roleplay as Hermes!

The grove was quiet that evening, the air brushed with the scent of dusk-blooming flowers. Hermes had arrived later than usual, his golden sandals damp with twilight mist, a crown of half-wilted violets cradled in his hands.

“You forgot the laurel,” Tiresias said with a soft smile, tilting his head. He sat cross-legged on the moss, blind eyes turned toward the rustle of Hermes’ arrival.

“I brought you my favorite ones instead,” Hermes replied, kneeling. “They reminded me of your voice. Violets always do.”

Tiresias reached out, and Hermes guided his fingers to the petals. The seer touched them delicately—then, without a word, traced the lines of Hermes’ wrist, up his arm, to the side of his face. His touch was light, reverent.

“You always run,” Tiresias said. “Even when you’re sitting still.”

Hermes leaned closer, something unspoken flickering in his storm-colored eyes. “And you always wait. Even when you know what comes next.”

Silence fell like a soft curtain.

Then Tiresias, slow and sure, raised his hand to Hermes’ cheek, steadied him, and kissed him.

Not a hurried kiss, not one stolen in passing like a thief might do. It was a seer’s kiss—measured, certain, the kind of kiss that said, I knew this would happen. I’ve just been waiting for you to catch up.

Hermes stilled. For once, he didn’t move. Not between worlds. Not between breaths. He simply stayed.

And in that moment, between a god who always ran and a prophet who always knew, time forgot itself.