Work Text:
Though it had been a long day, meeting with the Convocation representative and such, when the time comes to retire for the night, Hermes finds himself almost painfully restless. Perhaps it has something to do with what Meteion and Azem’s familiar had shown him...no. No, not perhaps. It is most certainly that. The day’s events had worn on him, particularly his discussions with Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus. Had reminded him in myriad ways just how different he was, how strange. How broken. For surely he must be, if no one else understood the things he felt.
But that was no longer true. There was someone who understood. Who truly understood. Not yet another who gave him the same kind, empty words as everyone else, or who simply presumed to understand when they did not.
It was...a comfort, knowing that he was not alone. A welcome balm for the many hairline fractures that laced their way throughout his weary soul. It didn’t change anything, didn’t lessen his misery, his anguish...but there was still a sort of consolation in learning that his suffering was not entirely unique.
It had invigorated him, somehow. Had made his entire body tremble to think of it, to recall the words she’d spoken (“Oh, I could tell you all about suffering--but let’s have no more brooding, eh? Glad I could be of service”), the way her eyes had widened when he’d taken off his mask and revealed his face. But Meteion had already revealed his true face to her; it was no use attempting to hide anything from Azem’s familiar any longer. He had been stripped bare before her eyes...and she had not turned away. Nay, if anything, she had...
It was those thoughts that had rousted him from his room, that had sent him wandering across the fields of Elpis again, despite the late hour.
Now, as he paces through the soft, aromatic grasses, he finds that he still cannot stop thinking of her, that leaving his bed did not leave the thoughts--the feelings--plaguing him behind at all.
It is dangerous to be out and about this late, what with all the concepts and creatures still roaming about in the darkness, but Hermes can’t bring himself to care, not about that. His only thought is to keep moving, to find a way to occupy his body in an attempt to keep his mind from lingering on her and spinning down paths that are doubtless best left untread.
And yet even in this, he finds himself thwarted, for soon he realizes that there is already another figure gliding through the dusk ahead of him, moving with the sort of unhurried aimlessness that speaks of wandering for its own sake, for the simple joy of the journey itself. It’s her, of course--with that slight figure and those curious features, those feline ears and that matching tail, Azem’s familiar is unmistakable. There are no researchers here her size, and no other familiars with her design--if that truly is what she is, complex as her thoughts and emotions clearly are.
She’s following a downwards sweep of the ground and, as would any life-long researcher, Hermes finds himself using his vantage point to pause and study her, taking her in by the warm golden light of the fireflies...and finding himself further shaken by his observations.
She had been wearing the same robes they all did earlier, but now she’s clad in...something else. Garments the like of which he’s never seen. It’s...so form-fitting, all her curves plainly on display, and so much bare, soft-looking skin as well... He finds his gaze lingering on her legs, shapely and graceful and perfect. Her whole frame is much the same, so small and delicate compared to his own lanky, towering figure.
How easy it would be, to encircle both her wrists with one hand. How tempting, to test her strength, to feel her struggle beneath his grip-
No. These are such terrible, twisted thoughts, things he’s never considered before, that he’s never been even slightly tempted to do. But she brings out something different in him. For here, at last, is someone who understands. Someone who has felt the same sort of pain, the grief and anger, and yet…she bears up under it. She makes it look effortless, but surely that is not the case. The Elpis flowers do not lie; if she did not suffer as he did, they would not be colored so.
Lest you misunderstand, I derive no pleasure from your pain.
He had spoken those words to her before, and at that time, he had thought he’d meant them.
Now, as his imagination presents to him a vision of her face, cheeks flushed and throat straining, those lovely eyes vague and glazed, her expression twisted in a pleasure so intense that it approaches pain, he is not so certain. After all, such a thing would be a mercy for both her and himself, would it not? A brief escape from their suffering, a channeling of all that pain into passion. Temporary as the feelings of pleasure might be, the aftereffects of such actions might yet persist, and could very well linger on far longer. Yes...such a thing could work as an outlet of sorts, a viable way to release a considerable amount of that pent-up frustration. It could very well be a hypothesis worth testing.
The true variable being her. Intercourse did not necessarily equate to intimacy, and without the latter, the former could provide him with no relief...though he supposes that he has no proof that even with the latter, any sort of relief might be found.
...Even so...he simply can’t forget the way that her lips had parted, her mouth falling open to reveal a flash of sharp canines, her already-wide pupils dilating noticeably as she took in his face for the first time...and quite clearly found him attractive. A being worthy of desire, even.
That particular sentiment is mutual as well, though he’s almost certain that it shouldn’t be. To have such...feelings for a familiar...to want to gather her to him, to hold her close enough to feel her warmth, to mark the surging thrum of the blood singing through her veins with his thumb pressed lightly to throat or wrist...
...To hold her down, to press himself against her, fully sink himself into her-
No. He cannot. He shouldn’t even be thinking of such things. It is no matter that she does not behave like any other familiar he’s ever encountered, that she seems so much more independent, as if she’s possessed of her own free will--enough of that for two, truly. She is not his to want, nor can she be. He should stop thinking of this foolishness, abandon these idle flights of fancy, and return to his bed--alone. Tomorrow will be another busy day, and he had spoken in earnest when he’d said that it would not do for the two of them both to be sleep-deprived on the morrow.
...And yet, as Hermes turns to go, something catches at the corner of his eye: another patch of Elpis flowers, blooming very nearly right at his feet...and instead of that dread-inducing darkness, the color their blossoms so proudly shine in the twilight is...red.
Red. The color of passion, love...lust. He cannot deny it, for although he himself might attempt to do so, the Elpis flowers do not lie. And what he feels...what he feels for her is somehow enough to drown out the darkness and suffering that usually cloud his emotions, so thick that they choke out that steady white light, pale and white and pristine.
And so it must be true. He must be in love.
Swallowing hard, he stares down at those tellingly, impossibly scarlet-tinted flowers, and once more he wants to scream, because what is he to do with this knowledge? Surely there is no use for it, no practical application-
“Hermes?”
It’s her voice that wrests him from the whirlwind of his inner thoughts, like an arrow of hope and light piercing through the uncertainty, the fierce shame, the aching longing and the bittersweet happiness and the looming threat of wretched melancholy, for regardless of how attractive she might find him, surely she would not--could not--return his feelings...
And yet, as he shifts his attention from his mental turmoil and the flowers at his feet, gazing down the incline at her instead, Hermes finds that there is another bunch of Elpis flowers there, that she is standing in their midst as she returns his steady regard, her head tipped back to look up at him…and the blossoms clustered around her feet are also glowing a burning, ardent crimson.
Hermes realizes after what feels like a small eternity that he had never responded to her calling his name; rather, his heart had responded, fairly leaping in his chest as all the feelings he’d been trying to push aside had swelled up all around him, sweeping him away on their fierce current, temporarily robbing him of the ability to speak.
