Achilles and Rosmurta have an intimate heart-to-heart.
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no mouth so sweet
At first he ignored her, the cloying veil of her voice. It was timorous, apologetic, softened with apprehension of upsetting him. At the familiar clink of silver he bothered to grunt his descent into consciousness.
"Oh, you're up and moving!"
"And you're still here."
The pillow upon his head shifted as he peeked through the shadow of his slumber, watching with precarious irritation as the goddess with golden hair set the tray upon the nightstand beside him. She offered a compunctious turn of her pinked lips, saying then, "I'm sorry. I know you didn't want anyone in, but it's so late already. You wanted some tea, too, if I remember."
"I never said I wanted tea," came his grumbling reply, though it was just the token to have him sit up from the confines of the blankets strewn about him. Noting her already timid bearings, however, Achilles cleared his throat in his own apology. "You're Rosmurta, then, are you?"
At their introduction she lightened, giggling quietly as she poured the steaming tea into the fine china. "Yes, that's me! Oh, but everyone calls me Rosie. Not so old fashioned!" She tapped the cup of sugar cubes. "Just one with a dash of cream, yes? Let's see if I can perfect it on the first try."
Achilles accompanied her in the restful silence. He watched as she busied herself over such a trivial [albeit kindly] task, unable to shake the peculiar sincerity this woman went about with.
"So Izzy and Ma'at are around?"
"Unfortunately not. A call came in from one Mr. Alexander Carson about supper an hour or so ago, but Izzy said you were indisposed and couldn't be troubled."
He cursed under his breath, running an oversized palm through the flaxen mess of his hair. "I'd completely forgotten," he confessed tiredly.
"Oh, but Mr. Carson invited the three of us in your stead," Rosmurta excused. She set his cup neatly upon the saucer before offering it over to him, smiling as he accepted with small thanks. "I would've gone, but Ma'at insisted one of us ought to stay should you wake up. So I figured I'd fix you a bit of tea for waking, and I've already got the bangers ad mash in the kitchen should you want any."
"Bangers and mash?" Achilles sipped into his teacup, trying not to chuckle the contents all over the bed. For it being her first time preparing things the way he liked them she certainly was on a roll. "Goddesses can stir it up in the kitchen, too? I've got to say, I'm impressed."
A furious blush darkened her tawny cheeks, Rosmurta turning her back so that he might not yet see the smile widening across her lips. He didn't mind any; it was clear she was the type not to know how to take a compliment. Considering she seemed so well acquainted with both Ishtar and Ma'at alike, however, he couldn't necessarily that flaw was entirely her fault. Neither of the outspoken two sounded to be the nurturing sort.
After a moment or two of his relishing the steaming beverage and her aimless staring around the room he drawled, "You'll forgive me for my behavior earlier. This hasn't exactly been the easiest last few days."
Rosmurta nodded with a smile.
"I don't know why Granny, God rest her, would dabble in my affairs so. Christ, even from the grave she's giving me a piece of her mind!" He down the rest of the tea before slinging his legs over the edge of the mattress to pour himself some more.
"You don't think she means well?" Rosmurta moved to have the condiments ready, but he shook his head, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly.
"I've got it, Rosie. You just relax. And yes, of course I know she means well. That's the one thing she and Mum have in common if nothing else; always looking to fix me with something or someone, as if I can't for myself. That was nearly the entire point of me coming out here; I intend to make my own mark in this world by my own hand, not with the women in my life always throwing money in or sporting nepotism or any nonsense like that. The rebuilding of this shoppe," Achilles dropped the sugar cube in, not bothering to stir before taking a ravenous gulp. "Will be at my own doing. I just wish she'd see that, wherever she is."
He nodded over to the goddess by the window, asking then, "You lot want your mortality that bad, eh?"
She peeked through the pale blue valance out to the backyard before replying, "It's so strange to be so far away from the bustling of the Elysium and in such a sleepy village as this. We've been here almost a week, Ma'at and I, and yet the time passes with such pleasant significance. Everything we do is meaningful in one way or another. It all benefits someone, eases the burden for another. And all the while we get to be involved in the bettering of things personally." Rosmurta bit her lip, viridian gaze seemingly far beyond the little fenced-in confines of the vegetable garden out back. "If this is what it means to be mortal -- to be a mere speck amongst the grains that make the sands of a common shore -- then I must confess it to be something I crave for myself, very much so. It's like I've never felt so enlivened in the thousands of years I've spent being idly worshipped as I have these last six days."
