refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

Besides the obvious, there’s one big problem with being dead: it leaves Patroclus with too much time to think. To ruminate. To overanalyze. That was always his tendency, but at least in life, he had Achilles and the war. There was rarely a stretch of stillness that allowed him to wander so deep in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

Not like Elysium. Patroclus wishes he was more like Ajax, always spoiling for a test of strength against the shades of other legends, or Odysseus, chatting and joking so easily with anyone who will listen. Will they ever tire of it? Meanwhile, Pat still feels like his place here is undeserved. His act of bravery at Troy was a fluke. That wasn’t enough for Elysium; Achilles had to arrange that deal with Hades himself.

And what is he doing with that gift? Whiling it away in a chronically dreadful mood. It’s no surprise Achilles would take another lover. He needs someone more exciting and vibrant. He needs a challenge. Hermes is who he needed from the very start. Powerful, divine, worthy.

Now there’s Lyra, to—a beautiful, perfect child. Hermes can give Achilles anything he wants. What can Patroclus give him? Painful memories. Shame and regret. Achilles never says as much—of course he wouldn’t—but Pat assumes.

He lays sprawled on the spongy ground in the center of a glade, looking up at Ixion and fumbling around the corners of this well-trod maze of thought. Méli has surrounded him in scattered offerings: very fetchable sticks, a sandal, a broken arrow, an old bone. She finally gives up her restless pacing to flop down next to him. She shifts to rest her chin on his chest and sighs emphatically. Her gifts don’t seem to be helping.

“I’m sorry. I’m not good company right now, am I?” he mumbles, stroking her soft ears. He wishes he could be more like her. Living in the moment, not a single worry except what fun will be had next …

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"It wasn't cruel. It was protective. Just as this little creature would have bitten you because it was afraid and wanted to defend itself. All creatures lash out when they feel afraid and vulnerable."

Hermes gathers the wounded viper in his hands. It's an imposing snake, almost three feet long, and its eyes have flared scales atop them that give it a horned appearance. But Hermes allows the snake to settle in the crook of his elbow, and he rubs the injured belly, oozing blood and bone visible. Under his fingers, the skin begins to knit itself back together, the bones rediscovering their proper places.

"This snake is the fastest one on sand. Faster than any snake can manage on sand anywhere else in the world." And of course, Hermes has a soft spot for the fastest of any category. "Sometimes I'll turn into one here, if I just want to enjoy the sun for a while but don't want to attract attention of any extended family who live here."

Off in the distance, the not-wolf glances in their direction. It keeps walking.

Achilles reaches out and strokes the now-docile snake’s scaly hide with the pad of a finger. He sighs. “This isn’t the first time. Pat would chide me when I killed the wayward snakes that came into our shelter. Only looking for rodents, no doubt.”

Yet another thing Hermes and Pat have in common: this respect for all life, human and animal. “He knew just how to handle the snakes so he could carry them to the grass at the edge of the camp.”

But Hermes probably doesn’t want to hear about Patroclus, so he quickly changes the topic. “There are gods here? Some of your kin? What is this place called?”

One thing Hermes has always liked about Pat is his respect and care for animals. He has a soft spot for people who choose to be kind to creatures much weaker than them. He relates well to it.

But he doesn't really want to talk about Pat right now. He's still touchy about last night--just because he chose to put his feelings aside about it, doesn't mean he's not still smarting.

So he latches on to the other questions. Hermes turns his head to look out at the rolling expanse of rock and sand.

"The land itself is called Turtle Island, and it's oceans away from Greece, but this place specifically?" Hermes smiles, continuing to lightly stroke the viper now relaxing on his arm. "It has many names, but Apollo calls it Death Valley, and I find that catchy. This place can go a whole year without rain, and in the summer it can be the hottest place on all the surface, so only the most resourceful survive."

Little creatures like this rattlesnake, so cleverly created just for a harsh and beautiful place like this.

"There are gods here, but we're only distantly related through Gaia herself. They aren't organized like Olympians are, but they have their understandings. Coyote is one of the most powerful, and one of the most likely to talk to people who wander through."

“Coyote …” Achilles says, testing the syllables that feel as foreign as the land itself. He wonders if the god has worshippers. He sees no sign of civilization—no roads, no rising smoke from distant settlements, but he asks anyway: “Are there humans—mortals in this Death Valley?”