When concern begins to shade the curiosity on her face, he struggles for an instant and then finally finds his voice. Just as she had, he says only one word: her name. However, while hers had been a question, uncertainty and slight surprise edging those two short syllables as she looked up at him, his is a statement, fixed and definite. Shaking his head at himself, he reaches up to remove his mask, and his hand goes still, then curls in on itself as it hovers beside one cheek on finding that, in his haste to escape his thoughts of the very person he’s now facing, he must have left it in his room--a thoughtless oversight, the sort of which he is not often prone to. Swallowing hard, he forces more words out, feeling terribly, wonderfully exposed as he offers her a tentative smile.
“...May we talk a moment? Again? I...am sorry to take advantage of your kindness thus, but...”
She gives him a smile in return along with a nod of agreement; but Hermes feels his own smile falter and fade as his eyes are once again drawn to the flowers at her feet, then his own, to the mutual truths they represent. He sinks to one knee before the scarlet-hued blossoms, marveling a bit at how steadfastly they retain their color--not even the uncertainty and self-loathing he feels are strong enough to blot out the other emotions these plants can read in his heart.
Quiet footsteps approach, but he doesn’t look up, knowing that it’s her, watching her out of the corners of his eyes, a glimpse that only whets his appetite further rather than satiating it. Again he marvels at her strength, at her confidence and poise: had he not seen the flowers glowing at her feet, never would he have guessed at her feelings. She doesn’t say anything--overall, she’s very quiet. It’s a typical mannerism of hers that he’s noticed, the way she spends the majority of her time watching and listening, though she’s also plainly not afraid to speak up when it suits her, so bold even as to make playful jabs at the honorable but often-testy Emet-Selch himself. Still, for the most part actions seem to speak louder than words where she’s concerned, and that’s what she chooses for the moment, glancing over at Hermes before kneeling alongside him, examining the flowers herself before angling an inquisitive look his way.
...She is so beautiful, and feeling those large, lovely eyes rest on him both steadies and shakes him to his core in turns. He lets his own eyes fall closed, shutting out the sight of her kneeling there within easy arm’s reach, so trustingly close. If she seems bothered or in any way ruffled by his proximity, she does not show it, though by now he doesn’t expect otherwise.
She is patient as well as kind, for she does not press him, seemingly content to crouch there at his side, enjoying the night breeze, the gentle scent of the Elpis flowers, and, presumably, his company. He feels something akin to contentment himself, though there is an ache beneath it, a yearning for something else, something more. He longs to move closer to her, and at the same time, to pull away, to maintain a careful distance between, lest he...overstep.
Again he swallows hard and then speaks, hoping that the conversation he’d requested of her might divert him from such impure thoughts.
“I told you earlier that my meeting with Emet-Selch was done, and that we had come to a decision. It was decided that I should accept the position, though I had agreed only reluctantly...at least until afterwards. When you and Meteion showed me that I am not alone.”
Easing his eyes open, he turns his head slightly, offering her a small smile that he can sense is burdened with far more sadness than he’d intended. But what does that matter, really? There is no mask to shield him from her sight any longer, neither the literal mask that he’d left in his room, nor the metaphysical one that he wears for everyone else.
“For if you were created by Azem...then perhaps Azem herself might understand me as well.”
She meets his gaze evenly, though closely as he’s watching, he can read the flicker of--something in her calm expression. Is it...uncertainty? Guilt? But what does a familiar have to feel guilty about?
After taking a moment to weigh her words, she murmurs a reply, the pair of questions she lays before him tentative yet ambiguous.
“...And what if I wasn’t created by Azem, exactly? What then?”
It isn’t the sort of question one asks unless it’s actually true; intelligent as he is, Hermes knows that immediately. But, then...if she is not Azem’s familiar, then to whom does she belong? Or is she really even a familiar at all? Thin as her aether is, she must be, surely...and yet...
“Then I will still accept the post, and still hope to find understanding in some form from Azem. It is clear from Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch’s behavior that you are linked to her in some way...though if not as a familiar, then I know not how.”
She doesn’t explain herself, as he’d hoped she would, though the way she bites her lip and looks down suggests that she dearly wishes to, but cannot for some outside reason that is not fully her own. He wants to know, wants to understand her the same way that she had granted him understanding; but he also recalls the gentleness in the way she didn’t press him at the start of this conversation, and his heart tells him that gentleness is the correct approach at this time as well. As much apprehension and dread as his heart gives him, he cannot seem to help following it, regardless of where it leads. For to do anything else would be to be untrue to himself. And while Hermes can and will lie to others, mostly for their own sake, he cannot lie to himself. Not now, not in regards to this, to her.
“...The—the Elpis flowers,” he finds himself stammering, an awkward attempt to shift the conversation elsewhere, to ease this strange guilt she carries--though he’d been grasping at straws, and this topic of conversation is not truly one he wants to explore. “Have you ever known them to turn such a color before?”
She turns her head, studying the flowers once again, then shakes her head before looking to him expectantly for an answer.
“Neither have I,” he admits, which isn’t untrue, though it’s also not telling her everything he knows. “As for what it might mean, I...I think sharing that particular knowledge would only make things...difficult.”
The smile she gives him is impish and captivating, her tone so light and playful that he very nearly wonders why he’s worried about how she might react to this particular truth. “That bad, is it?”
He huffs out a laugh that’s mingled with a sigh, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders, because she is so bright, so warm and close, and it is so very hard not to reach for her hand. “No, not...in as much. I simply do not think that I possess the strength to...”
To bear up under those eyes, if they shone with the same sort of desire as they had before, when she’d first seen his face. To stop himself from giving in, if she said that she wanted him as well.
Initially, he had knelt to examine the flowers more closely--but it was also an attempt to control himself, to keep him from noticing yet again how small she was compared to him, how very easy it would be to-
He stiffens slightly when she pushes back up onto her feet, wondering if he’s somehow offended her with this lack of clarification, or if perhaps she’s simply grown weary and wishes to return to her room.
Before he can draw breath to ask, she’s moved closer, and as if watching it happen in slow motion, he sees her arms come up to wrap around his shoulders in a careful embrace. She leaves him plenty of time to object or flinch away, but he does neither, honestly too taken aback by her impulsive action to react in any appreciable way. If individuality is frowned upon by his society, public displays of affection are nearly unheard of...though that is plainly not the case in hers, wherever she might be from. At first, there’s tension running through every muscle of his large frame, but there is no one here to see and disapprove, and before long Hermes finds himself relaxing into the warmth and compassion in her touch, like ice melting in the sun’s heat.