They exchanged glances then. Achilles remained silent despite the yearning of her eyes, his tea now somehow very unimportant.
"Am I... crazy for that, you think? Is it silly to want that for myself when I've been so long a figure of attributes I can't even have for myself? I-I-I just... goodness, I'm sorry."
Without a moment's pause he brought himself to his feet and to her side. His gray-sleeved arms came about her willowy frame, the great man taking hold of those lithe hands that sheltered her tear-stained face. But he bore witness to her abrupt melancholy and bade she not hide it from the likes of him. He never cared for a woman to break down into tears before him; quite frankly, the very thought of the whole ordeal was unnecessarily sentimental and filled him with near unbearable awkwardness. True, he had been a witness to and even a reassuring advocate in many a tearful bout by his one and only sister. But this, quite clearly, wasn't anything like that. Truth be told he felt rather sorry he even inquired about the entire mortality subject in general, and now that, since he had caused her tears, he ought to be responsible for bringing her back to comfort.
Or at least wipe her face dry.
"I don't think you're crazy to want what you've never had before," came his reassurance. It was hushed in its sonorous timbre while he bade she look up, up at him as he spoke to her. The very nerve in his cotton-covered toes flecked with a peculiar tingle once she obeyed him, viridescent attention glittering with newfound tears. Achilles couldn't help but give a rueful grin, cupping her face in his hands as he continued to soothe, "In fact, it's a very natural thing for us humans; to want, to crave. You're better at this mortality thing than you thought, aren't you?"
Rosmurta's tearful laughter resonated against his looming frame, threatening to seal what mere inches of space existed between them. But she nodded, sniffling the remnants of one end of sorrow before sputtering into another. His mind tripped its gears in confusion on what to do, knowing he could only feign this natural air with her for so long...
But was it really pretense if his actions came to him so easily?
He dared not think on it long enough to hesitate. The pads of his thumbs smoothed the droplets of saltine crystals away, Achilles suddenly lightheaded with the twining of their sinewy, shallowed breaths combing against one another's lips. And hers were so flawless in their slightly parted wake; tinged with the lightly pinkened melatonin of her pale-gold flesh, virginal in the innocence she knew and ever still glossed with plump, sultry allure of her wanting ignorance. Her fingers wrapped about his wrists, though guideless, shiftless. No, she couldn't know what the sight of her did to him now. She hardly knew what to do with her own self...
He kissed her then. Kissed her and relished in the fleeting surprise that only an ancient chasteness would possess. But it only took a moment for her to shiver with life, her sweet, succulent mouth tilting ever upward so that he might drink, drink from the willingness she poured forth. Those hands clasped so listlessly about his wrists tightened in recognition, anchoring her forward until she fit the curvatures of her front form so neatly against the chiseled edges of his own.
He grunted, snatching her mouth upon his once more. "If it's a child you want," he breathed against the curve of her chin, the silk of her cheek, the lobe of her ear. A hand of his lowered about her neck, softly clasping it while the other brushed back the crinkled tendrils of gold. "Then I'll gladly give it. It'll make you happy?"
"Shh, tell me." His kiss sweetened against the hardening hold of his hand, to which the goddess elicited a most delicious moan. "Mmmn, I see. We'll have to get another one of those out of you again, won't we? Now tell me; will a child make you happy, my love?"
That unsolicited title set the starlight in her eyes, Rosmurta daring a breathless, "Yes." Her gasp echoed her words as his hand abandoned the naked lining of her neck to slide further down, thumb hooking the dramatic hem of her sweatshirt collar so that it might follow suit. Achilles stepped back, eyes fast upon Rosmurta's as he effortlessly pulled her along, before turning them both in one other's previous positions. And so now he took one more foot forward before her knees gave out against the ledge of the bed, the arresting young image of a woman staggering as she fell upon its downy surface.
He didn't give her but a moment to shrug out of the pair of denim jeans hugging the laced lines of her legs. She hadn't but barely a handful of hips, though as his greedy hands managed to unbutton and yank them down about her ankles he was pleased to see the whole of her maintained a refreshing sylphlike symmetry. This woman was not thin so much as she was merely lissome in shape, making pleasant do with what fair qualities she had been blessed with. And as he stood above Rosmurta in all her half-naked glory, those endless, trim thighs of fawn going on for days as they attempted to cross upon one another, Achilles could not pretend he was anything less than entirely enamored. Violently so.
