bag: it was a strenuous task to discern the imagery of the sound when he was facing the other way. A few days since Calypso’s surrender had passed to date, and a few troubles had risen since then, but nothing major.
Though a feeling of fickle restlessness grew erratically within with every turn, every wave, every callback to the yowls of his crew. Perhaps Hermes was in reason to insinuate he was trapped, haunted .
He couldn’t see down to the limpid water, scowling at his reflection every time: veritably triumph if he could hold the view for a few minutes, actually. From what he recalled from the mirroring waters, his chiton looked—was— depleted, even if Calypso had favored him with new tunics every few months or so. Her usage of him was reflected unto the robes, and Odysseus had never yearned for a weighted bronze armor as much as whenever he remembered.
Like now. His skin prickled, itching with a lust to forget.
He sat down, mast rigid and softer than any woman’s bed that was not an olive tree. The breaths of the wind were almost mellow, free of chagrin. The breeze was placid, and he sighed. Sighed heftily . There was calm, for a moment, before he felt Hermes’ stare.
Before he opened one of his eyes and Hermes was right in front, sitting as well. Almost meek. Hands hidden inside his legs, palms resting on the wooden surface. Cross legged, unlike him who propped a knee up.
“If this is your behavior towards your wife after you arrive, consider yourself without a wife.” The messenger’s smile never faltered, voice pitched.
Odysseus groaned before closing his eyes again, the back of his head hitting the mast. “I doubt I even have a wife now.”
Hermes hummed, eyes trailing to the sea.
“Old friend, this harrowing demeanor will help none finish their tasks or achieve salient goals.” He said, prompting another groan. “Certainly not mine, if the vigorous king of Ithaca cannot possibly put the entirety of your focus unto this!”
He guessed the god had signaled to something, the windbag probably, but his eyes remained closed.
Odysseus would have directly stared at him were it not for the foul helmet, shrouding all vision. The cool gold of the helmet eerily shone if he gave duly attention, feathered wings flapping whenever the god was immersed. In what he had seen of Hermes, was that his chlamys, one merchants usually wore, suited him dreadfully well. As a herald, he was presentable.
The fine cloak was worn on top of a chiton, and notwithstanding, his own tunic was longer than Hermes’.
In the stead of glaring at the god, he scrunched his nose and refused to hang his head low; to the other’s level.
It is that moment when he’s pulled forward violently, a foreign hand nestled in his robes. He opened his eyes—not wide, not narrowed, Hermes was unpredictable and he was not going to piss off another god—and attempted to not grimace at how his nose was touching the divine trickster’s.
He, in fact, grimaced. Hermes’ air of insouciance was there for a reason, Odysseus presumed, for he didn’t bat an eye to that either.
“You pledged to put it all on the line, comrade, but,” The customary smile was absent, supplanted by an austere carriage. The mirth was conspicuously gone, and Odysseus' eyes darted to find it to no avail. “I'll do an exception. I can help you with what’s agitating you, Odysseus.”
He let him go, pose unrelenting as he remained seated. Odysseus regarded him warily before reclining against the mast anew, tense.
“Help?” He raised one eyebrow at the comment. “You waited seven years to come to this island, and now extend assistance for unease?”
“Pretty much,” The god regained the broad grin, inordinately relaxed. “Yes.”
Hermes radiated with jubilation, teeth gleaming. The wings on his helmet shook moderately before quieting: the little he could see from his appearance shrouded by the cap were the curls peaking through the darkness, resembling something light as wool. On his peripheral vision, Odysseus took note that the wings in his sandals were fluttering as if in exhilaration, rather than to take flight.
Odysseus really shouldn’t be saying this.
“Tell me then,” But he is. “Old friend.”
He tilted his head, studying the god ahead.
Said god’s smile became bigger, light complexion turning somewhat sanguine. Vaguely, Odysseus knew he’d regret asking him more.
“It is far too simple, you see.” Hermes explained, smile turning dangerous. Carnivorous. Odysseus should most definitely not trust a God of both wealth and thieves: but it was he who was there in the face of foes and foolery, unlike his mentor. He hadn’t left unlike another goddess.