She’s definitely taking advantage of his current kneeling position--had he been standing, she never could have reached his shoulders--but he doesn’t mind. He can’t remember the last time anyone had simply held him like this, and he can’t bring himself to do anything but rest the side of his head against her chest and soak in the scent and heat of her, the feel of her arms around him solid and safe.
...Now that he thinks on it, Meteion had done something like this before. In an attempt to comfort him, she had stroked his hair until it was thoroughly disheveled...but this is like, and yet entirely unlike that experience.
Like, and yet entirely unlike, particularly when he feels her shift slightly, his eyes coming open (he hadn’t even realized that he’d closed them) to catch part of the movement as she leans forward, leans down, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head.
It is too much to bear, and yet at the same time, it is not nearly enough to satisfy him, and the ragged, shuddering breath he draws in through his mouth is loud as a thunderclap in the otherwise silent and peaceful night. He feels her go still, hesitating, likely wondering if she’d gone too far, then she starts to pull away, and he can’t help it, can’t help reflexively catching at one of her arms, grasping at her like a man drowning.
“No,” he gasps, not caring how rough, how raw, how tremulous his voice sounds. “Please...just for a little while longer...”
She subsides at that--if anything, she holds him closer, and he lets his eyes slide shut again, his chest feeling so tight that he struggles to breathe, even as his heart soars as high as the avian concepts in which he takes such joy. The hand on her arm loosens but lingers, the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips tantalizing, and he can’t bring himself to pull away.
“Take as long as you need,” she murmurs, and his fingers contract around her arm ever so slightly in response, a detail she certainly doesn’t miss. “You’re not alone.”
The way she pauses then is almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and they both notice; then she adds even more quietly, with a return of that previous guilt and something like contrition:
“I’m here.”
For now, her tone says quite clearly, though she does not speak the words aloud.
But for Hermes, now is enough. It is enough to lean against her and let her slight, deceptively strong frame support him. It is enough to keep his eyes closed and lose himself in the comfort and warmth her very presence provides.
Even if none of it is truly enough, he knows that it will have to be.
Again, she is quiet for a lengthy space of time, once more giving of herself so freely, despite the fact that they had only met earlier that day. It feels like so much longer, as if he’s known her for ages, and yet he knows that is only wishful thinking, an illusion of familiarity brought about by how intense and volatile his emotions had been today. And yet, as she moves the arm he isn’t still loosely grasping at, raising her hand to gently stroke his hair, he cannot convince himself that it is an illusion. Not with her touching him like this, casual but meaningful, as would a parent—or a lover.
That thought sends a shiver of awareness through him, his entire body tingling, his skin feeling hot where they are pressed together, despite the clothing still separating them. He aches--oh, how he aches--to turn and wrap his arms around her as well, to hold her close and give her as much or as little of himself as she will accept.
He can feel his resolve, his self-control slipping away from him like sand hissing through his fingers, and Hermes knows that he must put an end to this now, if ever he is going to. Now, before it is too late, and his longing is too strong to deny.
“...My thanks,” he finally murmurs, “but I can ask no more of you. It would seem that your kindness truly knows no bounds...”
“You have yet to ask me for much of anything,” she replies, and he wonders if there’s a suggestive thread of meaning woven throughout her words or if he’s only imagining it. She is hard to read, and her hand hasn’t paused in its self-appointed task of stroking his hair, which is infinitely distracting; but he pushes both confusion and comfort aside, still struggling to behave as is proper, as he knows he must.
“Perhaps, but...I cannot. Already I have asked for far more than I should. I...I should go. And you...you should also return to your room. It is not safe, to be out and about here at night.”
But his words contradict his actions, for although he knows that he should, still he cannot bring himself to pull away from her just yet. Thus, he feels the delightful vibration of her low chuckle as she says, her voice all amusement and easy laughter, “If safe was what I was most concerned about, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
Something in her voice hints at a secret, and he wonders if it’s tied to the guilt from before or not: both are things it seems she cannot share.
“Still, you’re right. We should get inside--it’s late, and it’s getting cold.”
He swallows hard, bracing himself for the loss of comfort and warmth as they pull away from each other--only, one of her hands still rests on his shoulder, and his hand still lingers on her arm, and she does not step away completely, remaining close. With him still on his knees, they are nearly of a height, and she takes advantage of that too, looking at him with a smile that is so sincere it makes his breath catch in his chest, as does the knowledge that all he need do is lean forward ever so slightly to find her lips with his.
She must be thinking something similar, or is at least finally aware of their proximity: her gaze briefly dips down to his mouth, but she looks up to meet his eyes again so quickly that he almost thinks he was mistaken. The darkness is reason enough for her wide pupils, and easy enough for him to explain away, though the flick of her tongue as she wets her lips and the delicate movement in her throat as she swallows are far less so, and Hermes finds both mesmerizing.
“Meteion,” she suddenly says just as he’s decided to kiss her and have done with it, and Hermes pauses immediately, blinking at her in curiosity. “Meteion said that you like apples. Apples...covered in sugar?”
It’s such a strange thing to bring up that it allows Hermes to master himself, to regain control and push aside that longing impulse to kiss her, though even still he can feel it tugging at the back of his mind. The mention of Meteion, however, brings a small, fond smile to his face in spite of everything.
“Meteion truly has shared much with you. Even something so small as that...”
At that she does finally step back, though the hand on his shoulder doesn’t simply fall away, but instead slips down his arm, coming to rest in the crook of his elbow and staying there. “In that case...let me make you something. Something warm to eat, to ward off the night’s chill.” Her smile widens, a gleam of something like mischief in her eyes when he blinks at her in bewilderment, so she adds, “Something from back home that we make with apples.”
He blinks yet again, this time with interest and something like wonderment, then gives a nod of acquiescence and rises to his feet. She’s forced back a step as he does so, and at last he lets his hand fall away from her arm, though the feel of her smooth skin still lingers in his memory, hums in his fingertips.
And then, as the weight of his acceptance settles on him, he realizes the problem he’s made for himself: where are they to go? To return with her to her room, to bring her to his own...neither is a wise decision, of that he is entirely too certain. Nor does he wish for them to remain anywhere too public, at the risk of anyone seeing and asking questions that he has no idea how to answer.
Which leaves only one possible place that he can think of, ill-suited as perhaps it is.
“Come, then. I will take us somewhere out of the wind.”
The Cthonic Horns is a small facility slightly outside the rest of Elpis; but it is private and, at this hour of night, empty and peaceful. It is a modest building, though not unlike the others in style and substance: weathered red brick with gray stone accents with a decidedly art deco flair. The inside is relatively bare: a few bookcases, a workbench with an empty cage on top of it, a neat pile of boxes in a corner, a single long table with two chairs. And upon that table there is a basket of ripe, red apples.
