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 …

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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--"

So women aren’t all that different from men. Just slightly different sweet spots. He slips a third finger inside, curling all three in time with her demanding hips. A hero’s deft and tireless hands are good for more than wielding weapons.

If she was a lyre to be played moments ago, now Thermusa is a lion to be tamed. Achilles presses gasping kisses against her exposed neck, drinking in that golden warmth and the thrum of her pleasured keening. He sinks his fingers into the curve of her writhing hips, tight enough to bruise.

“Surely you want more than fingers,” he goads. Is that a hint of impatience? Maybe. Just a little. “There’s a far better tool for the job.”

In between her gasping, needy cries, she manages a laugh, bright and warm as honey. "Who's in a rush now?"

Buuuuuut a different skin doesn't quite remove Hermes' tendency towards impatience. Styx, his fingers feel good, but she really does want his cock more than anything. She feels the press of his arousal when her hips drive down hard enough on his hand, and it makes her salivate.

"Go on," she challenges. She shifts her knees, spreading her legs, her want dripping down the inside of her thigh. "Make me yours." She yanks his hair, looking down at her face, her eyes burning with need as she goads, "Unless your conquering days are behind you."

“My warring days are over, but sometimes I happen on a wild creature who needs conquering,” Achilles hums, removing his fingers to tug loose the knot in his perizoma. He pumps his slick hand along his length, covering himself with her warm nectar.

He guides the head of his cock between her legs, pressing it against that sensitive button of flesh she led him to. But he doesn’t enter her just yet—he rolls his hips, dragging his length between plump folds.

For a few tantalizing moments, Achilles continues, all the while considering her position. The way he was using his fingers just before. Then he claps a hand on her thigh. “Turn around. I want to hit the spot that makes you sing, magpie.”

Hermes is well familiar with Achilles' body, but it feels different when it fits up against him like this in a different skin. Thermusa moans, grinding her hips against him as his cock rubs against her clit. It's hard, his arousal clear, and it's almost a victory to see him as into this experiment as she is.

It feels different with a woman's anatomy, pleasure radiating outward, alighting nerves across the body rather than staying local. Hermes has spent a certain amount of time musing about the difference in male and female pleasure, but now he's caught up how good this feels, and how wonderful it is to have a lover so willing to entertain all sides of a god that is only usually a man.

"Oh, you're a quick study, love," Thermusa says breathlessly, cupping Achilles' face to pull him into another hungry kiss. She kisses him like he's the only water in this desert, and she's been without for days. "Fine. Make me sing."

She turns around, still in his lap, but she curls her fingers in his hair, tugging him close so she can turn her head and nip his jaw. The wings at her temples spread, feathers rushing against Achilles' cheek before bending like an embrace of his head.

“I have a fine teacher.” He sighs at the familiar caress of her feathers, a delicate contrast to their rough foreplay.

The idea had felt odd to begin with, like some kind of betrayal. Like Hermes’ shape isn’t enough. But that was assuming Thermusa somehow wasn’t Hermes. Achilles was thinking too myopically, as if Hermes was a mortal lover. But he’s a god, vast and mutable. Thermusa is still an expression of him. He can hear it in her voice, feel it in her touch.

And a part of him has to admit the novelty is very exciting.

He reaches between their stacked hips to guide himself to her entrance, and like sheathing a sword, he slides into her soft, inviting warmth. His pleasured groan vibrates against her back and his hands travel back to her tender spots: one clutches a breast firm and possessive, the other finds that needy bud of flesh hidden between her legs. His hips begin to roll against her, savoring her plush walls and testing the angles of his thrusts. “By the Styx, you feel incredible.”

She releases a needy, pleading sigh as he buries himself in her. It's a different feeling than usual, not laced with sweet pain but with emptiness filled. And Achilles wastes no time in using his hands, pressing and grasping the flesh she showed him. She gasps, clenching internally around his cock as he moves in her, showing another way sex with a woman may differ from a man.

"This is perfect, you're perfect," she babbles as she clenches her hand over his on her breast, digging her nails into his skin, encouraging his grip to become bruising. She wants his hand imprinted on her, needy and possessive. She's caught between the hand on her clit and his cock, moving her hips in an attempt to get both kinds of friction at once. "Styx. Gods, yes."

She squirms, encouraging the friction, panting hot and heavy as she cants her hips to make it easier for him to hit that tender spot inside of her. It's not going to take much more to push her over the edge.

"Please, fuck me hard. I need you, I need you," she pleads. She needs to be needed, loved, bruised, claimed, worshiped, fucked within an inch of her immortal life. She needs his come dripping down the insides of her thighs. Maybe fate will see fit to give them more children, and Hermes can't bring himself to object.

He kneads her breast, clutching at her flesh as if he could capture those sweet sounds rising in her chest. Achilles is just as keen to be wanted. He’s still a hero at his core, hungry for praise and worship. Eager to win in all things.

And if Coyote is watching this tryst, let him be jealous.

His hand against her clit grows more clumsy and absent, relying on Thermusa to shimmy her hips against his fingers and find her own pleasure. The way her body grips and drags against every thrust is drawing all of his attention.

“More of that. Tighter,” he grunts, counting on her to know what he’s talking about. He presses panting kisses into her neck as he doubles his pace, clapping his hips hard into hers.

She knows exactly what he means by that. She clenches around him, tight as a fist, and every thrust into her feels electric. She cants her hips up, helping him find an angle, and—

He hits the tender spot inside of her, and she screams. Her toes curl as she uses her free hand to grasp his, pressing it harder against her clit, and the combination of his unforgiving pace inside her and the friction on her nub blots out her vision with stars.

She comes hard and loudly, all her muscles tightening in waves as the pleasure rolls through her body, helpless to do anything but ride along as the waves keep coming. Her muscles ripple with the tide, almost as if milking his cock as he moves in her.

Edited 2024-02-18 23:47 (UTC)

She was so welcoming when he first slipped inside, but now she’s maddeningly, deliciously tight. Every outward stroke meets resistance, like her body is begging him to stay inside. The pressure builds with every pump.

Then he feels her climax, inside and out. Her scream barely registers. He doesn’t even hear his own hoarse moan, half-muffled against her shoulder. All he feels is the quake of her body.

And then release.

Achilles’ hips judder into the last twitching grasps of his cock, like she means to wring out every last drop of his seed. Both of his hands shift to her hips, his teeth bury into her flesh, holding her fast as he empties into her with animal abandon.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject