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“Well, there you have it, boss.” Hermes plants his hands on his hips, bright wings fluttering on both his head and his boots as he surveys the shades huddled together on Charon’s boat. “All souls present and accounted for. Paid up, too!”
“Hrnnnghh.” Charon touches the money bag at his hip, a couple dozen obols heavier now that his passengers have paid their fare. He tips his hat, and in the process, his gaze lands on the orange band encircling Hermes’s right thigh.
The band isn’t anything new. It’s always been there, drawing Charon’s eye, tempting him to stare at those impressive, muscular legs. Hermes is the God of Swiftness, and it shows in the marble-carved lines of his body, sculpted to physical perfection by constant movement throughout time.
Charon should not be noticing such things. They’re professional associates. Business partners. Friends, “mates” as Zagreus would say. It’s a relationship they’ve forged across eons, and that, more than anything, is the reason Charon should be keeping his gaze on Hermes’s face, not letting his eyes roam anywhere below the neck. Hermes is not an object to be ogled or coveted like so much shiny coin.
Still… has his chiton always been this short? Charon would swear there wasn’t this much skin showing the last time Hermes delivered souls to the banks of the Styx. The hem is higher, just a fraction, but to Charon, who likes to consider himself a bit of an authority on Hermes after knowing the divine messenger this long, the difference is obvious.
Maybe Hermes had gotten a new one.
No matter. It isn’t Charon’s place to ask. He isn’t looking; he’s not noticing at all. Charon hasn’t admired Hermes’s supple tawny skin or wondered how it might feel to put his hands just there, above the band, and trace the flex of muscle with his palms.
God of Self-Delusion, he thinks. God of Denial.
But above all, he’s a professional. There are standards to uphold. Whether he notices or not, he doesn’t intend to do anything with that information, which renders it irrelevant.
“I’d best be off,” Hermes says. “Lots of deliveries to make, you understand. Never a moment’s rest for this messenger, no, sir. Until next time.”
With a jaunty salute, he disappears the way he came.
In spite of himself, Charon watches him go.
It’s a while before Hermes returns. He isn’t the only psychopomp, and at the moment, there’s a lull in the war. The climate on the surface is relatively peaceful. For now. It’s only a matter of time before fighting breaks out again, of course—mortals are nothing if not predictable, and as such, the warring season will return with the inevitability of the tide—but for the time being, Charon isn’t making as many trips between the Temple of Styx and Tartarus.
“Hey, boss!” Hermes greets him, smiling. “Long time no see.” He gestures to the cluster of dreary souls following behind him. “I’ve got another batch for you. An unfortunate boating accident. Very tragic, I’m afraid. It’s too bad mortals don’t have wings. Would be mighty handy to get them out of sticky situations like sinking sea vessels.”
Charon nods, ponderous and slow. Indeed, mortal lives are brief, and humans aren’t very sturdy creatures besides. At the will of the gods or a bad turn of the weather or a fever set in too deep, they’re simply gone, most leaving no record that they’d ever been.
Charon isn’t sure if that makes their lives more valuable or less. How much of an impact can they make in so little time? Does the shortness of their existence lend itself to a greater appreciation for the world around them?
These questions aren’t for Charon to answer. He has a singular purpose—to ferry the dead—and he’ll do that from now until the last mortal life snuffs out.
He extends his hand as Hermes zooms around the collection of souls, shepherding them into an orderly line so they can deliver their fare and board Charon’s vessel.
The process is rote enough it doesn’t require Charon’s concentration. He knows the exact weight and size of an obol; he’ll sense in an instant if someone tries to short him his fee. And so, his gaze wanders from the pitiful, vaguely human shapes pressing coins into his palm to the bright, pretty god still urging the last of them forward.
Charon nearly drops a coin—a truly unprecedented event. He stares, creaky jaw agape as he takes in Hermes’s attire. What little there is of it.
If Charon had eyelids to speak of, he’d be blinking them in consternation.
The hem of Hermes’s chiton is even shorter now. It falls just past the tops of his thighs, leaving more smooth, light brown skin on display. The skirt is barely adequate to preserve his modesty. One wrong move or a vigorous breeze and everyone here will get a flash of what lies beneath.
The idea makes Charon want to growl.