She looks around with obvious curiosity as they enter, and Hermes finds himself telling her the purpose of this building, still in the mindset of playing tour guide earlier.
“The researchers who work here are unlike the rest, in that they seek to manifest new creations without the aid of creation magicks.” She looks up from examining the basket of apples that he’d slid her way, tilting her head questioningly, so he continues without thinking, “They make use of a natural breeding program, to pair creatures with differing characteristics, relying purely on chance to conceive heretofore...unimagined...possibilities...”
A faint pink tint warms her cheeks as he speaks, slowing the final few words of his explanation, and only then does he realize what he’s done, how this might look, or rather how it could easily be taken, that he’d brought her here. For he and she could certainly be described thus, ‘creatures with differing characteristics,’ could they not? Though as to whether or not a familiar might conceive-
Hermes clears his throat, his own face flushed as well as he looks away from her, embarrassed at what his subconscious mind must have brought about. He scrambles to clarify things, to find a way to ease the awkward tension that’s suddenly settled here between them, to reassure her that he has no such designs upon her--though in fact, he does.
“I—no, I did not mean... It is only that...I study here as well, at times, when I wish for peace and quiet, and the other researchers also enjoy apples. I knew there would doubtless be a suitable supply here, for whatever you intend.”
It’s a weak excuse even in his ears, but though the color remains in her cheeks, she doesn’t challenge his words, simply scooping up the basket of apples and retreating to a corner of the room, delving into her bag and withdrawing a startling amount of items: a pan, some sort of makeshift but very detailed looking cooking station, as well as half a dozen or more ingredients. He finds himself transfixed by how quick and sure her hands move, measuring and adding things to a bowl that seemingly appeared out of nowhere with a confidence that speaks of hours of practice.
“This isn’t really an official recipe that I was taught or anything,” she says conversationally as she begins to peel the apples, and he settles himself in one of room’s two chairs to watch in wonder as she works, “but even using an ice cluster or two, I don’t think I could chill a pie crust as reliably as I’d like...so I’m going with something easier: an apple crumble. It tastes just as good as an apple tart or apple pie, and without all the trouble of pie crust.”
It’s the most he’s heard her talk all at once, and Hermes finds himself bemused by how little of it he understands, either her words or her actions. Some sort of creation magicks are clearly at work, but she’s using a lot more materials and techniques and...aspected crystals, of some sort, to fuel the transformation--which makes sense, come to think of it, considering how thin her aether is.
The researcher in him wants to flood her with questions, wants to take notes, to poke and prod and perhaps...even experiment. No, he’s wanted to do the latter ever since the idea came to him before, though in truth, he is far more interested in the relief such a thing might provide than the science of it. Perhaps-
A scent like none other he has ever smelled wrests his attention from hungry thoughts, clearly wafting over from whatever it was she’s preparing. It smells of apples, heated sugar, and cinnamon--all familiar scents, but now they mix together in a way he’s never experienced. He finds his mouth watering slightly in spite of himself, though whether that’s due to the smell or at the sight of her kneeling there across the room, just a few arm-spans away, he can’t be entirely certain.
“Finished,” she announces, sounding quite pleased with herself, and as Hermes watches (just a bit too closely, perhaps, his eyes unconsciously tracking her movement), she dips a spoon into the pan, bringing it up to her mouth for a quick taste--then humming out a low, appreciative noise that gives him a start, sending a jolt of arousal through his whole body. Before he has time to process it, much less push it away, she’s standing there beside him, placing the steaming pan of...apple crumble, she’d said?...on the table in front of him.
She offers him a spoon--not the same one she’d used--then goes to drag the other chair around, perching on the edge and giving him a bright smile and an eager, “Help yourself!” before suiting action to words and taking another spoonful herself.
Hermes hesitates only a moment before taking a careful spoonful, trying to ignore how avidly she’s watching for his reaction as he places it in his mouth--and he very nearly drops the spoon as the explosion of sensations hits him hard. The apples are sweet and soft, baked to perfection such that they nearly melt in his mouth, and the hint of warm spices and syrupy sugar are smooth, while the crumble on top adds a slight coarse texture that meshes well with the entire dish. Something else adds a hint of tartness, another a hint of creaminess and salt, but despite everything, the taste of the apples remains clear and unmistakable above all.
It is, without a doubt, the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, and he’s startled to find a sudden thickness in his throat, a faint burning at the backs of his eyes.
And still she watches him, expectant, hopeful, ever so slightly concerned, so he lets out a soft sigh of contentment and gives her a wide smile and an approving nod--the best he can manage at the moment. Her eyes scan his face, catching and lingering on his eyes for a half second too long, letting him know that she sees that faint glassiness there, that she can tell that he’s been moved somehow by this simple thing--not by the food itself, but by this thoughtfulness and consideration that no other has attempted to show him. Her only response, however, is to return both his smile and nod, and help herself to more of her delightful creation.
They eat in silence, unhurried, and Hermes savors every bite. Neither does he miss the fact that she takes only one small spoonful for every two or three of his, subtly making certain that he gets the majority of it; and while part of him wants to protest, she is not his to reprimand, nor would it be gracious to object to her generosity.
It is her clear intent that he enjoy the fruit of her labors; and so Hermes remains quiet and does just that, and together, they clear the pan.
After that shared confection is gone, there’s a perfect, halcyon moment that stretches between them, a peace and contentment that wraps around them, soft and comforting and comfortable. Hermes can’t help but wish it could last forever. They are seated so close now, heads leaning together at one corner of the table, and all he need do for one of his knees to bump hers is to shift in his chair ever so slightly.
It’s a temptation that he can’t resist, despite the flicker of guilt mingled with excitement that the very idea precipitates, and he doesn’t quite manage to be either casual or subtle about the way his knee nudges against hers. He can feel heat in his cheeks, and he watches for her reaction in his peripheral vision rather than doing so directly. Even so, he easily observes her blink of surprise when he makes contact, as well as the initial resistance his knee meets as it presses against hers--which then suddenly, abruptly falls away as she relaxes her legs, allowing his to slide between hers. It is in no way truly indecent, as they aren’t seated nearly close enough for his leg to press up against anything too terribly interesting; in truth, he’s only just past the bony part of her leg, his knee resting in the gentle curve directly before the soft flesh of her sleekly lush thighs begins. Even so, it’s clearly permission, of a sort, and judging by the dark wash of color slowly staining her face, paired with a shy smile and her own inability to make eye contact with him...she is not at all unreceptive to any potential advances he might make.
They linger thus for what feels like both an eternity and only a few brief moments, just long enough for Hermes to wonder if he could get away with shifting his leg a bit higher, or perhaps reaching for one of her hands-
Before he can do either, she’s moving away, pushing the chair back to stand up even as she leans in to gather up the pan and both the spoons they’d used. Her expression is flustered, but other than a slight wobble at the start, her words stay calm, composed and companionable.
