th3e best fanfic ever!!! very slashy
this is slash between Achilles (from Troy) and Paris, then another sex encounter with Paris and Hector. . .very sexy, yet wrong and disturbing
“And so the mighty warrior, favored of the Gods themselves, sulks because his lusts have been denied a pretty slave girl[1],” a soft voice taunts beyond the dim light thrown by the unattended brazier. In an economical flex of muscle Achilles unsheathes his sword and brings it to press forcefully upon the unguarded throat of the intruder while his unarmed hand grabs a fistful of silken hair. With mocking tenderness he forces the intruder’s head back as if in preparation for a kiss. The orange-tinged twilight reveals features of unearthly symmetry set in a face no stranger to the Apollo’s burning grace. Two dark eyes outlined by sooty lashes and a touch of kohl meet his boldly. For a moment the man debates the gender of this preternaturally perfect creature, and then decides the huskiness of voice denotes the sex as male.
And this man is not a miffed Patroclus[2] come back to goad Achilles into the battlefield with his agile tongue and nubile body. The face and litheness of build would place the stranger in the same age range, perhaps some years the junior, but, again, the face could not belong to a mortal untouched by the Gods-if the other is mortal at all.
“It is rude to enter a man’s private demesne without prior invitation, and far worse to hurl insults, friend,” the warrior whispers, allowing the edge of the sword to draw forth blood from the gracefully arched throat. A small shudder runs the course of the intruder’s slighter form.
“I am no friend.”
“Then I should take your head.” He jerks the other’s head back to rest upon his shoulder and then lowers the blade, noting with satisfaction that no swells of feminine flesh hinder the progress, until it rests at groin level. “Or something else. But, before I do so, would you be so kind as to give a name? Dying unremembered is a horrible fate.”
“Perhaps I am deserving of that fate. It would be far kinder on my name, I would think.” The dark lashes lower and a wry smile curves the youth’s perfect lips.
“You have a certain morbid bravery, I’ll give you that.”
“Oh no, nothing brave lives in my breast. I am an impetuous coward, cursed with softness and all other of womenfolk’s qualities.”
“Truly?” Achilles presses the edge of his bronze sword against the tender apex of the man’s legs. “I could further assist you with the transformation.” The intruder twists away from the blade and presses his slim frame against the Grecian, who finds the firm pressure of a young body against his a bit of a distraction.
“Paris Alexander[3],” the man murmurs, wiggling back against him. “Son of Priamus of Illium[4].”
A harsh bark of laughter leaves Achilles’ throat before he can check it. Truly unbelievable! He almost glances around to see if one of his men has dared, in a truly monumental act of stupidity, to play a trick on him. But, no, there is only the two of them alone in his tent. This is in itself most perplexing and speaks ill of the alertness of his Myrmidons. None should have been able to enter the camp without identifying himself first and then requesting an audience with Achilles, if the matter concerns him. The laxness will have to be dealt with quickly, but for now he has the second youngest son of Priam[5] at sword point, or so it seems.
And this youth, with all the tender and symmetrical beauty of Aphrodite’s Chosen, must truly be the prince reviled among Achilles’ fellow Grecians. No doubt, since the royal house produced such beauties as Priam’s brother Ganymede, the Goddess did not have to labor hard or long to give the youth his current countenance. Truly the masculine counterpart to Helen’s own allure.
“The Whore’s newest husband, son of the man who paid Heracles for his life with his sister’s body and her golden veil[6], progenitor of the greatest war the world has ever seen… well met, cousin.”
“Say whatever you want of me, but eschew slandering those I love, cousin.”
“All this prattle annoys me.” Lowering his sword, Achilles takes a firmer grasp upon the young prince’s hair and throws him to the ground. The youth issues a noise of pained surprise upon impact and makes no move to regain his feet or sit up. Calmly the warrior takes a seat upon a hide chair and stretches out his long legs. He sets the sword across his knees and regards the obstinately downed form with callous amusement. He knows that no debilitating injuries can result from such a mild level of violence. The young prince, not so much a young man as a boy, merely seeks a sympathy from him that died a decade past.