“What is?”
Hermes bit his lip before replying, tongue rolling smoothly at every word. “The offer.”
Odysseus shouldn’t keep this up. Shouldn’t, but will.
“Is it?” He asks, voice cordially low.
It was too similar to a playdate: playing about hunting. Or more accurately, Hermes was playing him as if he were a curious and obstinate cat, wiggling weeds too close and too far. Odysseus could guilefully discern between trickery and truth, and this most definitely wasn’t a selfless proposition, but Hermes wouldn’t wrong him when it was only him. Couldn't wrong him, for all the reasons to and by were long dead.
Ithaca, with its lovely past and antsy present—Penelope, Telemachus—was not dead, but it was not with him.
“Yes, friend.”
The distance between them endured, although Odysseus felt it get breached by each retort.
“You’re lonely for a handsome fellow,” Hermes began, and he could feel something get stuck in his throat. “After the strife you have endured, by my kin no less, I feel pity. One ought to unwind.”
Alarm struck him, but he was too intrigued to cut the god off. He straightened against the mast, eyes not stirring from the winged god. The messenger paused before giggling, and if Odysseus were a lesser man, he’d have gasped when Hermes led a finger on his lips and gnawed on it.
After pondering for a split second, the hand went back against the wooden floor and the trickster carried on. “Friend, you’ve been tense.”
Odysseus scoffed.
“And humans relax at pleasure, no?” The god asked, and everything stilled.
The water, the breeze, the words uttered.
Pleasure. His pleasure. A remote concept, one declined with Circe and one forcefully taken by Calypso. Pleasure, one Penelope and him shared intimately. Pleasure, one he’d pursue during the war indiscreetly. Pleasure, one deprived from him just two weeks ago.
The god simply waited for an answer, still sitting and unmoving. A sense of foreboding trepidation eased at the remembrance of will, and it pounced harder like an inexorable wave at the echo of Penelope. It washed away rapidly at the impression of Calypso. It was as if it never existed as the burden of severe years bore unto him.
It never existed when he lifted his head higher to meet Hermes’ stare, the judgment of Tiresias faint and reverberating. He didn’t remember lowering it.
He took a sharp breath, commanding it all away . “Why did you not ask for this in our first meeting?”
“I had no reason to, friend.” The god suspired. “It’s but an offer, not an obligation.”
The breeze against his face was not lulling the fire within: it made it flicker, made it more than it was. From a spilled candle to a blaze. A man was but a man, slave and sovereign to its primal needs and yearnings. A man was but a man, and after having lost so much, one more thing to lose was nothing.
“Do you take it?” Hermes insisted.
No, no. No - “Yes.”
The messenger’s face turned into one of nonchalance at first, before into one of beguiling satisfaction. His hands reached for the top of his head, into the helmet in which the wings were batting and took it off. Odysseus gawked, looked at him, rapt and felt a pang of reciprocal fulfillment.
The curls fluffed up from the headgear having been removed, velvety and downy. His face was one of youthfulness, eyes directed at him with a glint of mischievousness. The god looked far younger than him, or any other kings in question, rather appearing saccharine and timeless. A warm yet unpliable aspect.
The cap was placed gingerly at his side: a confidence in it not becoming submerged by the ocean undoubtedly stemming from divinity.
“I knew you would come around.” Hermes laughed, and Odysseus followed how he’d have dimples in wide smiles, or how his eyes would crinkle with felicity.
Just a man, his mind supplied. He spent much time gawking openly, since Hermes caught onto it and looked overly pleased with himself before slipping a hand below his chiton.
He turned stiff, gulping down on nothing. “Wait.”
Those eyes, bright and entirely heavenly, blinked up to his face impassively, hand steadfast on its hold. Waiting for another interception stoically, no emotion bleeding through the gaze.
“What are you...” Odysseus dragged his words, a frown on his own face evident.
“Takes a lot of the fun out if I’m telling you, huh?” The god joked with a fleeting chuckle before hardening his face when the other tried to press himself further into the mast, giving him a pointed look of withering and momentary contempt. “Friend, I am most certainly not like the others. Only what you accept on the basis you’ll focus from here on.”