“I—I should clean up. If I let it sit for too long, it becomes a real mess--and not the sort that’s fun to deal with either.”
He notes the way she turns her back on him fully as she crosses the room, returning to her workstation--a level of trust that flatters him, even as it sends a concerningly dark thrill through him...for she does not truly know him, and cannot know if he is really deserving of that trust. Not after only one short day spent together, no matter how soul-bearing and intimate their talks might have been.
Something about the vulnerable sight of her back, or perhaps the bared nape of her neck that’s visible over the collar of her shirt, has him on his feet and striding after her across the room, for once not allowing himself to think and overthink everything even as he moves towards her with a very definite sort of intent.
She must hear the scuff of the sole of one of his shoes against the flagstones beneath their feet, because she manages to half-turn before he reaches her, her eyes going wide and startled as he leans down, his arms coming up and reaching out to cage her in, his hands grasping at the workstation at her back, the one holding the empty birdcage.
It would be simplicity itself to lean in further and cover those lips with his own. She is gazing up at him, her face tipped up towards him invitingly, and she does not protest her current situation, nor does she attempt any kind of escape from that slight fragment of space between his arms and the desk behind her. Instead, she blinks slowly, one hand coming up to lightly rest on his arm--and yet, Hermes is suddenly awash with doubt.
After everything that she has already done for him--the reassuring embrace earlier, that tender kiss to the top of his head, this fantastically sweet repast, giving him hope for the first time in ages by showing her understanding and acceptance of him in the first place--is he truly going to be so ungrateful and insatiate as to try to get something more out of her?
His gaze is steady on her mouth, and he ducks his head even further, until he can feel the feather-light sensation of the quick, excited heat of her breath against his face…and yet, still he freezes, lingering perhaps half a handspan away. What he wants, wants so deeply that it burns, is at war with how he knows he should behave--honored guests of Elpis are not to be treated thus, much less familiars, particularly those that belong to a member of the Convocation of Fourteen. He truly is an aberration after all, he must be, far more wanton and shameless than even he himself had realized. What right does he have-
That dark, intensely self-loathing thought stutters to a halt then fades away like mist before the morning sun as she unexpectedly (or perhaps not) makes the next move, her lips light and lingering as they brush against one of his cheekbones. Hermes releases an audibly-shaking breath as she repeats the action on the other side of his face, then dips her head to press her lips against his jawbone. He draws in a breath every bit as unsteady as the one he’d just let out when he feels a brief scrape of teeth against his neck, followed by an equally quick flicker of a warm, wet tongue dragging over the pulse in his throat. Writing such things off as his overactive imagination wouldn’t be difficult, would likely be for the best; but next, she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth--and the Chief Overseer of Elpis abruptly finds his nerve again, pulling away just enough to turn his head, facing her straight-on as he leans in to kiss her properly.
She tastes so sweet, of apples and sugar and something else he can’t quantify, and the feeling of those soft lips pressed against his own leaves him trembling already. It starts chaste, a slow and gentle exploration of the sensation of her lips moving against his own, but before long he’s starting to spiral a bit, control spinning away as he loses himself in the moment. He runs his tongue along the seam of her mouth and, as before at the table, she opens to him without resistance, a delicate bloom spreading its petals, as if eager to be deflowered.
Hermes is every bit as eager, and he deepens the kiss unhesitantly, his knuckles flaring white as he grips at the edge of the desk--then loses that battle as one of his hands settles on the curve of her hip instead, the other brushing against her cheek, the side of her throat, before his fingers bury themselves in the hair at the nape of her neck, cradling the back of her head. He kisses her hard, with unmistakable desperation, as if he might draw out some of her strength of will for himself in this manner, and thus make his own heart more steadfast. From the way she kisses him back, the way her hands are grasping at the shoulders of his robe, clutching at him with equal desire, it’s plain that she would share that strength with him if she could, pouring it into him in a white-hot rush that would burn away the worst of the shadows and darkness.
But it doesn’t work that way, of course, and all Hermes can do is take solace in her soothing warmth, her calming presence--and yield to his longing to pull her closer.
Tall as he is, he’s leaning over her, which isn’t the most comfortable position, though he can’t deny that it does thrill him, forcing her to tip her head backwards, to arch her back, to go up on her tiptoes, straining to reach him--but that need to feel her against him overwhelms all else at the moment. Without breaking off the kiss, he drops to one knee and tugs her towards him, hungry to feel her small, lithe body pressed close against his own. She complies without question, her arms sliding up from his chest to loop around his neck, and he gives a low gasp as her chest meets his own, the press of her full breasts against him unmistakable and intriguing.
But even so, somehow the best part of it all is simply being able to hold her close.
The hand on her hip shifts sideways, his arm wrapping around her lower back, and for a few seconds, he all but crushes her to him, earning himself a quiet squeak of surprise as he breaks off the kiss to bury his face in her hair, in the side of her neck instead, breathing in the heat and heady scent of her. Despite the considerable size difference between them, when he kneels before her like this they are nearly the same height, and his observant scientist’s mind can’t help but note how well their bodies fit together. It leaves him thinking about how else they might fit together, how perfect that might feel also, a surge of guilty heat pulsing through him at the thought.
It’s enough to cause Hermes to pull back just enough to kiss her again, all his earlier uneasiness temporarily vanished in the rush of blood in his ears--and elsewhere, though he’s too caught up in the moment to feel at all self-conscious about that, a natural reaction to this sort of passionate encounter. His kiss is forceful and urgent, all hunger and longing, and he gives a soft, low groan when once again she mirrors him, kissing him back just as hard and deeply.
It’s enough to spur him onwards in another manner--to inspire him to be honest, entirely forthcoming about something he’d previously held back about, because he not only wants to tell her, he needs to tell her, she deserves to know what he feels for her, what he wants-
“Red,” he gasps when he is finally forced to come up for air, though he stays so close that his words are whispered against her mouth. “What I couldn't tell you before—the Elpis flowers glowing red means-”
He falls silent as she presses a finger to his lips, quieting him, and her smile is the mischievous one that makes his heartbeat race. “I think I have a pretty good guess,” she murmurs, lightly tracing his lower lip with her fingertip, even as she meaningfully presses her hips against him, the unmistakable evidence of the flowers’ meaning already growing firm and hard between them. His breath catches at that, a wash of embarrassment coming over him, but before he can say or do anything, her expression briefly goes intense, her eyes distant even as they focus on his face-
And then she startles him completely and utterly by taking full advantage of his kneeling position to straddle his leg.