Achilles knows the land is hot&mash;he can see it—but the heat doesn’t reach his shade. He remembers the time the Greek fleet spent stranded without wind in miserable heat, but at least they had the sea to provide some respite.

“Or is it only the domain of creatures like this?” He gingerly touches the end of the snake’s tail, testing the rattle. How strange, the way an otherwise familiar creature is shaped into something different. Unique. Had Hermes not invited it closer, Achilles might never had appreciated those differences.

The rattle of the snake is made of little hardened beads that grow from the tail, just articulated enough to easily rattle against each other and make a loud noise when done so. Hermes runs his finger against the viper's head as the last of its wounds knits together.

"There are humans here," Hermes confirms. "But you wouldn't recognize their way of life. They don't build cities, make roads, till fields, or conquer new lands. The land is hostile enough that they have to migrate seasonally like birds, and they leave few traces of themselves when they do. There are more people in more hospitable places on Turtle Island, but the cities and roads are south, and they worship different gods, like the Tezcatlipocas."

Hermes allows the hand holding the viper to rest on the ground. It strafes back onto the rock, but it's not in a major hurry to leave.

"Coyote isn't always very kind, but the Texcatlipocas are demanding, and Coyote isn't. I see why many mortals choose to live in his land and forgo the cities in the south."

With all apparent threats neutralized or explained away, Achilles properly relaxes into the space. He adjusts his seat on the stone and contentedly wraps his arms back around Hermes’ middle.

His hunger for knowledge went dormant during his time at Troy, but since his violent purpose has receded, he enjoys hearing Hermes’ tales about the world beyond Greece. He absorbs it as best he can—for Zagreus and Lyra, or whoever else might benefit from his tutelage.

“Coyote … what is he the god of? What is his domain?” That’s how Achilles understands the divine—as it relates to mortal experience. War, the home, crafts, and concepts like love and heroism.

"He doesn't really have one." Hermes shrugs one shoulder with a smile. The snake retreats, slithering sideways once more rather than forward. "It's like Kronos, or Tartarus, or my mum. A lot of the older gods that were born before humans never had a domain, and never picked one up."

Yes, he describes Tartarus as a god rather than a place.

"Coyote is old like that, and he likes the flexibility of having no particular domain." Hermes' smile turns more amused. "But if you want my opinion, he's a fellow trickster. He's a huge liar, a braggart, and a thief besides. But he's very funny about it and doesn't mind laughing at himself, so it's hard to be too mad for long."

In other words, Hermes has a few things in common with Coyote.

Achilles smiles to hear that this ‘Coyote’ is a bit like Hermes. He wonders if the two of them have spoken, and what they might discuss.

“Lord Coyote …” Achilles muses, smoothing his palms over Hermes’ back and sparing a glance at their barren surroundings, as if the ageless god of Death Valley and Turtle Island might suddenly appear in a flash of divine light to warn them off. “He won’t mind a foreign god—another trickster, no less—in his realm?”

He hums and watches the snake retreat, leaving a calligraphic trail in the dust. “Maybe I should have chosen black or green?”

Hermes hums cheerfully, resting his cheek on Achilles' shoulder as he looks out at the desert. It really is a magnificent landscape, though Hermes is quite pleased to be a god of lusher lands in Greece.

"I doubt he'd mind, especially since I'm not interfering with his people or his work." Or whatever passes for work with Coyote. Hermes has never been quite sure what he does all day. "And I'm sure he already knows I'm here. He might rib me about sneaking around lovers next we meet, but this sort of thing doesn't offend him. We tricksters tend to cut each other slack when we wander into each other's territory, because usually funny things happen soon after."

There are unsavory parts of Coyote--he can have a cruel sense of humor, can be careless with mortals, can be thoughtless with his power--but he's quite laid back as gods go, and not the sort to bristle at another god daring to exist in his land.

"The gods down south are a little more territorial, and quite unfriendly to the dead, so we ought not try wandering there."

Achilles shares Hermes’ sentiments; the land is striking, but he couldn’t imagine living here, particularly so far from any sign of the sea.

“I’m perfectly content to stay right here, then. The view is almost as lovely as you are, magpie,” Achilles murmurs and turns his head to press a kiss to Hermes’ brow. He gives Hermes’ thigh a squeeze to remind him of their agenda. “Do you think Lord Coyote will keep his eyes to himself?”