Purple vapor streams from his open mouth in such abundance it temporarily obscures his vision—and thankfully brings him back to his senses.
Charon snaps his attention to the soul huddled before him, and he groans, loud, to get the amorphous figure moving.
“Something amiss, big fellow?” Hermes asks, fluttering closer. “You can’t scare them to death, you know. Points for trying, but they’re already dead.”
Charon grunts, waving for another soul to head down the dock.
“Not in the mood to chat?” Hermes put his hands behind his back, leaning in to peer up at Charon beneath the wide brim of his hat. “Don’t play coy, boatman. You can tell me. Have I done something to offend you? Did Zagreus ‘borrow’ from you again? I thought you liked that.”
“Krrraaahhh.” Charon shakes his head. He isn’t bothered by Zagreus’s cheeky thefts. He leaves the bag out in plain sight just to test the prince’s mettle, and it all began with Hermes’s suggestion of a wager in the first place. Contrary to what others believe, but which Hermes well knows, Charon doesn’t mind a bit of friendly competition, not from a young godling he actually tolerates—dare he say, even likes.
“Then, what is it?” Hermes flicks the brim of his hat.
Charon exhales a gust of purple smoke. “Nrrrrgggh.” He can’t very well tell Hermes what the real problem is. Hermes is allowed to wear his chiton as short as he prefers. Charon should have never given in to the temptation to look again. This was his error in judgment, and Hermes isn’t to blame for Charon’s inability to keep his greedy gaze from wandering.
“Well, all right,” Hermes says, floating backward. “But if you want to talk, you know I’m here and ready to lend an ear, okay, boss? Olympus knows I’ve vented to you about my family often enough. I’m more than willing to return the favor anytime you need. You can tell me anything. And if you want something, I am happy to provide whatever you need. What else are good associates for?”
Charon nods, gestures for another soul to head down to the boat. There’s only a handful of them left now. He and Hermes don’t have much longer to speak before any excuse the messenger has for lingering is gone. It’s kind of Hermes to offer to listen to Charon's woes, but Charon can’t possibly offer the real reason behind his irritability or distraction.
He’ll overcome this fascination. He has to. Charon doesn’t want Hermes to feel uncomfortable around him the way so many others do, including some of his own kin. There are few relationships he cherishes, and this is one he can’t afford to lose. It would be foolish to risk their business partnership, their friendship on a thoughtless, selfish impulse.
“Better run.” Hermes drifts a bit farther back. His mouth slides into an easy smile, edged with just the slightest hint of teasing—though what about, Charon can’t imagine. Surely, Hermes can’t have guessed the turn of his thoughts or felt the straying of his gaze in inappropriate directions. Many found Charon unknowable, inscrutable, and while Hermes may understand him better than most, he doesn’t possess the talent to pry into Charon’s mind. Not even Nyx can presume to read Charon so well, and he had sprung from her along with the cosmos, lifetimes before Hades became lord of the realm.
His secret is safe. Charon intends to keep it that way.
The next time Hermes visits he’s alone. Charon finds him perusing the items in his shop, hands folded at the small of his back as he bends forward to inspect something amongst the wares.
Everything seems normal enough—until Charon lets his gaze wander and realizes the sweet bottom curves of Hermes’s rear are on full display, his chiton inexplicably having gotten even shorter.
Charon stands there staring for a moment. This must be intentional, mustn’t it? There’s not a chance in hell that skirt is getting shorter without Hermes noticing, without him altering the length himself, draping the fabric just-so, tying his belt all the higher.
So the question becomes: is this a display meant for Charon alone, or is he simply benefiting from someone else’s good fortune?
Charon’s temper flares at the thought. Smoke billows from the corners of his mouth. “Hrrnnnnn…?” he asks, a rough, rumbling groan.
Hermes doesn’t even jump, just glances at Charon over his shoulder with one brow raised. Of course, he knew Charon was standing there the whole time, didn’t he? And yet, he stayed in that position, offering that tantalizing view.
Charon fists one hand at his side, hidden by the drape of his robes.
“Oh, there you are,” Hermes says, straightening. “This oil is new, isn’t it? Pomegranate?”
Charon tips his chin in a nod. “Haaaaa.” From the Queen herself, who’d been experimenting with the abundance of fruit now flourishing in her garden.