“Tell me what you seek here.”
“And you’ll spare me or some such thing?” the prince inquires with an edge of bitterness that irks the great warrior. The boy should be grateful that his head and genitals remain attached. Besides, it is only the natural sequence of events for one such as Achilles to inquire upon the sudden appearance of a child of his enemy in his tent. Surely this is not a ploy to woo him away from his fellow Grecians; the Trojans should be grateful his own concerns, phrased so mockingly by this stripling, keep him from slaughtering all their sons and brothers.
“No, I promise nothing. I want to know.”
“Well, I do not know.”
“That does not satisfy me.”
“I do not seek to satisfy you.”
Achilles shakes his head in indulgent amusement and grins coldly. “I would seek to if I were you, but let’s move on to another question: how did you come here unmolested?” Achilles places his hand on the sword’s hilt as the prince raises his head and levers his torso up from the ground. In a liquid choreography of burnished skin and sleek muscles Paris moves to his knees and turns guarded eyes upon the Grecian.
“I do not know that either.” A look of confusion breaks across his features and then drowns in blankness.
“A hypothesis concerning the relationship between beauty and intelligence may be argued here,” Achilles mocks.
“Then you must be only slightly more intelligent than myself,” is the boy’s condescending reply. He yelps and jerks away as the tip of the warrior’s sword grazes his cheek and neatly shears off a dark curl. Achilles returns the blade to its position across his knees. The youth holds a trembling hand to his marred cheek and stares balefully into his enemy’s pitiless eyes.
“That is a warning, boy. My patience with your games runs short. I have been too long from the pandemonium of war and feel its sweet cravings stir my blood. You are an enemy-though weak and pitiful-and my blade is hungry.”
“Then why don’t you return to the field, slayer of men? It is the girl; it is your pride. I have no pride to defend or assuage and so I am not as constrained.” A light enters the boy’s dark eyes and he tilts his head to the side, measuring the warrior against some unknown ideal. Achilles quirks a brow sardonically and contemplates driving his sword between the boy’s ribs and watching his death throes. It truly has been too long since he last spilled an enemy’s blood. He can almost taste the metallic wine pulsing beneath the youth’s fragile skin, smell it thick and hot in the air. The little he has already spilled is not enough, not nearly.
“I do not know how I came here or the purpose, but perhaps I will create one,” Paris murmurs softly with an enigmatic smile. Shaken from his crimson visions, Achilles watches with growing heat as the youth’s elegant fingers undo the expensive girdle about his waist. The tunic, stitched only at the shoulders, falls open and reveals the smooth planes of the prince’s flanks.
“You have many passions, do you not, my bloody lord?” The dim light catches a deep flush upon Paris’ cheeks as he strips the fine cloth from his supple body. “I, too, have them. Perhaps you should have given me the epithet of ‘whore’.
“I am no bearer of arms, but I am not completely helpless. I simply have more imagination when it comes to the use of one’s body as a weapon.” With every purred word and sinuous movement of the young prince, Achilles finds himself hardening, blood rushing down in heavy, tingling surges. When Paris crawls to his feet, spine a subtle bow of elegance and mouth moist with a recent flick of a pink tongue, the fearsome warrior takes no action to rebuff him. The nude prince leans over Achilles sword and places a single kiss upon the gleaming blade. The Grecian’s heart leaps against his ribs and settles in a steady beat between his thighs.
Neither a coward on the field of battle nor in the arena of Eros, Achilles finds himself unable and unwilling to deflect this enigmatic youth’s purpose. The power of deathless Love seems to breathe from the soft mouth and peer out of the smoldering eyes. The lightest brush of fingertips upon his knees manumits a thousand flames within his very blood. Paris did not lie when he intimated the capabilities of his slender form. Achilles can see the destruction of kingdoms and dynasties within the sun-blessed skin of the prince. Rapturous death fills the air and cleaves itself to the very core of the warrior’s being.
