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There's this bed. It's warm, soft. It feels like sinking into an embrace, like—
The sun is shining warm against his lids, all pink, all gold. It kisses his shoulder along the memory of a wing, seeps into his bones and if he keeps his eyes closed, if he stays still but for his breath, if the only movement is the fur against his ribs, it's almost, he can almost, almost feel—
There's a breeze, the rustle of curtains; his hair stirs and Thanatos opens his eyes bleary, face still pressed to fur, to pillow. A hand warm and worn slides along the curve of his back, thumb tracing scar, and he shivers, curls in, draws his foot back under sheepskin and linen and wool, fingers curling into the pillow in his arms, that his face is pressed to.
Lips press his shoulder, the shell of his ear; a breeze ruffles his hair.
A hand—
***
—with fingers worn and palms warm and when, actually, did Ares get so large? So big? He's definitely not normally this large, is he? Except his hands, his hands have always been very large, but Hypnos doesn't think he's actually ever realized how large.
"Your memory might be at fault," Ares says, warm and low, crackling, a static that isn't terrifying. A chuckle, a kiss mouthed wet right at the join of Hypnos' jaw and neck and did he say that out loud? He did, but it's very, very hard not to babble when he's this hard, isn't it?
"Sorry?" Hypnos adds, then his toes curl, then he's trying very hard to curl in and push up into Ares’ hand at the same time, his hands maybe, maybe clawing a little on shoulders he is sure were not this broad last time, but then—
Ares is laughing, low rumble, static, and it makes his chest vibrate right against Hypnos' breast and Hypnos can't, actually, get himself any closer, not with Ares' hand wrapped around them both slick, but oh does he try anyway. He can moan, though, very loud, very long, which has the very desired effect of Ares' teeth digging into his shoulder, a pause that lets Hypnos breathe even if he doesn't really need to breathe, but if he did, imagine.
Ares loves loud.
Hypnos wiggles, pushes into Ares’ hand just to really savour the friction between Ares’ cock and his hand, breathes a little wet pressing his face to Ares’ shoulder for support. But he can’t move that much, not with Ares’ other hand at his waist, tips of his fingers so much static right along this—
***
—scar, slow and lazy and Thanatos thinks he will, in just a moment, die, toes curling, knees pressing into the bed, his chest, his back arched and hips up, warmth wet and white pooling in his spine, between his thighs.
“Breathe,” Hermes says, laughs, thumb stroking over his ribs, along the ridge where scar is most sensitive, lips trailing a chain where his wing used to be. Rocking slow and lazy into Thanatos, breathing and right, that—Thanatos needs to do that. Chases the rhythm of Hermes’ breath—steady, even, slow.
It’s hard. He’s—Hermes is, thick and heavy and kissing so light the memory of a—
***
—wing, so so light that Hypnos has entirely forgotten to close his mouth, all of him curling and coiling tension, especially this spot right next to his spine, on the right, so tight and tense and brilliant white, head leaning into the touch. Ares’ hair is tangled around his fingers because he can’t quite stop pulling because it feels so good, Ares’ fingers lightly, lightly digging against the feathers, the tender skin there, and oh, oh—oh—
***
“Let me,” Hermes murmurs and Thanatos nods slight, flushes light across his cheeks, his ears, down his neck, across his chest but he is—he’s only just opened his eyes but already he feels he could sleep again, the light kissing his skin, Hermes’ damp warm on the insides of his thighs. He—he likes that, likes that feeling, warm, the—the—
He can bear the aftercare, so long as there’s the before.
He likes—he likes—
***
—the feel of the water, after.
The baths at home are nice, they really are, and objectively probably better but the baths at home don’t have light cast a soft rainbow of colors through stained glass, don’t allow the wide variety of bubbles and oils and perfumes to be dumped in them, and are not private.
Oh, and they don’t have Ares in them.
They’re in a private bath, sitting. Or Ares is—Hypnos is very much lounging, head resting right over Ares’ heart, a divine pulse that marches but is maybe marching just a little more softly right now. The water is warm but not too warm, bubbly and frothy and easing the ache of thighs that really aren’t that used to keeping himself straddling someone else’s thighs for that long but might, hopefully, eventually get there.
He’s heard good things about practice.
He thinks he might doze off, listening to Ares’ heart. To his hum—he’s humming, low and slow, lazy, arm supporting Hypnos and thumb rubbing up and down and up again over a very old scar, making it tingle and spark but not… it’s Ares.
It just feels nice.
He doesn’t need to support Hypnos’ sprawl, but he is.
There’s morning light through stained glass, but it’s all pinks and pale greens, lilacs and periwinkles, and the play isn’t until later anyway and besides, time’s so odd on Olympus so there’s no rush.
There is a thumb stroking slow and a heart he loves under his cheek and he thinks he will, just a little while—
***
—sleep?”
“‘Course,” Hermes murmurs, kissing Thanatos’ temple. “Play’s not till t’night anyway.”
There’s this bed. It’s very warm, and sometimes, just sometimes—
***
they’re home.