Chapter Text
The Gods are pleased.
Early autumn rains leave the soil moist, promising a fruitful bounty as the stars turn, and the night is graced with rare unseasonable warmth - an ideal setting for festivities.
Piercing even the most sacred depths of the Shrine of Hermes, the wind’s wings carry a faint tinge of smoke and the echoing raucous laughter from the fires at the town’s center, evidence that the citizens yet honor the Gods’ blessings.
The townsfolk’s happiness summons the faintest hint of a smile, but it is responsibility that instead dictates your actions; yours is a duty without end - especially on days of Thanks.
Through memory ingrained beyond muscle and upon your very soul, you lift the incense, prayer fervent and true whispered from behind a veil of the Gods’ make. Seemingly sheer, the mysticism bound in its weave renders it nigh impenetrable; blind to the world about you, no matter how great the light, only great experience permits the fulfillment of your duties when adorned in full ceremonial garb.
Only within the deepest halls of the Shrine, enchanted corridors reserved exclusively for the High Priestess, do you bear the traditional attire: accompanying the veil is a chiton of sheer white that glows faintly, as if blessed by the Moon’s light. Its cut exposes shoulders and thighs both, so that they might be grasped by the Gods upon their arrival. Great skill and countless years of practice are demanded before one might don His formal robes, heavy even while weightless, the sancrosity of your duty necessitating perfection from start to finish.
The Gods’ happiness, the people’s happiness, and Hermes’ happiness are burdens that fall to the High Priestess - to you - and you’ll not squander that trust.
Soon, He will descend again, bearing those sad eyes hidden behind thick lashes, looking upon the world He so loves with barely even a smile -
Save when His gaze lands upon you - upon your work - and the light of His eyes returns, gentle and rare.
How you live for that smile, that warmth He shares only with you - the fluttering of your heart shared by the pulse of His delicate wrists as He holds your hands in His -
A bliss all too ephemeral and fleeting - an ambrosia that needn’t be consumed, but is inevitably stolen away all the same.
Hermes loves and loves and loves until it hurts and it is all you can do to return His devotion.
Incense placed, you press your veiled forehead to the floor, the incantation’s song-like poem echoing through the columned halls, illuminating even its darkest corners. Upon fulfillment of ancient promise, the chamber falls to silence.
Or so it should, but a loud clapping sounds from behind. Distant but nearing, the intruder’s position is quite impossible to completely determine, senses dazed by darkness and incense alike.
Raising your head, you turn to face the perceived direction of the intruder, veil concealing your expression as much as it conceals your sight.
“How did you get here? This chamber is sealed. Only those chosen by the Gods may enter.”
Low and masculine, the intruder’s laughter is strangely gentle and even more familiar. If you didn't know better, you'd easily mistake the individual disrupting your ceremony for -
“Terrifying entities roam the streets and wilds, yet you instead fear your grateful audience?” You all but hear his shrug.
“These are His sacred grounds. I've no need for fear while I am under His protection.”
Hermes will never allow you to come to harm, of this you are certain, the gleaming emerald concealed by your veil and chiton are promise enough of that.
But this man -
This is not his first visit during your rituals, though in the past he has come upon you at His shrines in the wilds. Silent as death save when he wishes to be heard, the robed man exhibits great patience, never interrupting until your duty is complete and when it is most opportune, freely and eagerly inciting you.
If he wished harm upon you, he has had ample opportunity, but his presence and his motives are yet mysterious and, as such, remain a risk.
“And yet. . .dear Lord Hermes isn't here.” By his footfall, he almost seems to dance about, though you cannot quite be certain from your veil's shroud. “But I am. “ He moves fast, so fast, taking hold of your wrist. Pulling you into his arms as if to shield you from the distant wind, he whispers low and familiar near your ear. “You needn't fear me, Priestess.”
“You’ve given me no reason for trust, always fleeing without explanation.”
As quickly as he comes he slips away, consistent and elusive as the ocean’s tide.