“Hmm.” Hermes picks one up, uncorks the vial, and tips a few drops onto his palm. Rubs it between his fingertips with a considering expression. “Lovely texture.” He gives Charon a coy look. “I wonder what you might use this for, my dear boatman?”
More purple vapor gusts from Charon’s mouth, curling from between his teeth. “Kraaahhhhhhh?”
“What am I doing here?” Hermes reseals the vial and sets it back down. “Why, paying my professional associate a little visit now I’m all caught up on my deliveries. What, am I not welcome anymore?”
Charon shakes his head. “Nrrrgghhhh.”
Hermes is welcome. He’s always welcome. Only, he’s never been quite this distracting before. Which, given how often he haunts Charon’s every waking thought already, may present a bit of a problem now.
Normally, it isn’t cause for concern. Ferrying the dead is something Charon can do in his sleep. He knows every turn, every waterfall, every bend of every river. He can navigate these familiar waters with a sack over his head. And so, there’s little to divert him from fondly contemplating his favorite messenger. Where he is. What he’s doing. If he, too, thinks of Charon as he dashes through the skies.
Charon already spends too much time noticing Hermes. He doesn’t need any provocation to look—but here they are, with the ever-shrinking skirt and too much pretty, unmarked skin on display, and yet not nearly enough.
Charon grumbles and gestures toward Hermes, encompassing his bright wings, his dimpled smile, the tiny chiton, and his legs, those legs, sleek and powerful and so utterly tempting.
Hermes glances down at himself. “This?” he asks, indicating his clothing. “What’s the problem, boss? It’s the same thing I’m always wearing.”
Oh, so this is how he’s going to play it, is it?
Charon glares at Hermes from beneath the brim of his hat. “Grahhhh.”
The corner of Hermes’s mouth twitches, but he taps his chin, feigning bafflement. “Is it the sash?” He straightens the length of fabric around his waist. “Or my cloak, perhaps?” Hermes reaches up, pulls the orange and red material from his neck, allows it to drift to the floor and puddle at his feet. “Oops,” he says, without even the tiniest flicker of remorse or sincerity. “I dropped it. How clumsy.”
He starts to bend, and Charon knows he’s seconds from getting an eyeful of what he may not be able to resist.
Before Hermes can try to retrieve the chlamys, Charon surges forward, snatching him up the way he’d pluck a tossed coin from the air, his grip tight around Hermes’s trim waist to hold him still.
“Mrruaaaaghhhh!” Charon roars, smoke erupting from his mouth along with the sound.
Hermes laughs, wings beating madly. “Finally! It’s about time, boss. I was wondering if I’d have to show up stark naked before you finally noticed.”
Charon tilts his head, questioning.
Hermes takes advantage of his position to remove Charon’s hat. He sends it to join his cloak on the floor and props his arms on Charon’s shoulders, gazing at him with an emotion Charon might label adoration… if he’d ever had such a sentiment bestowed upon him before now.
“I’ve been sending you hints for ages, old man.” Hermes smiles, rueful. “You forced me to resort to extreme measures.”
Charon tries to process this as he feels a tug on the hair at his nape—Hermes’s fingers there, threading through the strands.
“Did it work?” Hermes asks. “Do you understand now?”
“Hahhhh.” Charon’s grip on him loosens, and Hermes flutters closer.
“Help me up, boss.”
Without hesitation, Charon grabs him by the backs of his thighs, hoisting Hermes up so the pretty little messenger can link his legs around his waist.
“That’s better.” Hermes shimmies even nearer. “Now put your hands where you’ve been wanting to put them.”
Charon hesitates.
“I know you’ve noticed my hem getting higher. I saw you looking.” Hermes’s eyes glint with humor. “Surely you don’t think I would do that for anyone but you.” He leans forward into the smoke still streaming from between Charon’s jaws, flicks out his tongue, tasting it, drawing some of the vapor into his lungs.
Charon groans softly at the sight, at the knowledge that a part of himself is now within Hermes, filling him deeper with every breath.
“And if you didn’t know,” Hermes says, purple smoke—Charon’s smoke—misting prettily from his lips, “now you do.” He winks. “So what are your plans, then, boss?”
Charon moves his grip to Hermes’s ass, cups a firm cheek in each palm. The skin is as supple and warm as he imagined it would be, strong muscle flexing beneath the plush thickness. Perfection in his grasp.
