many a hero did it yield
Title: many a hero did it yield
Author: x_dark_siren_x
Pairing: implied always-a-girl!Achilles/always-a-guy!Briseis
Rating: R
Summary: “Well then,” she mutters. She passes her helmet to a servant and dismisses them all, just herself and her present, whose robes scream royalty even torn and dirty, whose eyes burn sharp and hot with hate in the dim of her tent. She is becoming awfully used to such expressions.
Word Count: 853
Warning: Swearing, violence, mentions of death and destruction, war and all it entails. Additional warning for implied non-con, though nothing sexual takes place. Please let me know if you feel this is incorrect.
Content notes: Genderswap of Greek myth. Achilles is a woman, and always has been. I can't be much clearer than that.
Disclaimer: Credit for this idea goes completely to honeyspider on Tumblr; details can be found below.
All right, so I had a really rough day, and apparently the cure was to write fic in none of my fandoms, but of something I've loved since I was a little kid who couldn't wrap her head around the idea that just because you were a hero didn't mean you were a good guy. Also because ladies are awesome and the idea of the power differentials in this situation are amazing. *____*
Credit for the idea itself goes to honeyspider on Tumblr, as mentioned above, mostly thanks to this post (which is the image I carried in my head as I was writing this) and the resulting conversations, and then reblogging this post on the same subject. Title is from Homer's Iliad, and is also quoted in the first linked post.
“Saved you a present,” Ajax laughs, and Achilles is still rolling her eyes when she pushes her way past tent-flaps and sees exactly what he means by “present”. Oh.
They’ve left him bound, though it probably wouldn’t have made much difference; this man - and only just; there is still the softness of boyhood to him, in the round of his cheeks, the line of his shoulders - is no warrior, she can tell. She doubts those hands have ever handled a sword longer than they’ve had to, too smooth, too clean even with sand and blood clinging to his skin. But he is so very pretty. Achilles licks her lips and pulls off her helmet, digs fingers into the sweaty mess of her hair so she can scratch. (It would be so much simpler to cut it all off, and on days like today when Apollo glares his disapproval down on them and the blood works itself into every crease, she dreams of it. But her hair is her one concession to her mother, an almost-apology for being the complete failure of a daughter Achilles knows herself to be, the daughter Thetis always wanted. For having no desire to be that daughter. So Achilles keeps her hair long enough to barely reach her shoulders and suffers the heat, and Thetis presses her lips together, but does not voice her complaints.)
“Well then,” she mutters. She passes her helmet to a servant and dismisses them all, just herself and her present, whose robes scream royalty even torn and dirty, whose eyes burn sharp and hot with hate in the dim of her tent. She is becoming awfully used to such expressions. “I cannot imagine that is comfortable,” is all she says. She turns her back to undo her guards, rotating her wrists as they are freed. One of them clicks. “I would apologise for my cousin’s handiwork, but that would imply it’s out of character.” She has to admire the ropework, though. For all he lacks Pat’s finesse, Ajax knows how to immobilise a prisoner. It is one of the many reasons why Achilles loves him.
She lays both sets of guards aside and begins to unlace her breastplate, can’t help but sigh when the pressure finally eases. With it off she can stretch, allow her neck to pop and her shoulders to crack like she has been longing to since they took the first temple. It’s been such a long time since she was slammed into a wall for anything other than training; she almost missed it.
She doesn’t bother to cover herself before she turns back around, ignores her mother’s insistent whisper in her head. Achilles tilts her head, lets her gaze travel the entire length of her present. The skin around his ankles is tender, and probably his wrists too. She grins. Ajax brought her a fighter.
“We’ll need to get you some new clothes,” she says as she goes down on one knee, all the better to inspect him. Bright blue eyes rage at her even in the poor light afforded by the fire behind her, and he jerks his head back from her touch. Achilles can feel her smile slip towards something sharper, more like a smirk, and she curls a hand over his jaw, holds him as she wants him. His lips are swollen around the material of the gag. She lowers her head to whisper, for his ears only, and fuck whatever god may be listening. “You can fight all you want. I rather hope you do, actually. But all it will get you is the whip across your back and my blade in your throat. And I promise you, I am quite precise with both.”
She leans back to smile at him. “Now let’s loosen that gag and hear your pretty voice, hmm?”
His teeth miss her hand as she pulls back. He spits instead, and it catches her chin. Achilles is almost proud. “I will fight you,” her present promises, voice deeper than she had expected for such a fresh face, hot enough to match his eyes. “I will always fight you. I will fight you until I steal the very breath from your lungs, as you stole my family’s.”
Achilles holds still for a moment, lets the words sink into both their skins, into the space between them. Then she laughs and shoves the gag back into his mouth, hard enough that he chokes. With a push of her foot he’s on his back, and Achilles sheds what is left of her armour, pulls on a tunic that is possibly still stained with blood. “I hope you do, pretty boy. I truly hope you do.” Then she leaves, ducking out from under the tent flaps, calling, “Ajax! I owe you some wine, I think,” as she goes.
“You owe me a barrel, cousin,” he replies, and she cuffs him over the back of the head when she reaches him, sat around the fire with Pat and Odysseus like gossiping old women. Nevertheless, a barrel of her father’s finest wine is in his tent by nightfall.