Odysseus stares at him before slackening.
“Okay.” He looks away. Maybe he could pretend those curls were Penelope’s. “Okay.”
The hand slithered up to his thigh, and it gradually became an arduous task to relax; loosen his anxiety. With the concentration on Hermes’ face, on the delicate touches, on the small smile he has relied on so far– he tried, albeit weakly. In shaky, ragged breaths, but he tries. Those trembling puffs of breaths instigated the trickster whose fangs shone and eyes sparkled, a god so casually lowering himself onto the ground and resting his head on his other thigh, covered tepidly by the chiton.
His hand hovered on his thigh for a second too long, the god snickering throughout. Odysseus felt dread claw at him, fright beseeching him to move now, now . He aimed to ask Hermes what he was doing, before the messenger cut his thoughts off.
“Lighten up, this is not an everyday occasion.” The breath against his chiton, against his thigh, stirs something in him he wishes had remained dormant. He shudders at the sensation, not going unnoticed as a whistle came from the god beneath. “Enjoy it, nothing more, nothing less.”
The rasp of his voice is enough to make Odysseus nod foolishly, an alluring and enchanting air suffocating him.
Hermes grinned at that, pressing his head against the fabric harder. Harder, until he lessened the pressure and turned his head, cheek pressed coyly against his thigh as he looked up to him: not in awe, not in reverence, but in hubris and conceit.
Odysseus swore he could feel his heart beating briskly, arbitrarily, before subsiding to a sour effort of normal. Penelope never did that. Never would.
Hermes sneered at the bulge in the fabric, hand brushing against it beneath, making him jump. Teeth scraping against the fabric.
“Hermes-” Stop , he wanted to yell, but his words trailed into a breathless wail at Hermes’ wrist twisting.
The god, ignoring him, proceeded to move his other hand forward, and Odysseus’ hips bucked into the warmth. His abdomen was on fire, nerves too sensible. A feeling familiar and wildly unknown. He was under the will of this god, of this farce, breath piquing at every caress, skin tingling at every touch.
Traitor. A voice in the depths of his mind screeched. Traitor.
He squealed at a particular rub, a presage of anticipation piquing and coiling in his stomach. He doesn't know what's happening, what forsaken day it was, yet feels so much- he feels his cheeks getting warmer at every breath from the god, at every caress, at every prickle in his skin. Absent-mindedly, he hears a strangled noise, and he could only guess it came from him.
This wasn’t Calypso.
But it wasn’t Penelope either.
It was godly, though.
Odysseus inhaled sharply. “Don’t stop.”
He needed this.
His cock twitched, thoughts foggy. The reminder that the other’s head was nestled in his thigh, so close, that if he chose to unclasp his chiton he could just grab a handful of his hair and push him unto his-
Fuck.
He dug his nails as much as he could unto the wooden raft, panting like a dog at the view of Hermes nonchalantly stroking him under his robe. Penelope was enthusiastic in bed, a damning enchantress– the memory of her was sufficient to make him finish some nights, anywhere in between the war to Calypso.
But the filthy sounds of Hermes fumbling with his clothes, of his own gasps, or the flaring pleasure when Hermes finally moved his hand up was completely different. Odysseus faltered slightly, exhaling shakily as his hips thrusted into the air. He was faithful for over ten years, surely she wouldn’t mind.
He tried to glance away from the vixen on his lap, tried to close his eyes and convince himself it was Penelope.
But Penelope couldn’t make him hiss brokenly like now, make his spine tingle with delectable want.
Hermes’ hand was warm, that was the first thing he noticed. The second thing he noticed was that it felt damn good. He retained his grin, hand reaching to stroke him lazily, teasing the head before pulling away.
He was about to whine for more, more , when the god poked his tongue out to lick through the fabric, his hand still provoking him– fleeting touches sometimes where they exactly should be, sometimes far. He moaned softly at the image, of the wetness seeping through the tunic.
Odysseus pushed his lower half against the hand, desperately, urgently . The fire grew, and he was going too slow, and yet too fast-
And Hermes’ warmth was gone.