Not that Achilles cares. With the exception of Aphrodite, most gods could probably care less about the sexual exploits of strangers. He just hopes a trickster wouldn’t make sport of it somehow.

"Maybe. Maybe not. He's not very predictable." Hermes loops his arms around Achilles' neck, pressing an uncharacteristically slow kiss to his mouth, taking his time to taste his lover. "But I don't care if you don't."

If Coyote wants to be a voyeur, let him. The worst Hermes sees him doing is teasing him, and he can withstand that.

Hermes runs his fingers through Achilles' hair. It glitters in the harsh desert sun, which makes anything that could possibly reflect light shine. "How do you want me?" Hermes murmurs, captivated by his lover, so bright and beautiful in the light. "Anything, any way, it's yours. Just ask."

Hermes wants to spoil Achilles. Wants to show his appreciation for all his love and support. But there's also a part of him that wants to keep Achilles interested, stay new enough to be interesting, because a part of him still nags that Achilles may lose interest one day or decide he's not worth Pat's discomfort, and that insecurity was pulled at and irritated last night.

"I could be silver," Hermes offers, his hair growing silvery gray, age coming to his face, delicate and handsome as he smiles. "Or I could be Thermusa." And he changes again, once more the dark-skinned woman with long fluffy hair and black wings that spread from her temples and ankles. "Or something else, if you so want."

They’ve flirted with the idea, of course, but watching Hermes shift his shape like this, Achilles feels a sudden twinge of … what? … Sadness? He can only think of Hermes twisting himself to fit in. With his family. To please Zeus. To find love, or something like it.

And why change? Because he thinks he isn’t lovable just as he is? It’s not hard to imagine. Not when Hermes’ earliest memory is his mother’s revulsion.

“Hermes,” Achilles breathes, stroking his knuckles over a black wing. He meets his eyes through the mask of Thermusa. “You needn’t change to please me. I want you. I love you as you are.”

Thermusa’s face is more openly expressive than Hermes’. Eyebrows going up, eyes round in surprise.

Then he averts his eyes, spreading one black wing to allow Achilles more space to stroke it. His lips press together, struggling to organize his thoughts.

“…I am me. In a way,” he says, still using the same voice and face as Thermusa. “I have a shape and face that usually feels most comfortable. But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it feels more comfortable to be a woman, or a different age, or an animal, and it’s still me because that’s the skin that feels most comfortable in the moment.”

It’s hard to explain. Hard to explain what it means to have a shape that usually feels like himself, but sometimes feels too much and being able to shift into a different, more comfortable shape like changing clothes. And it’s hard to explain the comfort of being accepted in these other skins, these other shapes that can feel right in the moment.

But Hermes would be lying if he said Achilles wasn’t picking up on a real insecurity. Hermes doesn’t mind lying, but he doesn’t want to lie to Achilles.

“But… I just…” Hermes really struggles giving his insecurities voice. His own issues with being vulnerable aside, what will Achilles say? ‘I promise to always love you, no matter how boring you may some day be’? ‘Even if Pat says to never speak to you again, I love you enough to stay with you anyway’? ‘I promise that I love you even if you’re not constantly trying to entertain me’? Would Hermes ever believe him, regardless of how sincere he seemed? And if Hermes did believe him, how long before Hermes’ doubts creep in again, pulling them both in an exhausting cycle of putting Hermes’ insecurities to rest just for them to rise again?

Hermes lets a sigh out of his nose, giving Achilles a lopsided smile. Even on Thermusa’s face, it’s the same rueful smile Hermes often wears. “I just want to keep things interesting, love.”

Achilles cocks his head ever so slightly, golden curls shifting with the motion. Skeptical. Curious. Even as Thermusa, he can tell Hermes is still holding back. But right now—after Lyra and Maia and everything with Pat—it doesn’t feel right to force it.

Hermes needs comfort. They both do.

“Then how I want you is how you’re most comfortable. If Thermusa is the shape, then …” He pulls him into a kiss, as ardent as any. Even if his feminine shape has more curves, more give under his hands, Hermes’ lips still taste every bit the same. Vibrant and daring. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Hermes is ready to protest--he's not trying to make himself comfortable, he's trying to make things more fun for Achilles, so if Thermusa isn't more fun--

But the thought doesn't even make it to his throat, because Hermes already hears how it sounds. It sounds... wrong. Like Hermes is so insecure, so doubtful of Achilles and his affection, that he doesn't care if he enjoys this. And that's not what his relationship with Achilles is about. It's never been what it's about. Hermes likes to spoil Achilles, yes, but he's always had fun doing it, and if either of them stop having fun, then what's the point of making love?