*
Author: x_dark_siren_x
Pairing: implied always-a-girl!Achilles/always-a-guy!Briseis
Rating: R
Summary: “Well then,” she mutters. She passes her helmet to a servant and dismisses them all, just herself and her present, whose robes scream royalty even torn and dirty, whose eyes burn sharp and hot with hate in the dim of her tent. She is becoming awfully used to such expressions.
Word Count: 853
Warning: Swearing, violence, mentions of death and destruction, war and all it entails. Additional warning for implied non-con, though nothing sexual takes place. Please let me know if you feel this is incorrect.
Content notes: Genderswap of Greek myth. Achilles is a woman, and always has been. I can't be much clearer than that.
Disclaimer: Credit for this idea goes completely to honeyspider on Tumblr; details can be found below.
All right, so I had a really rough day, and apparently the cure was to write fic in none of my fandoms, but of something I've loved since I was a little kid who couldn't wrap her head around the idea that just because you were a hero didn't mean you were a good guy. Also because ladies are awesome and the idea of the power differentials in this situation are amazing. *____*
Credit for the idea itself goes to honeyspider on Tumblr, as mentioned above, mostly thanks to this post (which is the image I carried in my head as I was writing this) and the resulting conversations, and then reblogging this post on the same subject. Title is from Homer's Iliad, and is also quoted in the first linked post.
“Saved you a present,” Ajax laughs, and Achilles is still rolling her eyes when she pushes her way past tent-flaps and sees exactly what he means by “present”. Oh.
They’ve left him bound, though it probably wouldn’t have made much difference; this man - and only just; there is still the softness of boyhood to him, in the round of his cheeks, the line of his shoulders - is no warrior, she can tell. She doubts those hands have ever handled a sword longer than they’ve had to, too smooth, too clean even with sand and blood clinging to his skin. But he is so very pretty. Achilles licks her lips and pulls off her helmet, digs fingers into the sweaty mess of her hair so she can scratch. (It would be so much simpler to cut it all off, and on days like today when Apollo glares his disapproval down on them and the blood works itself into every crease, she dreams of it. But her hair is her one concession to her mother, an almost-apology for being the complete failure of a daughter Achilles knows herself to be, the daughter Thetis always wanted. For having no desire to be that daughter. So Achilles keeps her hair long enough to barely reach her shoulders and suffers the heat, and Thetis presses her lips together, but does not voice her complaints.)
“Well then,” she mutters. She passes her helmet to a servant and dismisses them all, just herself and her present, whose robes scream royalty even torn and dirty, whose eyes burn sharp and hot with hate in the dim of her tent. She is becoming awfully used to such expressions. “I cannot imagine that is comfortable,” is all she says. She turns her back to undo her guards, rotating her wrists as they are freed. One of them clicks. “I would apologise for my cousin’s handiwork, but that would imply it’s out of character.” She has to admire the ropework, though. For all he lacks Pat’s finesse, Ajax knows how to immobilise a prisoner. It is one of the many reasons why Achilles loves him.
She lays both sets of guards aside and begins to unlace her breastplate, can’t help but sigh when the pressure finally eases. With it off she can stretch, allow her neck to pop and her shoulders to crack like she has been longing to since they took the first temple. It’s been such a long time since she was slammed into a wall for anything other than training; she almost missed it.
She doesn’t bother to cover herself before she turns back around, ignores her mother’s insistent whisper in her head. Achilles tilts her head, lets her gaze travel the entire length of her present. The skin around his ankles is tender, and probably his wrists too. She grins. Ajax brought her a fighter.
“We’ll need to get you some new clothes,” she says as she goes down on one knee, all the better to inspect him. Bright blue eyes rage at her even in the poor light afforded by the fire behind her, and he jerks his head back from her touch. Achilles can feel her smile slip towards something sharper, more like a smirk, and she curls a hand over his jaw, holds him as she wants him. His lips are swollen around the material of the gag. She lowers her head to whisper, for his ears only, and fuck whatever god may be listening. “You can fight all you want. I rather hope you do, actually. But all it will get you is the whip across your back and my blade in your throat. And I promise you, I am quite precise with both.”
She leans back to smile at him. “Now let’s loosen that gag and hear your pretty voice, hmm?”
His teeth miss her hand as she pulls back. He spits instead, and it catches her chin. Achilles is almost proud. “I will fight you,” her present promises, voice deeper than she had expected for such a fresh face, hot enough to match his eyes. “I will always fight you. I will fight you until I steal the very breath from your lungs, as you stole my family’s.”
Achilles holds still for a moment, lets the words sink into both their skins, into the space between them. Then she laughs and shoves the gag back into his mouth, hard enough that he chokes. With a push of her foot he’s on his back, and Achilles sheds what is left of her armour, pulls on a tunic that is possibly still stained with blood. “I hope you do, pretty boy. I truly hope you do.” Then she leaves, ducking out from under the tent flaps, calling, “Ajax! I owe you some wine, I think,” as she goes.
“You owe me a barrel, cousin,” he replies, and she cuffs him over the back of the head when she reaches him, sat around the fire with Pat and Odysseus like gossiping old women. Nevertheless, a barrel of her father’s finest wine is in his tent by nightfall.
*