He snapped his eyes open⎯when had he closed them ?⎯almost wheezing to catch his breath. His legs were sore from some spasms, his dick certainly was sore due to different causes, and everything was too hot . He needed a moment to register his surroundings, the sound of the waves and the face of god in front: reduced to nothing but whimpers and almost flayed mind. He growled at the lack of everything, of his hands, of his heat, and he fuzzily felt his eyes were too humid than typical.
Frustration fizzed inside him, the neediness eerie and strange to a king and leader. The messenger returned to his sitting position smoothly, cleaning his own hand against his tunic: never looking at Odysseus.
He was more rigid and strained now, back arching before he slopped against the mast, scrutinizing the god with a waning scorn before running a hand through his hair. “I thought you claimed you’d help me get rid of stress, not add to it?”
“We’re not over.” Hermes laughed, and Odysseus would’ve posed an inquiry on what he meant were it not for those dazzling eyes that held a patent ingenuity scanning him over, were it not for how Hermes licked his lips as he talked. Were it not if Odysseus was a strong god, not a man.
The strong god in question moved closer to him, pressing against his body, and Odysseus could smell a whiff of subtle honey, parallel to saffron. He leaned into the god’s body, purring at the warmth and another hip against his. Hermes caressed a side of his jaw, fingers delicate and yet deriding, before unfastening the brooches on his shoulder.
Odysseus felt impatient at the process, but didn’t contribute. Couldn’t. Hermes plainly would not let him interfere. Once his chest was bare and he shivered at the chilly air, the hands roamed too low, and took his belt off too.
Took his pride, his loyalty, his promise to the half of his soul.
Hermes took everything. And Odysseus let him.
He took, like his kindred, and left him with nothing. Would’ve left him with nothing, were it not for him having nothing to give and to boast about. The serene iciness of the air diminished as he began feeling incredibly hotter by the second, the evanescent traces of the god’s fingers fueling the eager fire.
How he hated loving it. Always falling to the throes of bloodshed and want and need.
Odysseus shuddered at the disrobed state, shunning the way his cock dripped with need out of his trail of thought. Hermes had thrown the robes somewhere: Odysseus didn't really care.
The messenger pressed a hand against his chest and climbed into his lap, clothes discarded. Odysseus moaned hoarsely at the contact, nuzzling his head on the crook of his neck and rubbing his crotch against his, fast.
He’s on fire. He needs: doesn’t know what, but needs. The friction sent a spark running through his body, making his hips stutter temporarily- He’s grunting, and barely hears but a sentence of what he guessed were multiple.
“I am still clothed, friend.”
His hair was soft, Odysseus distinguished. Just like Penelope’s.
“I’m not blind.” He mumbled, eyes downcast as he wrapped his hands around the other’s waist. “Take it off. If you will.”
At a particular rough movement, Hermes sighed in gratification, in a distinctly gruff voice.
Odysseus hungered. Hungered for him. It was a wonder how he could counter with some words without breaking down.
The god laughed more, elated, and in reciprocation placed a hand on his neck, the other persisting on his chest. A threat that made his cock jerk, unclad for the god to leer. Leer he did. “Why, I will.”
With a blink, the trickster’s cloak and robe disappeared into light air, winged sandals persevering. He could feel himself salivating on the sight, gripping his waist with a resolute strength that would’ve bruised a woman. A human.
He was slim, body favoring one of a runner. Free of flaws and bruises, pale and easy to mark.
He rocked back unto his dick, and Odysseus responded in kind, moaning at the long sought friction. Hermes nibbled on his neck, and the man could feel the outline of a smile against his skin.
It had been so long. So long since he had seen Penelope, and he was just a man, he couldn’t refuse such a candid and gratifying offer. Odysseus truly wanted to think about Ithaca instead of this, about his home, but Hermes made it difficult to as he pinched his nipple, bliss overwrought. He met his hips in a broken whimper.
He did not know what to focus on: in how his lower half ached, how pleasure thrummed in his veins, or in the god clouding his vision.
“ Hermes .” He mewled. He didn’t know what he was asking for– he needed something he couldn’t point at and it was too much.
“I know.” Was the only answer, precise and unreservedly overwhelming.