“Yes.” The word hisses from between Hermes’s teeth, his eyes going half-lidded as Charon squeezes, pulls him in until he can feel Hermes’s burgeoning erection pressed against his abdomen through the layers of his robes.
Charon dips his head to nip lightly at the elegant line of Hermes’s neck. “Kahhhh.”
“Big hands,” Hermes murmurs with a subtle rock of his hips. “I knew they’d feel good on me.” He twines his arms around Charon’s neck, wriggles closer, as if he wants to eliminate even the sparsest space between them. “We have a lot to talk about, I know we do, and we will, but the bottom line is: I want you. More than want you.” He leans up, presses a tender kiss to Charon’s bare teeth. “And unless I can’t read you at all, I’m fairly sure you feel the same way.”
“Haaaaa.” Charon won’t deny it. He’s wanted Hermes for centuries; he only quelled those desires because he assumed he’d never see them fulfilled. His role as ferryman to the dead all but guarantees him a solitary existence. Those frail mortal souls are too terrified to look at him, much less speak to him. So are most of the inhabitants in the Underworld, save for a few. He’s never minded or even truly considered the isolation—it simply was what it was. Until Hermes. It took a divine messenger with dark eyes and a wicked smile to occasionally make Charon crave company—or at least the company of one lovely little god in particular.
“I don’t have long.” Hermes kisses him again, this time on his cheekbone, his lips plump and soft against Charon’s thin skin. “But I’d like to give you something, boss, if you’ll let me.”
“Hrrrnnnnn?” A gift? Charon loves gifts. Not that he’s received many, and not that he needs any more from Hermes, who already spoils him with trinkets and various currencies from the surface. This—Hermes’s arms around his neck, his mouth generous and sweet as he peppers kisses along Charon’s jaw, hearing that he wants Charon—is more than enough.
Hermes uncrosses his ankles and tries to lower his legs. “You’ll like it, I promise. Let me down, big guy.”
Charon drops his arms, and Hermes drifts back, wings fluttering.
Grinning, Hermes gestures to the floor. “This wouldn’t be my first choice, but since there’s no furniture to speak of, it’ll have to do. Go on and get comfortable.”
Charon looks at the floor dubiously, and then, groaning, shakes his head. He points instead to the dock, and to his boat just beyond.
“Oh, good idea!” Hermes says brightly. “Yes, that’ll be much better. Come on.” He grabs the sleeve of Charon’s outer robe and starts tugging him forward, swift as the birds Charon has witnessed swooping and diving between trees on the surface.
Hermes ushers him onto his own boat and presses down on Charon’s shoulders until he sinks onto one of the wooden benches.
“Hrahhhh?” Charon asks, curious.
Hermes kneels at his feet, agile in this as in everything he does, and reaches for the hem of Charon’s robe. “May I touch you?” he asks, fingers just shy of brushing the flowing black fabric.
Charon’s stomach tightens and a waft of purple smoke blooms from his nostrils as realization dawns. So… when Hermes said he wanted to give him something, he meant a much more personal gift than Charon anticipated.
It’s a shock, knowing Hermes would want to do this for him, despite feeling Hermes’s desire pressed against his abdomen mere moments ago. But that doesn’t mean it’s an unwelcome one.
Slowly, Charon nods.
Hermes flashes a grin and pushes the robe over his ankles, past his knees, and up to his thighs, revealing the stiffening length between them. Charon’s legs don’t have the musculature Hermes’s do—they’re long and slender, much like the rest of him, save for the powerful arms and shoulders he’s developed after a long existence spent ferrying the dead.
Hermes doesn’t seem to mind as he pets Charon’s thighs and leans forward to press a kiss to the top of one, not quite touching his cock but near enough that Charon feels a warm puff of breath, a tease against the hardened flesh.
“Well, well, boss,” Hermes all but purrs, his dark eyes fixed on Charon’s face, “you’ve been holding out on me.” He takes Charon’s shaft in hand, slaps it against his cheek, turns his head to run his open mouth along the side, down to the root.
Charon shivers and groans out another plume of vapor. His fingers curl around the edge of the bench on either side of his own hips, the wood creaking under the strength of his grip.