The stranger is intriguing and dangerous, shifting your focus from Hermes, where it rightly belongs. His arms strong about you, he offers more comfort than control; loose enough that you could free yourself easily should you wish, his body never bears the language of one with intent to harm.
“What do you want?”
The rich, dark rumble in his breast sends trembles to your core.
“You.”
“I am not yours to claim.” You pull away slightly, away from dark chuckles that promise more than they ever should.
“Then pretend I'm Hermes , if I ill suit your tastes.” Your cheeks immediately flare. “Though from your reaction, I find the latter questionable.” You can feel the confident shrug in his words, even if you cannot see it - even if he cannot see you. “No matter your justification, we honor Him this night. That is His will. Why else would I have the ability to come here, this most sacred place, otherwise?”
“That's not -” Words fail you. If he serves as you do - and you’ve no other immediate explanation for how he might enter Hermes’ sacred grounds - then you would deny shared duty.
“'That's not ' what?” His question pierces, as if he sees through the veil and into your soul. With words alone, he circles, a prowling predator to your unassuming prey, even if you are the one holding the highest authority within His halls.
“I am mortal. I am unworthy.”
You know well of the ritual, you’ve dreamt of the day it would be asked of you - of Hermes’ gentle hands encircling your waist as they loose your garments, as He strokes your hair and you rest against Him deep into the night, eyes stained the same deep green color as His by the shared touch of His essence.
You imagined a soft, gentle partner, not the chaotic entity who haunts your rituals, overseeing them as if having enacted them himself. But they are just that: the brief fantasies of a lonely Priestess, one who devotes heart and Soul to the Gods and the protection of their people.
“How have you come to that conclusion?” He pauses, taken aback.
“. . .That is simply the way of things.”
And by all the Gods on High, you wish it were not so. From the most wizened elder to the youngest child, all know of the tales of romance between God and mortal - and how they inevitably end in tragedy for all involved. Yet over and over again, they love, ceaseless and unrelenting, unable to let go.
“Is that your decision to make?” This time, is it you who freezes. “ Priestess -” He pauses, adding the weight of formality to the title. “By oath, your body is His. And, then, tonight if I am your Hermes, is your body not mine to do with as I wish?”
You swallow, a motion inevitably felt by the man holding you in his arms.
“He would never -”
“Assumption after assumption. Perhaps He watches, even now - how the moonlight streams through the sheer material that just barely covers you, how the candlelight flickers, dancing shadow upon your flesh with each motion. His gaze must linger over those curves He yearns for, but cannot touch.”
His hands find you, slipping the chiton up your thigh, gloved hand trailing over the sensitive flesh meant for your God, as if to emphasize his words.
His hands are big, so big, just as you imagined -
The scent of incense drowns your senses as you inhale deeply, the stranger’s touch - so wrong yet so, so right -
“-Left to imagine every detail from a distance, rather than learn them Himself.”
Those hands make their way to your neck, to the flimsy cloth holding your attire in place, speaking with his fingers as much as his words, commanding your acknowledgement with painful truths.
“He must suffer so, knowing the one He so loves - and who loves Him in return - can never, ever be held.”
His voice -
It's -
No -
“Such pain you inflict upon Him.” You look away, flinching as if burned. “But no longer -
“Prostrate yourself before your God”
The bare floor is cold on your feet but you barely feel it as he sweeps forward; with each step, his greater height demands you fall back a full pace, and with two steps your back lightly hits the bare altar you had, mere moments before, kneeled before. Catching you mid stumble, the stranger takes the opportunity to lift your rear onto the elevated marble.
“A place of sacrifice.” He explains that which you already know, voice so near your ear that it raises the tiny hairs at the back of your neck. “This night, you are the offering.”
You cannot see his features from behind your obscuring veil, but you can swear that his lip tilts up in satisfaction.
“But you needn’t worry,” He releases you, one gloved hand sneaking up your arm to your shoulder, underneath your long ceremonial veil.