The short skirt she’s wearing slides even farther up her thighs, and she gives a low huff of frustration at finding so many layers still between them, shifting in a way that makes his breath catch as she fumbles with the front of his robe’s long sweep of fabric--and on reflex Hermes is suddenly helping her, until the gathered material is draped across her lap like a blanket. His podea is still in the way, of course, the kilt-like garment and leggings that all Amaurantines wear beneath their robes, but she simply slips beneath the former as well, seemingly content to be defeated by the latter, at least for now.
And with her positioned like this, with only two thin pieces of cloth between them, he can feel the heat of her core pressing against his thigh, a sensation that makes a sudden lump form in his throat, impossible to swallow down no matter how hard he tries. His breath catches as she squirms in place, situating herself more comfortably, the front of her body settled close against his hipbone, one of her legs pressing against him elsewhere, lower. Her eyes are steady on his face, watching for his reaction, and her hands clutch at his shoulders again as she gives a tentative, testing little roll of her hips.
His hands had reflexively come to rest on her waist, and Hermes can’t help but notice how large they look when they’re settled on her delicate frame, how his fingertips nearly meet at both back and front. When she moves against him, his hands slide lower, grasping hard at her hips as he draws in a sharp, unsteady breath through clenched teeth.
Supposing her anatomy is the same, or at least similar to that of a normal woman, Hermes knows that this sort of movement could be quite pleasurable for her, that he could grind her against his hip, stimulating that critical and remarkable bundle of nerves until she’s gasping and breathless, stoking the heat gathering between her legs until he can feel how wet and ready she is even through his leggings and whatever sort of smallclothes she’s wearing-
And so that’s what he does--surely it’s his turn to surprise her, after all--seizing hold of her not quite roughly, glorying in how her breath catches audibly, the way one of her legs comes up to wrap around his waist, in the the half-sighed mewling noises she makes in his ear as he grinds her firmly into his hip. Before long her breathing has grown heavy, her heel digging into the small of his back, and she starts to squirm in his grasp, his name leaving her lips as a low gasp that only inspires him to move against her with even more urgency. He chokes on a gasp himself when he shifts her in place slightly and, just as he’d hoped, finds that the thin cloth caught between them is growing quickly and noticeably damp.
And it’s suddenly not enough. He has to have more. He wants to touch her, taste her-
His typically rational mind is naught but a blur of heat and desire, lust and emotion driving his body to act on pure instinct, and there is little thought involved in how his grip tightens about her hips or the way he uses that grip to surge forward, placing her atop the workstation’s desk beside that empty birdcage, as if she is another subject to be meticulously examined. Despite her small frame, there isn’t a lot of space: her shoulders make forceful contact with the wall as he holds her hips in place with both hands--but her hands are free, and she seems to know what he intends, and is plainly consenting, judging by the way her hands dart beneath her skirt, fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear and giving them a sharp tug downwards. She can’t get them off completely, thanks to the way he’s holding her in place, but Hermes takes care of the rest, releasing her just long enough to hurriedly slide her smallclothes off before grasping her hips again, tilting them towards him as he buries his face between her legs. His mouth finds that sensitive, tellingly-swollen sweet spot there at the apex of her thighs, and he’s utterly shameless in the way that he sucks and laps at her, as if what’s on offer now is every bit as savory and sweet as the apple crumble she’d made for him not half a bell ago.
The sounds she’s making, the way she shivers and shakes against him, let him know that he’s doing well--but it’s still not enough, still isn’t nearly satisfying, and again there is little thought involved when he drags his fingers along the folds of her sex. He pulls back long enough to explore her with his eyes as well as his fingers, almost seeming to admire the slick wetness coating his skin, clear evidence of her arousal and mounting desire. He pulls back another few ilms, eyes steady on her face as he sinks a finger into her, taking in the way her mouth drops open and her eyes briefly fall closed, relishing the way her inner muscles flutter around him, clamping down almost impatiently as he lingers, relishing the feel of having her wrapped around some small part of him. Her hips give a restless squirm, and he obligingly withdraws that finger, only to sink it into her again, drawing a breathless little cry from her that makes his cock twitch; and now it’s his turn to leave a small but steadily-growing damp spot on his pants.
She’s so small, so mind-numbingly tight around him that Hermes has to take things somewhat slow despite how wet she already is, though soon enough he’s pressing a second finger into her, causing her to arch her back and clutch at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, anything she can reach. Her legs are thrown up over his shoulders, her heels digging into his back as he continues to pump his fingers steadily in and out of her, and he dips his head again to drag his tongue over her, testing and tasting in a very methodical way, the consummate scientist even now, with his lips closed around that sensitive bud and her short, gasping moans ringing in his ears. Almost without being fully aware of it, his other hand slides away from her hip, dropping down to fumblingly free himself from his podea, his hand fisting around his cock, pumping in time with the fingers delving into her--and it is almost, almost satisfying.
It’s certainly enough to push him over the edge, at least it is when her body shudders hard, her hips jerking beneath him as she clenches around him more tightly than ever, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she comes undone with a shaky, half-whimpering cry. He comes hard in response, spilling himself over his hand, though he continues to tug and pull at his rapidly-softening length even as he continues to suck at her and thrust his fingers into her, attempting to prolong these rippling waves of pleasure for both of them-
-Then his eyes snap open, wide with dismay, and in that moment, a full awareness of exactly what he’s doing suddenly slams into the Chief Overseer, stifling and drowning out that fleeting flash of heady euphoria he’d felt as he found his release.
Hermes freezes, expression stricken, long fingers still buried deep inside her, his mouth coming off of her with an indecently wet pop as he draws in a low, horrified gasp. Another heartbeat later, he’s jerking his hand away from himself as if the touch of his own skin suddenly burns, swiftly dislodging his fingers from her, withdrawing entirely and preparing to push himself backwards hard.
But she catches sight of his darkening, half-panicked expression, and her legs and hands tighten their grip on him, unwilling to let him pull away without some sort of explanation, her voice soft and concerned and just noticeably hoarse, doubtless due to the sounds he’d been dragging out of her.
“Hermes? What—what is it? What’s wrong?”
“This,” he forces the word out, that single syllable nearly a sob, his voice thick and overflowing with emotion, audibly shaking as he goes on, “To do such a thing--to put an esteemed guest of Elpis in such a-- compromising position --to allow myself to take advantage of a truly extraordinary familiar--one belonging to a member of the Convocation of Fourteen, no less-” His emotions strangle his words for a moment, and when he does manage to gasp out a few, they sound thin and painful, “It is--it is not right-”
“Hermes.” She says his name again, this time softer but more insistent, and he freezes once more as she shifts beneath him, sitting up on the desk. Her hands release their former grip, moving to tenderly cradle his face instead, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones before tilting his head upwards, a clear attempt to meet his eyes with her own. Bitter remorse and seething self-reproach cloud his thoughts, but even so he obediently lifts his anguished gaze to meet hers, albeit with reluctance--and he goes even more still as he takes in her expression.