With sliding, liquid grace the prince replaces the weight of the sword. Thighs damp with heat and mild exertion straddle his and press against him fiercely. A warm hand insinuates itself beneath the hem of his tunic and grasps his rigid length while the other tangles in his hair. Paris licks at his lips like a pup begging its bitch and plays with the weeping head of his cock. Then the prince kisses him and the warrior is galvanized into action, as if the soft press of lips holds the antidote to the lust drenched paralysis. He grabs the bird-delicate wrists and forces the hands away from his body.
“This is a most dangerous game, young cousin.” The boy struggles weakly for a few moments, tender body squirming in a most pleasing manner against Achilles. Straining against the man’s hold, Paris leans in and presses open-mouthed kisses upon the man’s face.
“But I play it so well.”
“Then let us commence.” Once released the prince is a tender Fury. First a hot, wet mouth seals against Achilles’ and a bold tongue plunges in; then slender fingers caress and massage whatever flesh they can reach. The warrior grabs the boy’s lean thighs and yanks him closer, until pelvis meets pelvis and hot arousals find each other between the barrier of fine spun wool. Viciously he dominates the kiss, forcing the youth’s tongue into retreat. A soft murmur of approval slides into his mouth and the boy wraps long limbs about him. The rolling grind of hips and cocks is not enough, and Paris seems to sense this as he slides a hand between their tightly pressed bodies and tugs the man’s tunic aside.
“I’m going to ride you, my lord,” Paris moans as he plants his feet on the ground and, looping an arm about Achilles’ neck for balance, raises himself off the warrior’s tensed thighs. The Grecian finds his own body more than willing to comply with the impetuous prince’s declaration. Greedily his length draws more blood into itself in anxious preparation for the divine thrust. He holds the boy’s hips, pressing dark bruises into the delicious flesh, and watches as concentration draws small lines between his dark brows.
“I do hate you.” The prince closes his eyes and lets the words hang from his parted lips in drops of poisoned honey.
“You do not even know me,” Achilles hisses, slipping his fingers into the downy cleft of the youth’s buttocks and pulling the twin curves apart. The man growls when Paris reaches down to take hold of his upstanding rod and guides it to the prince’s clenching aperture. Paris opens his eyes and gives the aroused man a small smirk.
“And yet, I will kill you.” With that the boy arches back, hands flying out to clutch at the Grecian’s forearms, and sinks down upon his enemy’s cock. Achilles feels the very world tilt as the son of Priam takes him within his scorching heat. Heaving desperate breaths into the damp column of the boy’s fragrant throat, he grasps his scattered control and holds the prince still in his lap. This leads to an assortment of disappointed little noises filling the air as the boy struggles to continue with their congress.
“Would you have me a virgin, cousin? Unpenetrated and innocent in the ways of Eros?” the young prince purrs, hands sliding up the warrior’s shoulders and into his hair to pull his head back to meet his pleasure-clouded gaze. In response to those heated words, the Grecian cannot help but buck up, driving into the delicious sheath a scant length deeper. The prince arches within his hold, dark curls shifting away from his glowing face, and bestows an approving tug upon the warrior’s hair.
“Or perhaps you would rather picture me on my knees, weeping as my oldest brother[7] breaches me for the first time, begging him to stop.” The muscles holding fast to the base of his length clamp down, and the boy rotates subtly in a downward grind. “The greatest warrior of Troy pounding away the virginity of his younger brother, does that excite you?”
An image of this too-perfect being wailing in distress as the thick rod of mighty Hector plunges into him floods Achilles’ mind. For a moment he almost believes himself to be a witness to the depraved act: glistening bodies alike and different; golden deltas of flesh sliding together; harsh pants and frantic pleas heating the silence.