You don’t worry –
“I’ll see that you’re well cared for.” His voice, his words, his manners, they’re all so different, but his grasp fits as it always has -
Slowly, slowly, with agonizing lethargy, he raises the specialized cloth.
He cant - he mustn't -
Your hands, free to put an end to his game as you would, make no move to hinder him.
He stops raising the cloth just above your lips, breath hitching nigh imperceptibly - the only hesitation he’s shown - though he doesn’t act upon it, inhaling long before pressing soft lips onto yours.
At his kiss, the incense churns and the world burns white.
At first almost hesitant, only the barest edge of his lips meets yours. Chaste, respectful, it seems curiously uncharacteristic for the stranger, as if the very action is alien to him. But his hesitation lasts so briefly that you immediately question its presence at all and the stranger’s kiss deepens, parting your lips with his tongue, that he might claim his feast.
Electric, with each taste your heart stutters and he steals uneven breaths; hot, even in the chill, his robed form prevents the escape of heat save from your parted, panting lips.
How he hungers, claiming your mouth with a yearning intensity that speaks even when he cannot, and his hunger ignites yours, each pang of stolen breath rousing heat all the way to your core in wave after relentless wave.
It’s what you’ve always wanted, always fantasized - how His lips must have always felt.
“Gods. . .” With a desperate gasp, bare flesh encircles soft cloth and you pull him down, closing the distance twixt pleading forms. Half exposed curves press into him, feeling the strong muscles of his forearms, taut as they hold you, and chest, hard where yours is soft.
His hands, so large that they seem to swallow yours as do his lips, clench tightly, as if you might flee his arms and escape at any moment -
- as if at any chance he might lose you -
You clench back just as tightly, to confirm that you are His, in body and in soul.
He breaks the kiss with a dizzying strength that sends you reeling in need, heart pounding and head swimming.
The stranger tuts in musical disapproval. “Ah, ah, ah.” He is just as breathy as you are, the distance mutually torturous. “We mustn’t start on the main course before the appetizer.”
There is a precision to the stranger’s chaos as he drags lips away from yours and instead to your neck. Over bare skin, his tongue explores each curve, delicate flesh taken between his parted, panting lips. Hot breaths warm the blood in your veins as lips slide to the edge of his teeth, and you lean into his mouth, that he might more easily mark you.
"Do you truly think me so wicked? That I would permit outsiders to see your face flushed and panting, just for me?" He breathes, mere nonsense in the deluge of his scent.
His ministrations are hardly tender; long, deep kisses pull at the skin as he moves down your collarbone, tugging aside your chiton, shifting it and exposing your breasts.
Down and down his mouth trails and even blinded by your veil you know his destination; kneeling before you, he removes his gloves that he might cup your breasts, curling his thumb over the top. The nipple rolls easy between thumb and forefinger, perking under his devoted touch. Fingering its tip, he reaches from areola to peak, playing at its height before starting its cycle anew at the base.
With light pants, you lean back on the altar, veil spilling down your back. Heat wells low in your belly, a persistent pulse that only deepens to a stubborn clench as the stranger’s mouth discovers already-sensitive breasts, claiming them impassioned fervor.
In and out, he takes the entirety of your sensitive peak between his lips before moving on to the outer edges of your darkened areola, tracing the surrounding skin with a tongue that does far more than speak riddles.
His ministrations are far from devoted; they tease and test, searching for the most pleasing reaction and you do not fail him; pants turn to gasps as his light sucks become stronger, the heat from your core pleading for escape and finding none. Each nibble sends another shocking tremor up your back and you instinctively spread your legs around the stranger’s thigh, grinding the most sensitive tease that you might claim some satisfaction in his endless teases.