There is no disgust, no shame or anger or anything of the sort on her face or in her eyes; rather, there are still shades of longing, of the heat they’d shared moments before, tempered with a maidenly bashfulness that he can’t help but find alluring, regardless of how false he knows it must be after how boldly she’d moved against him--though it’s true that she has yet to touch him there, isn’t it? The thought of her fingers, small but strong, wrapping around his length to pump and squeeze him has his hands clenching in the front of his robes, his cock starting to grow hard again already, though that line of thought and his body’s immediate reaction to it only increase the already overwhelming flood of shame he feels dragging him under-
Only for it all to start draining away slowly as she leans in to press a soft, close-mouthed kiss to his lips, her expression endlessly gentle and understanding and...tender, in a way that brings a different sort of heat with it, something that causes his chest to go tight in an entirely foreign, unfamiliar, and yet not at all unpleasant way, for all that it makes his insides twist and curdle almost painfully.
“...I don’t...ever do this sort of thing so quickly, or on impulse,” she admits quietly, leaning back to rest her shoulders against the wall behind her once more. “Or...much at all, to be honest. I have to really know someone to even consider being intimate with him...but with you, I...”
She shakes her head, briefly falling silent as the pads of her thumbs continue to caress his cheeks, her touch affectionate and very nearly reverent, her gaze equally so as she goes on:
“It’s different. It feels as though I’ve known you for ages already...”
The sickening feeling of darkness and disgust clenching about his heart and lungs and stomach finally eases away completely at that, because he finds that he feels much the same. While on further analysis, perhaps it isn’t quite what she’s just said and that he’d assumed before, that he feels as if he’s known her for years on end already, but instead that he feels comfortable with her in a way that he’s never experienced with anyone else--though the fact that she is naught but a familiar, or something else similar, is still somewhat concerning. Even so, it is as though their souls are in tune, resonating on a similar wavelength...though he can tell from the pensive look she’s wearing, the sudden distance in her eyes as her gaze turns thoughtfully inward, that she has some idea of why she likely feels the way she does. He can’t read what she thinks about about that theory, can’t tell despite how intently he searches her face if she’s pleased or perturbed or simply ambivalent about it--and then her eyes are suddenly locking onto his again, and though that half-shy expression returns to her face, there’s a glint in her gaze and a hint of a smirk about her mouth that has his pulse stuttering and speeding up once again as she murmurs, her voice gone low and throaty with untempered desire:
“...And in any case...if this isn’t right, then I’m more than willing to do something wrong.”
Hermes can’t help it--he gapes down at her, mouth hanging open, brilliant green eyes going wide with disbelief--and growing wet with unbidden tears at the same time. All capacity for speech seems to have completely fled from his being, but she has words enough for both of them, it seems, as she smilingly reaches up to gently press one finger below his chin, helping him reel in his jaw.
“Life is too short and precious to worry about future regrets...especially when you want something--or some one --so badly, you feel as though you might burst into flames.” She tilts her head at him, watching closely for his reaction as she turns her statement into a question, seeking to be certain of mutual agreement and consent. “Don’t you agree, Hermes?”
He stares down into those breathtakingly lovely eyes, set in that breathtakingly lovely face, and once again it feels as though his chest is being crushed by some unknown force. Faint pricklings of conscience still riddle him, seeking to chip away at his resolve--but as he licks his suddenly-dry lips, he tastes her on his tongue again, salty yet sweet, and concedes to his lust and the dark thrill of flying in the face of custom, of embracing the forbidden and hurling himself over the edge of acceptable social conventions into sheer and joyous debauchery.
Hermes has tried so long and so very hard to fit into the world he’s found himself in…and for once, he wants to cast it all aside, to reject any and all moral constraints.
To accept this captivating near-stranger’s entirely too-tempting offer, to give his full consent, and for a time, simply allow himself to be wicked, broken, and wrong.
“Yes,” he whispers harshly, an unshakably firm and decided one-word answer to her question; and then his lips are pressing against hers with a passion and hunger bordering on desperation.
It’s a good answer, and she runs her fingers through his hair, nails lightly dragging along his scalp, her fingers tangling themselves in his dark, shaggy locks, tugging gently, and-
And just kissing her isn’t nearly enough.
Breaking off that kiss with an impatient grunt, Hermes pushes himself to his feet, ignoring how unsteady his legs still feel, how watery his knees are in the yet-lingering wake of his previous climax, and effortlessly scoops her up, turning and crossing the room in a handful of rapid strides to lay her out on the table. This room has nowhere better, and he doesn’t trust himself enough at the moment to try to manipulate the amount of aether necessary to create a bed out of the surrounding furniture, nor is he capable of simply magicking them to either of their rooms. No, the table will have to do, he decides with an almost mechanical sort of practicality, even as he pulls back to drag his robes off over his head and toss them aside, frustrated with their volume and the unnecessary obstruction they place between her body and his, utterly uncaring of what anyone might think should they come through the doors right now and find him half-disrobed, in a clearly compromising position with Azem’s strange, catlike familiar. With that thought in mind, he kicks off his shoes as well, shoving his podea down and off entirely--there’s little enough reason to allow any barriers or restrictions to remain at this point, he reasons, and he finds that she seems to be in agreement, judging by the way she’s shed both her tall boots and her short skirt, never mind the fumbling eagerness of her fingers as she works to unfasten her tunic. Hermes has grown impatient, however, and once she has it open, he doesn’t wait for her to fully take it off before leaning in to kiss her again, his body slipping between her welcomingly-parted legs as he pulls her to the edge of the table, then presses her backwards, until she’s flat on her back once again.
Her hands grasp at his shoulders, exploring the broad expanse of his chest, while his own drag lightly across the sleek curves of her body, unhesitantly pushing up the lower edge of her hempen camise to settle his hands over her breasts, squeezing and kneading them and once again noting her reaction to every touch of his fingers--and soon enough, his mouth, teeth, and tongue. Hungry and greedy as he is to claim her completely, he also wants to be thorough, to taste her skin and her sweat, to breathe in the scent of her, to hear her beg him for more, to map her out completely with his hands and eyes and mouth, exploring and experiencing her with every one of his senses.
Only when she grabs hold of his face again, forcing him to look up at her, does he stop.
“Get on with it already,” she demands breathlessly, “else I’ll turn the tables on you, and take control of things myself.”
Hermes can only smile at that threat, his lips red and kiss-bruised to match hers, and there’s a darkness, a hunger and almost foreign (and yet chillingly all-too-recognizable, at least for her) near-cunning in his verdant green eyes as he gives a low, rumbling chuckle that she feels buzzing through the entirety of her own body.