Hermes lowered his hand and ran it through his length, and Odysseus rutted hopelessly into him. He needed more. The god provided, wrapping his lithe palm around and moving .
He could feel Hermes’ arm going back and forth, and shame followed him as he realized the god was not erect. “Liking this?”
He was half-hard, precum leaking. Whenever his hand moved, an awful squelching sound sometimes was heard. He opened his mouth to reply, but closed it afterwards in a cry. Each filthy sound undid him wretchedly, each sound too lewd and too good .
Eyes half-lidded, Odysseus brushed a hand on the curls, chest heaving. “Please.”
The god stopped his ministrations afresh and he keened .
“Please.” He insisted despite the shifting from the trickster. If Penelope liked this, he would too. “It’s not enough.”
The messenger grumbled something inaudible before bracing himself up faintly, ass meeting his cock in sloppy gestures. It was difficult to maintain a hold on his hair, light but nonetheless a hold, but Odysseus managed. The god had shifted from his prior position, the other hand thrown back around his neck as well. His head rested against the king’s shoulder, grinding down in sloppy motions before bringing them to an end.
Odysseus grinded back down, but Hermes' own stood stubbornly halted. His hand had unclasped from his cock, again, and it throbbed.
“You’re lucky I like your kind.” Hermes said blankly. Please say yes, please say yes- “Yes.”
He yanked his hair back, grinding feverishly. The nape- no, he couldn’t bite down. But fuck, was it tempting. He had a good look from the god in the position, lips reddened and small gasps punched out when Odysseus’ hand left his waist and grabbed his cock, too dry for his liking.
And moved down and up, fast, relentless. Pulling the foreskin to expose the head, stimulating it throughout.
At some point, the god returned the favor, hips slamming down to meet his clumsy excuses of unbridled ecstasy. Odysseus had been undone by this God, and he wouldn’t have it another way.
Odysseus slumped against him, head hanging from the god’s neck, muffled groans compelling Hermes to tremble at the vibration as his hips humped faster to the heat. He needed more of this messenger: his voice of a nectar, his burning pleasure. He needed him wholly, maybe unfit for a human: but the king had since deserted such morals at the weight of a baby on his hands, dangling from the wall.
“ Oh.” The trickster nibbled on his lip, eyes casted downwards at the frotting, drawing a breath as Odysseus' cock slipped through his ass, right there, before springing back. “Someone’s- hah.. spirited.”
After lifting his hips tight enough to grind against his ass, Hermes laughed.
His eyes twitched, sweat draping his eyebrows. “What?”
He sounded choked.
“Nothing, friend,” Cold hands gripped his shoulders, catching him in surprise as the god pushed himself away from the tight embrace he had sustained to see Odysseus eye to eye. “You’re getting awfully avid for having not even given me, a god, a tiny bit of fun.”
Odysseus was not happy to be pushed back, sufficiently cozy with the god’s mellowness.
He regarded him coolly before inclining his weight back to the other’s neck. When he tries, however, he finds the god’s grip taut and solid. He’d have pouted, insult the god, knit his brows– but he didn’t have control. He didn’t have a choice. He could only beg, implore for his own ruination.
The king swallowed dryly, rutting his hips up in an attempt to get clemency. He softly strengthened his clasp on the god, a finger grazing through the length. “Hermes.”
He didn’t remember anything aside from the god, too much of a man and too heavenly, and the fire in his groin.
“But I am feeling benevolent, you see,” Hermes continued, the seize on him searing. “All you have to do is beg, sir.”
A taunt floated in the air, huffs overshadowing it.
Odysseus’ chest lifted in great effort, staring at the trickster, eyes glazed and lips parted. “What?”
“Don’t make your god repeat yourself.” The messenger beamed, a grin far too wide on his face.
His. God.
That made Odysseus stop, even if slowly, the weight of the sentence fully sinking in. No. No. Athena had left, Poseidon had displayed no pity in the slaughtering of his crew, and Zeus had ended it all. He lived to see his wife’s smile again, his son’s bearing, and his family’s rights. He lived not for a God.