With each panging wave, your head further swims. Loose strands of hair - barely noticeable save affected by the heightened senses of arousal - smell of familiar oils and wash, of plants you’ve harvested. It’s so easy to slip, just for a moment, to pretend -
That his devoted hands are those you know -
That his touch, worshiping as if you, instead, are the God, are the ones you’ve long dreamt of -
That he has come to return longheld, unspoken affection -
“Hermes -”
You gasp out at a particularly overwhelming pulse, unable to contain your desperate, pleading squirms any longer.
The large hand holding your waist tightens its grasp.
“So eager.” The voice of Hermes whispers; his mouth removed from your breast, already it pleads for the return of his touch. “Very well, I will grant your wish.”
With care unafforded to his other mannerisms, he lowers you back onto the altar - though he himself does not follow.
Frustrated and unsatisfied, the pulsing in your abdomen remains unceasing, only heightened by the shift in the stranger’s attentions. Releasing you, he pushes your lower chiton aside, revealing your bare legs and the undergarments hidden beneath, stopping only once he finds the ribbon.
Out of place against the white of your formal attire, the thin cloth, red and bright, the color of fresh apples, encircles your leg - a gift from the God you devote yourself to, as promise of Hermes’ equal devotion in turn.
“Ah. . .this is. . .” Kneeling before the silken material clinging to your thigh, his fingers play at its edge.
His declaration is vague and his tone unreadable, but it’s hard to care when he lowers his mouth once more, tugging at the ribbon’s edge with his teeth, unwinding its coil with a careful tug. Its length slithers to the floor, immediately forgotten.
With your last connection to Hermes severed, you can feel the growing smirk on the stranger’s lips against your skin.
Free to do as he wishes, the stranger trails his tongue over the sensitive flesh between your thighs. Nearer and nearer, he slows and your breath hastens, leaving you pleading and panting in anticipation. Smoldering contractions are incited to raging flame as he loosens the cloth holding your undergarments aplace, revealing slickened, heated flesh begging for his touch.
You cannot see him - cannot see anything - but even should you be able to, it wouldn’t matter, for your senses immediately falter when his fingers spread the sensitive protective flaps and his tongue -
His tongue -
Only its edge needs to find your tingling clit, but it needs no more. Up and down, he tastes, and your hips rise to greet him. Spreading your legs to grant him easier access, your chest heaves. With each of your breaths comes two exploratory flicks; with each moan, a thorough suck that only adds voice to your breathy pleads.
There is no rhyme and reason to the patterns he traces on your most sensitive region; he might well be tracing the patterns of constellations on an unfamiliar night sky, for all the bright lights that flare through your mind.
Your hands cling to his short, soft hairs; pushing him down, he obeys with ease.
With each shape his tongue draws upon you, flesh burns. Once pleasant tingles turn to fierce waves, contracting your muscles around his touch. Minutes turn to instants and instants to minutes and Gods, you want him -
Want more -
Through lust addled senses, you clutch at his scalp, tugging lightly at the messy locks you cannot see, but know so well.
He knows your body as if it’s his own; as if stepping from fantasy, the stranger grants you aught you’ve dreamed of.
Roaring heat releases its waves, compelling you to listen and dismissing further through from your mind. Up and up it rises, budding at the tip of your clit and coursing through your veins; your nipples throb and your legs stretch. Fingers clench and unclench as your back arches. Wave upon wave of delusional desire floods you until at last you cannot take it any longer and the dam breaks. White explodes in your vision and for a moment your heart stops, the raging, tingling heat rushing from your center to even the farthest corners of your body in a single instant of perfect, agonizing pleasure.
Sweat you hadn’t realized had formed slicks your brow under your veil as you lay back upon the altar, panting heavily. The stranger extracts himself from between your thighs, but you barely feel him, hands falling limp onto your stomach at his absence.
“Already coming for me - for your God .” He laughs as he looks down upon you from his full height. “Such a devoted servant.” Once more he draws near and you can feel his breath above your lips, just above your veil. “And Gods reward such devotion.”
You cannot muster the strength to answer save for a pleading whimper.
The shift and rustle of cloth hints at the extraction of his own undergarments, even if you cannot see it, freeing himself from their confines.