Hermes chuckles softly. With his free hand, he reaches back and flips up his skirt, revealing the plump swell of his backside. He winks at Charon, cheeky as ever, and says, “For the view,” before taking the very tip of Charon’s cock into his wet, slick heat.
Charon expects it to be fast—divine speed is Hermes’s domain, after all—but as always, Hermes surprises him.
He takes his time, letting Charon’s shaft drag over his tongue until the head nudges into his throat, then draws back to the crown just as languidly to circle his tongue under the hood of the foreskin.
Charon hisses at the attention to the place where he’s most sensitive, and Hermes’s gaze flicks up to his.
He looks… happy, and he moans, a gentle hum of sound around Charon’s cock, when Charon cups his cheek in a big, callused palm.
“Haaaaaa,” Charon breathes, amethyst vapor swirling. He feels soft, achingly tender, as if he’s wrenched open his rib cage to expose the galaxies that dwell there and power him from within. He stares down at Hermes, at those dark, expressive eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners even now when his mouth is stuffed full and his plush lips are stretched thin around the girth of Charon’s shaft.
Hermes dips his head, sliding lower, tilts his hips and pushes his ass out in a clear attempt to draw Charon’s focus there.
Charon watches as Hermes wiggles his hips, because of course he does. If he’s weak to anything at all, it’s Hermes, and now that he’s been given an invitation to look his fill, he fully intends to accept the gift on offer.
He’s tall enough he can bend over Hermes and get a handful of one perfectly round cheek. Charon gives it a quick squeeze, enjoying the sensation of the soft skin against his palm. Follows up the squeeze with a light smack just to watch the supple flesh jiggle—and to test if it’s something Hermes might like, as he suspects it is.
Hermes moans again, longer, louder, and drags his tongue up the underside of Charon’s cock in a slow, sloppy swipe.
“Mmm,” Hermes says, mouth wet and red from his ministrations. He licks his lips, gives the dripping head another quick, loud suck. The sound is as filthy as the sight of it, and Charon rumbles a groan, thighs tense and purple smoke everywhere. “Pull my hair,” Hermes adds. “I like that, too.”
Well, he doesn’t have to tell Charon twice.
Charon threads his fingers into Hermes’s hair, mindful of the wings tucked close against his skull.
“I won’t break, boss.” Hermes grins at him. “Make me feel it.”
And then he swoops back down onto Charon’s cock and takes him to the hilt all at once.
Now, Charon can’t say he’s had this happen very often. There have been a few brave souls throughout the centuries who’ve wanted to tangle with the Stygian boatman, and he’s obliged a couple out of little more than sheer curiosity. He’d seen mortals copulate, and he’d learned where such things could lead. He’d wondered what motivated the act, aside from simple procreation. It had been… pleasant, in a strictly physical sense. Nothing impressive enough to tempt him to try again over the next thousand years or so.
But with Hermes, it goes beyond the physical. On a sensory level, it feels amazing, of course—delicious suction and a soft, skillful tongue that teases in a way to make Charon shiver—but on an emotional level, it’s all the better.
Hermes said he more than wanted Charon, and Charon trusts, because he knows Hermes, that he doesn’t view Charon as an oddity, a novelty. He doesn’t want Charon solely because he inspires fear or for the threat of danger he poses—for it’s well known, the ferryman of the Underworld is not an entity to be trifled with—but because he’s Charon, because they share a friendship, a partnership of mutual respect.
The God of Tricksters is on his knees for Charon as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Sending hints, he’d said. Clues that Charon missed—or perhaps ignored. He hadn’t dared believe they could have anything more, that a divine being such as Hermes could truly desire the one who other Olympians called foul.
And yet the proof rests before him. The proof offers him succor, the relief of a sweet, wet mouth to ease his lust and provide him pleasure.
Hermes sucks him deeper, faster. Cups Charon’s sac in his warm palm and massages the tightly drawn skin with deft fingers.
Charon strengthens his grip on Hermes’s hair, yanks the dark, wavy strands hard enough to send a shock of pain along the tender scalp.
Hermes cries out and slides farther down Charon’s cock, until his nose meets Charon’s pelvis. He stays there, his throat spasming, squeezing around Charon’s crown.
A desperate, keening groan creaks from Charon’s chest. Smoke slithers through gritted teeth and curls from his nostrils in such profusion the air around them grows hazy.