It's hard to be Hermes right now. It's easier to be Thermusa. And if Achilles isn't interested in a feminine shape... well, no reason why Hermes can't pick a different skin to wear in the middle of lovemaking.

Hermes presses ahead with the kiss, every bit as hungry in this form as any other. But in this form, he's more commanding, more direct with what he wants, knowing what he does about Achilles' experience with feminine forms. Hermes pulls down one clip of his chiton, leaving an exposed breast, and he takes Achilles' hand and guides it into cupping the flesh, pinching the nipple as Hermes already moans soft in Achilles' mouth.

"It feels different as a woman," Hermes breathes against Achilles' lips. "A more full body experience." If Achilles is ever open to it, Hermes is willing to change Achilles' shape to show him. But that's an experiment to propose another day.

Achilles appreciates a little guidance. He can count on one hand how many times he’s had sex with women, and he’s positive he wasn’t great at it. There’s something easier about other men. They’re sturdier. More straightforward. Familiar.

But Thermusa isn’t Deidameia. Hermes still comes through, hungry and demanding. Achilles kneads calloused fingers into his breast and presses kisses along the smoothed curve of his jaw.

Honestly, he had no idea that women could climax, much less what it might feel like. If Hermes’ goal was to make things interesting, he’s succeeded; Achilles is intrigued by the challenge, and the idea of pleasuring Hermes in a new way is enticing.

“I want to give you that,” he sighs against Hermes’ neck, dragging his hips tighter to his. “Show me what feels good.”

Thermusa bites her lip, humming low as their hips press together. Hermes rocks their hips together, hiking up the hem of his chiton, exposing soft dark skin but not yet showing the thicket of curls between legs.

"I will," he breathes, nipple pebbling between Achilles' fingers. "But it's--oh, you'll like this--it's slower."

Thermusa laughs breathily, and it's just as bright and brilliant as Hermes', even if it sits in a higher register, and her nose scrunches with self-deprecating mirth. "Women's bodies aren't rushed so easily, much as I'd like them to be."

But Hermes clenches his thighs, grinding against Achilles' groin as he pulls down the other shoulder of his chiton, allowing his chest to be fully exposed and the cloth to pool around his belt.

"It feels really good when the breasts are played with." Hermes leans forward, nipping at Achilles' ear. "Use your hands. And your mouth. Don't be afraid of experimenting a little."

Achilles gives an approving mmm—at the talk of slowing down, at the friction of their hips.

“Are you certain you can survive the wait, magpie?” he murmurs through a teasing smile. At the next upward roll of Thermusa’s hips, he catches a pert nipple with his mouth and gives it a sucking tug, a nip of his teeth. A second bob of his head, and he swirls the soft flesh with a sharp press of his tongue.

Achilles’ hands wander while his mouth is at work: caressing Hernes’ thighs, raking fingers up beneath his chiton to grip his ass. He parts his mouth from his chest long enough to ask, “How often have you made love in this shape?”

"As Thermusa?" Thermusa moans as Achilles sucks on her nipple, biting her lower and rocking harder to encourage Achilles' teeth, his tugs, his tongue. The wings at her temple spread, flapping as she rocks and squirms. "Thermusa is all yours, darling. Untouched by anyone else."

She was invented for necessity, a shape close enough to Hermes' that he could slip into it without pulling on all healing skin and flesh Ares had ripped apart. She was born because Achilles saved Hermes from his brother, and because Achilles so kindly indulged Hermes' need to still be helpful after. As far as Hermes is concerned, she's Achilles', born just as much of love as restlessness.

"As a woman?" Thermusa cups Achilles' jaw, pulling him into a hungry, heated kiss. She nips at his lip, sucking it into her mouth, raking her nails against his scalp. "As often as I feel like."

Which maybe isn't the most helpful answer, but Hermes is too distracted with their current activities to take the time to think hard about how often he prefers to make love as a woman versus as a man. It's a different experience, one that's more vulnerable but which can be more rewarding for the vulnerability.