At the behest of his hands she lay completely, great greens wide and filled with wonder as she stared up at his breathless face. He had begun to unbuckle his own sheath of denim when her shifting hips sought the notice of her panties.
Achilles could hardly resist the laughter as he smoothed his wandering hand upon her calve. "Hiding from me still?" he wondered.
She grunted as that same hand of his tugged brutishly at the cotton-lined hem of her white bikini underwear, lifting her hips upward. In one fell swoop he heaved them down and out, pooling somewhere upon the hardwood with her pants. For a moment he let his fingers test her own preparedness, only for them both to recoil with sharp inhales; she burned for him. To make matters worse, she couldn't have been any wetter; that fleshy slit dripped with creamy, silken lust.
He abandoned her there, knowing he'd never leave if he dared offer that teeming womanhood any ounce of selfish attention. This time she laughed along with him, letting her arms up above the splayed mass of her flaxen mane so that his palm could caress the flat expanse of her belly.
"Not anymore," she whispered, grinning. "Achilles, take me? Please, please have me..."
Whatever inch of him he couldn't be certain wasn't prepared solidified to granite once those creamy thighs spread open on their own accord. She invited him without a word, gaze fixed upon him in a hopeless need begging to be quenched. And who was he to deny that of her? What right did he have?
But it was only at her insistence. Between her thighs he slid, knees nudging her further up on the bedding, while he propped himself above that awestruck face. Perfect; that was the alignment of their forms, his pressed against hers in a shameless need. And with the beckoning of his wayward tongue to accept his mouth upon hers came the flagrant forward heave of his hips.
She cried out against the insurgence of his lips, nails embedding themselves into his own freckled shoulders at the unanticipated discomfort. She hadn't expected his girth, his unabashed length. Her tongue delved deeper, thighs clenched tight about the muscled small of his back. The mortal above her, inside her, stretching her beyond her known limits, finally began to pump his hips within to his carnal content. Again and again his thrusts ensued, degenerating in the initial kindly consideration he may have possessed. No, he fell prey to his own rapacious want, nearly destroying the windswept woman moaning restlessly beneath him.
Achilles wasn't sure he would make anywhere near the general length of his stamina tonight. Better he didn't make any promises.
Ma'at opened the refrigerator for Ishtar as she proceeded to stuff all three corningware dishes full of food into its empty confines.
"You should've seen the one before this," she hissed, hand upon her great hips while she propped the door open. "I told Rosie I'd be damned if I'd have to clean all the mold out of that one. It was worse than the goddamn oven."
"We won't need to worry about anything but a microwave considering all this food Mrs. Carson's had made. Probably ought to get one in the morning after breakfast. Whew!"
The cocoa-skinned deity waved her hand in cue for Ma'at to shut the refrigerator closed, wiping her brow. "Goodness, but those folks can talk, hmm? Alright, so the only thing we've really got to get a handle on is remodeling that horrid bakeshoppe itself. And a new paint job on the store fro--"
Hand flying to her lips in quiet, the vertically-challenged Ma'at bade the other listen. Ishtar made a face to retaliate before the noise reverberated; a moan. A most pleasurable moan at that.
"The hell is all that about?" She looked to Ma'at, fists suddenly clenched, before coming to her own realization. "For fuck's sake, Rosie. You don't think she--"
"That little slut!"
Her balled fists came slamming down upon the counter in a fit of rage, her voice raised as she began to spew a string of curses in alphabetical order. It was the taller, however, who insisted she hold her tongue.
"Let her have her fun for now," Ishtar tempered, tone carefully gauged to keep her own fury a secret. She took hold of the bronze one's arm. "You knew it would happen eventually. For all of us. Just because she's fucked him first doesn't mean she's conceived before us."
"Don't be stupid. That's exactly what it means." She shrugged out of Ishtar's grasp and back to the refrigerator. From the right shelf she pulled two lagers, haphazardly slamming the door behind her. "And if it's a war she wants, Izzy? Oh, do trust me; she'll get it."
With a swift alignment of the cap between her teeth Ma'at yanked the lager free, spitting the cap out before taking a good swig to mull her ravenous rage. "She'll damn well get it."
This is the first love scene I've written in a l o n g time, so forgive me if it's choppy or moves a bit too fast. Hope y'all enjoyed!