Of Tongues and Tombs, Pt. II: Throne of Intentions
A continuation in which Hermes might just lose more than his composure.
The throne of Hades was carved from ancient obsidian and regret. A jagged monolith of dignity, silence, and utter thirst trap design, it sat at the end of a long black hall where whispers clung to the walls like spider silk.
And draped across it, legs casually parted, fingers steepled beneath his chin, was Hades.
Hermes had technically been escorted—but it was more like a slow-motion stroll of shame. Shadows curled around his ankles like affectionate cats. A soul or two giggled. One ghost whistled.
“Word travels fast down here,” Hermes said, striding up the dais like it was a runway. “Apparently, so do I.”
“You’ve always been fast,” Hades replied, voice rich and smooth as red wine left too long in the dark. “But not always wise.”
Hermes gave a mock bow. “I’ll add it to my résumé: ‘God of Wit, Speed, and Mildly Inappropriate Timing.’”
“Remove ‘mildly.’”
“Touché.”
And draped across it, legs casually parted, fingers steepled beneath his chin, was Hades.
Hermes had technically been escorted—but it was more like a slow-motion stroll of shame. Shadows curled around his ankles like affectionate cats. A soul or two giggled. One ghost whistled.
“Word travels fast down here,” Hermes said, striding up the dais like it was a runway. “Apparently, so do I.”
“You’ve always been fast,” Hades replied, voice rich and smooth as red wine left too long in the dark. “But not always wise.”
Hermes gave a mock bow. “I’ll add it to my résumé: ‘God of Wit, Speed, and Mildly Inappropriate Timing.’”
“Remove ‘mildly.’”
“Touché.”
He stopped before the throne and tilted his head, eyes sweeping over Hades—sharp jaw, cool skin, robes clinging like smoke to secrets—and felt his pulse betray him.
“Planning to punish me?” Hermes asked. “Because I should warn you… I respond very poorly to authority.”
“I’m aware,” Hades said, and gestured. “Kneel.”
Hermes blinked.
Hades arched an eyebrow.
“Oh,” Hermes murmured, smile slow and blooming. “That kind of punishment.”
“Planning to punish me?” Hermes asked. “Because I should warn you… I respond very poorly to authority.”
“I’m aware,” Hades said, and gestured. “Kneel.”
Hermes blinked.
Hades arched an eyebrow.
“Oh,” Hermes murmured, smile slow and blooming. “That kind of punishment.”
He did kneel—but not with humility. No, he knelt like a cat stretching, back arched just enough to be impolite, hands on his thighs, wings twitching with mischief.
Hades stared.
“Looking for your fill, my lord?” Hermes asked sweetly.
“I’m deciding whether to chain your hands or your mouth first.”
“I vote both,” Hermes whispered. “You strike me as a multitasker.”
Hades leaned forward. “You flirt like a shield.”
“And you stare like a temptation.”
Hades stared.
“Looking for your fill, my lord?” Hermes asked sweetly.
“I’m deciding whether to chain your hands or your mouth first.”
“I vote both,” Hermes whispered. “You strike me as a multitasker.”
Hades leaned forward. “You flirt like a shield.”
“And you stare like a temptation.”
There was silence—not empty, but dense. Hermes could feel it press against his skin, wrapping around him like velvet laced with smoke. Hades stepped down, slow and deliberate, each step a declaration of power and intent.
He reached Hermes, stopped just before their bodies could brush.
“You make a game of everything,” Hades said softly. “But I see you.”
Hermes’ breath hitched. “That’s cheating.”
“No. That’s divine right.”
Hades reached out, fingers threading into the curls at the back of Hermes’ neck. Not tight. Just possessive.
Hermes tilted his head up, lips parted. Daring. Waiting.
“Still planning to banish me?” he whispered.
Hades smiled. “Still planning to leave?”
“…Touché.”
And then Hades kissed him.
No pretense. No mockery.
Just a low, devastating kiss that curled heat through Hermes’ core like fire through parchment.
He reached Hermes, stopped just before their bodies could brush.
“You make a game of everything,” Hades said softly. “But I see you.”
Hermes’ breath hitched. “That’s cheating.”
“No. That’s divine right.”
Hades reached out, fingers threading into the curls at the back of Hermes’ neck. Not tight. Just possessive.
Hermes tilted his head up, lips parted. Daring. Waiting.
“Still planning to banish me?” he whispered.
Hades smiled. “Still planning to leave?”
“…Touché.”
And then Hades kissed him.
No pretense. No mockery.
Just a low, devastating kiss that curled heat through Hermes’ core like fire through parchment.
They didn’t make it to the bedchamber. The floor of the throne room had seen worse—and now, better.
Robes slipped away. Sandals tumbled off. And Hades, ever the god of control, relinquished just enough to let Hermes crawl into his lap, into his arms, into the quiet, unspoken ache they both never named aloud.
“You’re dangerous,” Hades murmured, lips against his throat.
“I’m irresistible,” Hermes corrected.
“You’re mine,” Hades said.
“…Debatable.”
But Hermes didn’t leave.
Not that night.
Not for many.
Robes slipped away. Sandals tumbled off. And Hades, ever the god of control, relinquished just enough to let Hermes crawl into his lap, into his arms, into the quiet, unspoken ache they both never named aloud.
“You’re dangerous,” Hades murmured, lips against his throat.
“I’m irresistible,” Hermes corrected.
“You’re mine,” Hades said.
“…Debatable.”
But Hermes didn’t leave.
Not that night.
Not for many.
And in the deepest halls of the Underworld, some claim you can still hear it—laughter echoing like wind through marble. Banter sharpened to blades. Moans tucked into shadows.
Where Death loved the Messenger.
And the Messenger, for once, delivered himself.
Where Death loved the Messenger.
And the Messenger, for once, delivered himself.