“That sounds...quite tempting, actually. Mayhap I should allow you to carry out your threat-” He has to briefly pause, both of them giving a gasp as he shifts to press his hips against hers, the bottom of his length sliding along the outside of her sex with a slick, delicious sort of friction, “...Once I’ve had my way with you first, that is.”
“Hermes,” she moans, a half-broken sounding plea as he continues to rut against her, and once again her eyes find his, and as always, he feels somehow pinned in place, as though she can see through him, down to the darkest, innermost depths of his flawed, twisted soul. She pries one shaking hand away from where she’s been digging her nails into his bare shoulder, ghosting her fingertips across his cheek, along the underside of his lower lip, and he reflexively reaches up to catch hold of it, threading his fingers through hers before pressing the back of her hand down against the table beside her head. “Please,” she murmurs, soft and unspeakably gentle in her longing, and much as he’d like to prolong this, to drive the both of them nearly mad with desire, he finds that he can’t refuse her.
His other hand pulls away from where it had been grasping at her breast, dropping to his almost painfully hard length and guiding himself in before catching at her hip and holding her steady. He makes himself go achingly slow, but still her whole body shakes as he presses himself into her, her head falling back, her mouth dropping open in a low, keening cry as her eyes close, her feline ears flattening against her head. Her legs twitch against his hips, her tail curling ticklishly around one of his thighs, and despite how impossibly tight she feels, she still takes him in so readily, her body greedy for him, fairly drawing him in. He keeps going until she’s taken him in completely, until he’s certain they couldn’t possibly be any closer--and then she shifts slightly beneath him, angling her hips just so, and with a startled grunt, he slides in another half-ilm. A high-pitched gasp catches in her throat as he buries himself in her further, her body giving a sharp jerk beneath him as her fingers dig into the back of his hand and his shoulder so hard that he’s certain he’ll find marks from her nails there, if not bruises.
Truthfully, he hopes for both.
There, finally buried in her to the hilt, Hermes finds that he has to pause for a moment and just breathe, allowing her to adjust to his size inside her and his weight atop her, idly relishing the way his heaving chest presses against hers, the way their skin slides and sticks together. As he looks down at her, drinking in the sight of her caught beneath him, her face flushed and her eyes half-lidded and slightly vague, he finds that his own vision has gone curiously blurry--and realizes only then that he’s crying, that he has been for some time. Tears are welling up from some unknown depths inside of him, and he’s helpless to stop them, his emotions easily turning turbulent even at the best, calmest of times; but to be here with her like this, so closely joined and incredibly intimate with this single, precious individual who has seen the darkness in his spirit and yet still wants him, still accepts all of him so eagerly, both body and soul... It is simply too much, far too much for him to contain, and the evidence of that overwhelming flood of mixed, mingling emotions streams down his cheeks, dripping hot and wet and salty across her face and chest.
“Forgive me,” he rasps out, and then he can’t hold himself back any longer, moving over her, against her. For all his size, quite tall even for one of the Ancients, he’s incredibly gentle, and though there’s an edge of desperation to his movements as well, the rhythm he settles into as he buries himself inside her and then withdraws is slow and steady and meaningful.
She murmurs something quiet and low and comforting that he doesn’t quite catch over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears and the ragged, half-sobbing gasps heaving out of him, but then she reaches up, raising her free hand to his face to tenderly wipe away the most recent trails of his tears with the pad of her thumb. Out of reflex, the hand not already clasping hers comes up to catch her wrist, impulsively pinning that to the table beside her head as well, and as he leans his weight into holding her there, he’s gratified to have at least partially fulfilled that dark desire from before, making that fleeting whim a reality. To feel like he has control over something, anything, is both a bottomless relief and an endless thrill; it’s even better when she instinctively tries to pull her hand free, and he pauses over her to enjoy the sensation of that momentary resistance, of having those delicate, almost birdlike bones captured within his powerful grasp, completely at his mercy. If she truly wanted him to let her go, he would, at least that’s what Hermes tells himself; but in truth he has no way of knowing, as she subsides into something like submission, which is equally arousing in an entirely different sort of way.
The press and roll of his hips is steady and even, measured and methodical--at least at first, for as long as he can keep it that way. And yet every time he moves, there’s an undeniable, inevitable slide towards the loss of that careful control, something that’s only sped along by the answering movement of her hips, the way her thighs press against his sides, how she hooks her ankles together at the small of his back, urging him on and pulling him in harder and faster, a surprising amount of strength contained in her petite frame. Hermes obliges readily, growing rougher, faster and more forceful with each thrust as the tension slowly builds between them, finally all but pounding into her as if he’s trying to ruin her, wresting loud, almost shrieking cries from her with every movement, though she still urges him onward with every roll of her hips, with the way she writhes beneath him, straining delightfully beneath his unrelenting grasp once again, with the way she squeezes his hand tightly, her eyes unwaveringly locked with his, her face awash in pleasure so intense that it nearly looks like pain.
“...Her-mes-!” His name is on her lips, soft and stuttering, and he feels her body arch beneath his, a near-silent wordless cry leaving her as he finally pushes her over the edge, shaking and quivering and tightening around him. Hermes manages just a few more thrusts after that before he loses control as well, spilling himself inside her with a gasping groan then all but collapsing on top of her, spent and breathless and aware that he’s likely half-crushing her, but feeling too boneless and shaky to push himself off of her just yet. She doesn’t complain, squeezing his hand, his fingers still interlaced with hers, though her other hand does pull free of his loosened grasp, her fingertips once again rising to trace his face, his shoulders, his neck. Her touch is warm and yet somehow cool and soothing at the same time, and everywhere she lingers, Hermes finds his muscles loosening, persistent tension ebbing away; but what very nearly breaks him all over again is the way she pushes herself upright enough to press a long, lingering, gentle kiss into his hair, just as she had before, out beneath the silent, sweeping expanse of stars overhead.
Still buried deep inside her, unwilling to pull away and break the tenuous bond between them, Hermes closes his eyes and braces himself, waiting for the inevitable return of that crushing, constricting guilt and self-loathing…but remarkably, it doesn’t come. He wavers uncertainly, feeling lost and more than a little taken aback by his utter lack of shame and remorse…though the sudden ache that sits low and just left of center in his chest is new, and equally perplexing. It feels as though it gives a pointed, painful throb as he feels her lips press lightly--dare he think it, lovingly? --against his sweat-dampened forehead, and a long, low sigh shudders its way out of him as for the first time, he finally, fully relaxes against her.
Sprawled there across the table together, her tiny form cradles his much larger frame as best she can, soft and comfortable and infinitely comforting; and although the beginnings of doubt still plague him, questions and uncertainties about the coming day flying dark and thick as a flock of alkyones, at least for now, Hermes finds it to be more than enough.