“Mine alone? I’m honored.” Achilles smiles and kisses the space between the swell of Thermusa’s breasts. “She’s— You are beautiful.”

Even if women aren’t his usual choice, Thermusa is tantalizing. Her dark skin and ebony hair remind him of Patroclus—familiar and comforting—while her essence is still wonderfully Hermes. He would never admit that out loud, of course; he has a feeling that would bring all of this to an abrupt stop.

Achilles is hard under the hungry roll of her hips and he gives a heated huff through his nose as he mouths her opposite breast. How is he to know when a woman is aroused enough? He slips a palm up the inside of her thigh, under her chiton and between her legs. Curious, testing.

In any skin, it's nice to be called beautiful. Thermusa flushes gold with arousal, grinning, white teeth especially stark against her skin, and strokes Achilles' hair as he mouths her breast. She sighs in soft delight as Achilles slips a hand between her legs. In the dark thicket of curls, her folds are slick and hot and wet, like someone spilled sun-warmed olive oil in between her thighs.

"Mmmm," she hums encouragingly, bucking her hips up against Achilles' hand on instinct. "There's a nub. It's very sensitive, so you can't be too rough, but it feels really good if you play with it."

She reaches between her legs, lifting her hips so she can take and guide his hand, moving his thumb until it presses up against a button of flesh in between her folds, and she immediately keens, biting her lip swollen as a bright golden flush travels from her cheeks to her neck to the tops of her breasts.

All of this couldn’t be further from his experience with Deidameia. They were both young and clumsy. She wanted him more than he wanted her, but she was still tense. She didn’t know her own body much better than Achilles did.

Thermusa knows her body and exactly what she wants. Achilles slips his guided fingers along the plump, warm folds of her vulva and rolls his thumb over the rise of flesh nestled like a tender pearl in the center. Strange how such a tiny bundle of skin can make her squirm and gasp.

He trails kisses back up her chest, her neck, until he captures her mouth. His arm twines around her waist, holding her close like a lyre as his fingers press and swirl and pinch.

Thermusa whimpers into Achilles' mouth as he kisses her, clenching her thighs and grinding her hips down on his hand. She feels like an instrument, held tight and played tenderly, and she keens as she digs her nails into Achilles' back, scratching him through his tunic.

"Oh, just like that, you listen so well, love," she babbles, kissing him hard again, and again, before moving to kiss his neck, nipping the skin between her teeth and leaving little red marks.

"Please," she pleads into his air. "Please--keep doing that, but I need your fingers in me." Thermusa craves his cock, honestly, but for once Hermes doesn't want to rush straight to the end. But there's a horrible void between her legs that needs filling, and his hand will do for now. "Just--just two. Curl them inside me. Then a third."

“Anything for you, my dear,” he murmurs, throat bobbing against her kisses. He hears Hermes clearly in that babbling and feels him in those scratches and bites. The sounds she makes are maddening; he’s painfully aware of how clothed he still is. “Help me with my tunic. I want your nails and teeth on my skin.”

Achilles presses his index and middle fingers deeper along her folds until he finds her entrance. He tests her with one finger, and when he finds her slick and receptive, adds the second. As instructed, he curls them in slow strokes—not unlike how he would with a male lover. Do women have the same secret, tender spots, he wonders? While his fingers work inside her, he keeps his thumb planted to knead circles against her clit. An arm still braces her close as she grinds into his hand.

“More?” he asks, nuzzled against her ear.

Thermusa has no trouble helping Achilles with his clothes. Immediately, she hikes up his tunic, hungry to leave him bare. She haphazardly tugs away the clip holding it together at the shoulders, leaving the cloth to puddle on the stone, and she attacks his back and neck with renewed hunger. Where Achilles' motions are slow and purposeful, she's a wild animal, biting his shoulder and leaving long scratches across his back like she can sate her yearning for his cock by ripping apart his skin.

"Oh, oh, more, please, I need more," she pleads, grinding down on his hand. "Just--I need--"

She tips her head back, exposing her throat, flushed gold, and cants her hips up at an angle. As she presses herself down on Achilles' hand again, he may notice a very slight difference in texture in the skin his fingers press against inside her, less velvety.

And that's a special spot, because she screams, yanking his hair roughly. "There, there, please, more--"

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