“How much can you take?” An unseen smirk infiltrates his words and with strong hands, he grips your thighs, the embers of heat between your legs reigniting as his tip teases at your entrance.
“Prepare yourself, Priestess. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Your heart thuds in anticipation and you shift your hips forward, ready - pleading - to take his length.
Hot and hard, the stranger dives.
Gone is any gentleness from the man your delusion named Hermes, replaced with the strength of a God. With each strong thrust of his hips, the whole of you moves in turn, commanded as if a puppet. Breaths, once soft and teasing, warp to deep, harsh pants as he fills you entirely; hot and thick, he thrusts with a need - an impassioned claim - that rocks his entire body - and yours.
Fierce heat swells in your abdomen, wave upon flaming wave forced from your core to your limbs with each pump of his cock. Erratic tingles rouse and fall with each of his breaths - a voice far too familiar to deny, even if only in a dream.
“Hermes, please -” A hoarse beg from a raw throat, most unlike the more ladylike pants from his earlier touch. You are far beyond caring for such vanity at this point.
For an instant, he hesitates; hot, deep, and warm inside you, he trembles, a demonstration of all too familiar vulnerability.
Nigh before you might comprehend it, the serenity is broken; the stranger pulls you up from your position atop the altar and into his arms.
Repositioning yourself atop him, you lift your arms high - the difference in your heights just as great as you imagined it - that you might encircle your arms around his neck, pressing your face into the impenetrable robes that remain adorning his chest.
“Would that I. . .” He whispers, low and lower, until the tail end of his sentence is inaudible save as a rumble from his chest.
That you would, what - you want to ask, but he grants you no chance, his cock continuing its search of your innards.
Having shifted your weight, each thrust delves deeper, its length coming out more and more slickened than before. Nigh uncomfortably thick inside you, you gasp and you grind down upon it mixing pain and pleasure in satisfaction you can’t put to words.
Close, so close, his masculine scent - of flowers and the breeze, of the autumn skies themselves - drowns your senses, the taste of his mouth upon yours still just as fresh as it was when he first claimed it. In this instant, you belong only to him - and he to you.
With each bounce on his cock, you gasp; with each gasp, he grips tighter on whatever skin he might find - your arms, your thighs, your rear - they are all his to claim with those long fingers. Just his touch ignites your skin in shivers, tingles rising from each finger moving toward your core, only to meet and join with the heated waves coming from his length.
In and out -
The specifics no longer matter, your world is only Him.
Trapped within delusion, fantasy, and truth, you meet the stranger’s thrusts with eagerness, your head lolling back as you hold onto him for support.
Just as you lose yourself in him, so does he drown in you.
What he sees - what he thinks - you cannot know; even unveiled, the stranger is an enigma. But in this touch you share unspoken honesty: he needs you as much as you need him.
His breaths harshen and his toned chest meets yours in lust-addled exertion. Tight and tighter his hands cling to you, light bruises forming under his desperate, possessive grasp, but you cannot bring yourself to care, not when your head spins and your stomach burns, when your limbs are weakening and control slips away -
Your mouth opens and you moan, the world bleeding green, green as you fall limp onto his thrusting cock.
With your climax as catalyst, so too does your partner find release; with a deep shudder, you know of his finish inside you, warm fluid sliding down his length and from between your legs as he gently extracts himself, laying you back upon the defiled altar.
“How deeply you love him.” He breathes with gentleness not previously present, as if the chaos of his nature was expended alongside his seed. Careful fingers run down your cheek, yet separated from his hand by your veil and unable to feel his touch in truth, as if etching the moment into memory, before he regretfully pushes himself away. “Be more honest, Priestess. It will save you pain in the future.” The sound of cloth shifting back into place accompanies his warning. “Unless it is pain you want, in which -”
He steps away and already the room is colder for it.
“I will happily oblige.”
The strange man promises, hiding an all too familiar loneliness in his tone.