Yet now, with hips stinging and sobbing at the loss of contact, he doubted his resolve. Under any circumstances, he had no reasons to show inhibition and hesitancy before, but now, with his life depending solely on the trickster in front, he did.
He was suddenly conscious of the nakedness, suddenly conscious on the chest that had been pressed against his glistening in sweat. Suddenly aware of the soreness in his legs, the added weight to them, suddenly alert of how Hermes’ pupils were dilated as if spotting prey.
He strived to shake his head, to see the marine of the ocean instead, but a hand seized his chin and brought it down, eye level anew. He couldn’t close his eyes, view enraptured by the messenger in front and heart enthralled by his finger running through his lower lip. Why couldn’t he close his eyes?
Hermes knew the effect he caused, interminably amused at each reaction he tore from the king. His eyes twinkled with clouded hilarity and a lewd greed that Odysseus could relate to.
Those eyes of his hid the purpose of life, of war, of passion. Passion was not only reservedly saccharine, no– it was everything Odysseus pursued in life and victory.
“What will it be?” The god queried.
There was no turning back in this spiral of his own doing. He only had himself to blame. To his swollen eyes, unbidden small tears pouring. To his incautious need of comfort: of a sun that would not scorch him. To his soul, that Hermes had on his hands.
“Please, I beg of you Hermes,” He propelled himself closer to the other’s face, the messenger’s mouth parted and red and wet to resist, turning a blind eye to the wounding hold on his shoulders. “To let me force my desires unto you.”
His god clicked his tongue. “You know the words.”
Hermes’ hands withdrew to instead lower to hold his cock, guiding the tip to his entrance. There was a pressure against his thighs, the trickster’s knees pushing into the ground to pull himself up by little. Face, enriched by the lack of obscurity the helmet provided, utterly collected.
Temptation incarnate presenting himself. He could feel himself twitch.
“My God.”
With that, Hermes hauled himself up and sank down.
Hermes gave a shaky exhale, and Odysseus felt like in fucking Elysium. Penelope didn’t feel like this– so warm, tight, fitting perfectly.
The god clenched around him and he moaned loudly. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe . He instinctively thrusted against the messenger, the sense of it all intoxicating.
Hermes made sure he was buried into the hilt, cock sliding in and out dirtily whenever he shifted. The thought of splitting the god open-
Odysseus wouldn’t last. It had been so long, and having a god ride him made him feel more drunk than moly.
He bottomed out before pounding in, as best as he could seated, lifting his hips up to meet clumsy thrusts.
The scent of sweat was abundant, yet there was nothing in Hermes’ body. No trickling sweat, no cum, but he’d change that. He didn’t know how, but he would.
Hermes fell onto his chest, and the added weight only made him closer.
He threw his head back, groaning.
“Your wife would be mad,“ Odysseus tugged the other's hair back slightly, wrist pulling back at the remark. Hermes was torn between exhilarating cackling and a wheeze, head bobbing, speared on his cock. “Had you entered her without preparation.”
He muttered something about fortunate, lubrication, self something, god something, but Odysseus had no mind to not care any less. From the sentence he had heard– yes, Penelope would be mad. Shattered with grim grief, but not for the reason Hermes had guessed.
The sound of skin slapping made him flush. The grip on the other’s hair did not loosen, his lifeline with all things considered. He wouldn’t last, not with that sucking heat and needy hole squeezing him in. Swallowing him in engulfing pleasure. He vaguely felt Hermes lie on his neck again, teeth scraping against it.
Calypso didn’t need any preparation: a small mercy reserved for the fuel demanded during those distant nights. He assumed was the according norm for each god, their spirit focused on the art of undoing.
The hand he wasn’t using, he wrapped around the other’s moving waist.
They fell into a pace like that, and Odysseus nearly damn lost his mind when he glanced down and saw how his dick disappeared into him. His hand trailed from Hermes’ waist to hips, setting a bruising grip and pulling his hips down harder. Faintly, he sensed Hermes digging his nails into the back of his neck and lower back.
The king raked his fingers through the god’s curls as the pace became feverish, Hermes’ body rocking at every thrust. The messenger had melted into him, limp on his arms, head accommodated in the crook of his neck. He was disheveled, and Odysseus wanted to ruin him further. Wanted to ruin him like he ruined him.