Hermes chokes, and Charon enjoys the sound perhaps more than he should. He pulls Hermes off, firm but not rough enough to hurt him any more than Hermes asked for. Charon inspects his face, searching for signs of distress, but Hermes only coughs and laughs, his eyes shining brightly.
“Use me,” he says. “Come on, old man, I know you have it in you. Don’t stop until you’re done.”
Then, chin shiny with spit and tears shimmering on his lower lashes, he dives right back in.
And now comes the speed Charon expected earlier.
Hermes goes at him like his leisurely stroll has suddenly been declared a race to the finish. Charon obeys his command because he’s helpless not to. He cants his hips, working his shaft in and out of Hermes’s mouth, trying to match his feverish pace.
He fails until Hermes finally realizes Charon is doing what he demanded and abruptly settles, going still to allow Charon to hold him tight and have his way.
Charon grips his hair, wishing for a moment it was long enough to wrap around his fist, and drags Hermes’s mouth up and down his cock.
It’s messy and wet, fierce enough to rock the boat on the water, but Charon can’t stop, and he doubts Hermes would let him anyway. Hermes has his thighs in an iron hold, fingertips and blunt nails digging in so deep Charon is sure he’ll probably ache later.
Charon snaps his hips one more time, hard. Hermes swallows around his crown with a broken noise, spit dribbling down his chin and his face contorted in ecstacy.
And it’s that expression, agonized bliss, that sends Charon into completion. His orgasm crashes over him in an almost painful surge. He feels the tension in his pelvis, in the curl of his toes and the tautness of his calves, pleasure flowing through him in rapturous currents, white-hot heat sizzling up his shaft as he spills into Hermes.
Hermes accepts his release, drinking it down, greedy, eager, humming with approval as Charon spends inside him. A fine tremor runs through Hermes, and his wings start flapping unchecked, cooling Charon’s overheated skin, stirring the folds of his bunched up robes.
Charon gently pulls Hermes off his sensitive cock to see him glassy-eyed and red-faced.
“Hrrrrahhhh?” Charon asks, gently touching his flushed cheek.
Hermes laughs, breathless, gravel-rough, but his expression is pure, unbridled delight. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. I’m great. Just… just look at me, boss.”
Charon looks, sees the spatter of slick fluid across the bottom of the boat, Hermes’s cock, partially covered by the skirt of his chiton, half-hard but rapidly softening.
Hermes came, without Charon’s hands and without touching himself. He reached his peak simply from using his mouth on Charon—or rather, letting Charon use him.
Charon groans and pulls Hermes onto his lap, enfolding him in a tight embrace. He presses his teeth to Hermes’s lips, parts his jaw to let Hermes lick inside, tastes himself on Hermes’s tongue.
Hermes’s hands cradle his face. The kiss lingers, an exchange of breath, giving and taking, until, finally, with regretful noise, Hermes leans back.
“I’ve stayed too long,” he says, his thumb tracing the ridge of Charon’s cheekbone. “Next time it’ll be for the entire night, okay? We have so much to do, and I need to tell you so many things.”
“Hahhhh,” Charon returns, mournful. He doesn’t want Hermes to leave just yet, not so soon after learning Hermes’s feelings, but this is the longest Hermes has ever spent with him, and they both have jobs to do.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Hermes hugs him close. He smells like Charon, like the two of them together, and somehow, the knowledge he’ll be leaving drenched in Charon’s scent makes it easier to let him go.
Reluctantly, Charon releases him.
He offers Hermes a length of cloth from the inner pocket of his robes. Watches as Hermes cleans himself and readjusts his chiton so it hangs to nearly the middle of his thighs, where it usually rested before he started hiking it higher for Charon’s benefit.
Hermes grins at him, cheeky and entirely remorseless when he notices Charon watching. And with another kiss and a promise to return soon, he departs in a flap of wings.
Charon straightens his own clothing and leans back against the bow of the boat, staring up at the darkness overhead. If he could smile, he’d be grinning as broadly as Hermes had.
Instead, he manipulates the smoke within his mouth, slowly exhales, watches a heart take shape in the air before dissipating and fading into nothing.
Next time, he’ll do it for Hermes to see. Next time, he’ll spoil Hermes the way Hermes spoiled him.
Next time.
Charon likes the sound of that.