He doesn’t know when, but Hermes raised his head and gave him a peck on the side. “Do not lose your wits now.”
The god seated full weight unto his cock, hips arching as he grinded back before releasing his grasp on Odysseus. His body was pushed up each time Odysseus slammed back in, and before allowing his hands to flail around, he passed a thumb on his chin. Odysseus was crumbling for this god, and the god was more than happy for that.
The contact broke a type of immersion, an unprecedented wetness there when it wasn’t before.
“That’s a mess.” Oh . He was drooling.
His fingers pressed against his mouth, and he duly opened it.
“Friend, it’s not polite to mess with those who benefit you.”
He moaned against the digits, snapping his hips.
A heat pooled in his lower abdomen, pouncing him with anticipation. There was a force against his bladder growing and not stopping.
Odysseus had never fallen so low at the hands of a god. He’d regret it tomorrow. Not now. Not when it all felt so enhanced: when the trickster tightened the walls around him, or every ruthless thrust.
Hermes dragged the fingers out, chuckling huskily before lifting himself up and slamming down.
His hold on Hermes turned harsh, and the fingers that had laid unmoving or running through his hair yanked hard. He tensed, everything halting for a moment, before a rush of everything hit.
His cock spurted, pouring inside the god. He was dizzy, pulsating waves assaulting his senses.
He shivered and sucked a breath through his teeth.
Odysseus doesn’t catch another word before he lets his mind melt away, body thoroughly spent, not his , and flops on Hermes before the sound of the waves vanish.
He had woken up fully clothed, not a single evidence of their illicit affair before he yawned, got up, and faced a very undraped Hermes.
After almost falling to the pits of the ocean at the incident, the messenger reluctantly dressed. Mentioning something about his friend being timid or something.
Odysseus opted to not mention last night, not addressing a word to Hermes until he initiated a conversation.
“Any plans?”
“I’ll arrive in Ithaca. That is all.” All he wanted, all he yearned, all he lived forward to.
“Hm,” The god studied him, humming along. “Your wife?”
He gazed towards the sea, unruly and peaceful all at once. A thing he adored, yet abhorred who exactly represented it. Abhorred the irony in laying with the kin of those who had butchered all he desired, especially laid with one that could and would laugh at his misery. Laid with a god, he a pawn kept for theatrical thrill.
“Penelope,” He smiled at the memory of her. Not notion of: candied memory capturing him in mawkish glimpses.
“I know,” His voice dripped of complacency. “What I aimed to question were your marital duties.”
“That’s not of concern.” His eyes shook, damply wistful. Resembling a proud crystal in affinity. “I can’t wait for her.”
The trickster lifted an eyebrow.
“Oh, what delightful humor.” Hermes gave him a lopsided smile, ominous in nature. “Mar your wife all you desire, friend, you’ll merely reach ungrateful dissatisfaction. ”
“How come?”
“I’ll plague you, is all. Your wife won’t be sufficient.”
Anger bubbled in his throat. One night was nothing compared to what she could give in a second. “Do not-”
“You’ll be thinking of me, old friend.” The god shushed him, a certain cheerful warning in his ambiguous tonality. “At every grunt, every brush, all you’ll think of will be me, on top of you.”
Like it had come, the anger sizzled down as bridled shame stabbed him.
He didn't reply.
The day had gone as normal as it could've been; Hermes not bothering his sailing. At some point, he saw him waving. Odysseus turned to face him, curious.
The trickster bent down–a taunt, for he could’ve just teleported it on his hand— and he caught a glimpse of what he was reaching for: the winged cap. A pang of deception and panic pounded against his chest, and without thinking it clearly, his eyes widened and he searched for the god's face frantically, trying to see him one last time.
Hermes placed the helmet on top gracefully, darkness engulfing every feature. Uncaring about the opinions of the king, and the wings on the sandals began fluttering.
“Hermes!” He called, and the god looked back. “Thank you.”
A smile tugged his lips from the little he could see. “Don’t thank me, friend.”