“And eventually I wanted it, craved it.” The prince raises himself, pulling free of the warrior’s grip, mindless of the broken nails digging red furrows into his flanks, and pauses with only the head of his enemy within his passage. A slow smile spreads across his face and it is almost tender, almost manic. “I am meant to burn.”
Violently he plunges down upon the man’s cock, full weight slamming down into the man’s lap. Achilles groans gutturally and rocks up as he encircles Paris’ tensed neck with one hand; the other moves to the boy’s waist. He could kill this son of Priam right now, snap the delicate neck with one hand or choke him and ride his death throes to orgasm. This knowledge fills the prince’s eyes and he continues to smile and moan and work himself upon his enemy. Madness glimmers in the depths of the youth’s eyes amidst a sea of mutilated dreams. This boy is a deranged whelp in need of drowning: too dangerous to let live, both a threat to others and himself.
With a grin of his own he forces Paris to ride him harder. Pleasure pulses through him, centers in his cock and balls and drives his hips to greater thrusts. Atop him the boy gasps and keens with eyes scrunched closed. The smile is gone and the lush mouth now forms an ‘o’ for every harsh exhalation.
“Little whore,” Achilles grunts, squeezing the vibrating throat beneath his hand. The burning tightness about his hard length ripples and the prince begins to convulse with brutal ecstasy, hot seed spurting from his unattended length. The hands in his hair threaten to rip out great chunks and the tearing pain only serves to excite him further. Into that quaking, pleasure-wracked form he thrusts, relentless in his pursuit of his own climax.
“Trojan whore!” An ocean of desire rushes from his buzzing head straight to his cock. The blood within his veins forms a dangerous riptide and rushes to follow the heated draw of the boy’s shuddering body. Roaring he crushes the prince’s throat and releases into his clenching sheath.
~*~*~*~
“Imagine! The mighty Achilles caught unawares!” The golden haired warrior blinks blearily up at his own bronze sword pointed at his face. He follows the blade’s line to a firmly muscled arm and then to the smugly grinning face of his own Patroclus. The younger man squats by his beloved friend and sets the weapon aside.
“I was sleeping?” The older man finds himself sprawled upon his pallet of furs, alone. No Trojan prince, asleep or dead-the sensation of a crushed windpipe beneath his hand remains vivid in his mind-lies with him. He distinctly remembers being in the hide chair, though. Or was that, too, a fiction?
“If not then I would love to find out who left this mess,” the Myrmidon[8] quips with a pointed look at the older man’s exposed genitals. Achilles follows his lover’s eyes and finds the dried evidence of his seed upon flaccid penis and thighs. “Must have been some dream, my lord.”
“Enough, Patroclus. I am in no mood for your levity.” The young warrior shrugs and moves away to retrieve a cloth for his leader to use.
“You were never this…tense when fighting. You should think about returning,” Patroclus says, tossing Achilles a wetted rag. The older man sits up and meticulously cleans up the dried fluid.
“I have vowed not to return until that swine of a king returns my property. Here I shall stay until he comes crawling into my tent upon his old knees.”
“The Grecians are dispirited, my lord. They need your fire.”
“They have fire enough in Ajax and the others. No, I remain firm, and, if you have nothing more important to babble about, leave.” The young man ducks the thrown rag and stalks to the tent’s entrance.
“You came here to fight, beloved friend. Sitting around here with your injured pride seems rather contrary to your purpose.”
“Leave.” With a disgusted shake of his shaggy blonde head, Patroclus leaves the annoyed Achilles to his own thoughts and confusions.
Alone, the golden warrior searches for any sign that more than a dream occurred last night. Nothing. A dream.
~*~*~*~
The sensation of his own climax and death burning through his arteries, Paris opens his eyes to find the cool stone ceiling of his own chambers overhead and the weak glow of false dawn lighting the sky. A choked sob bursts from his mouth and he shudders weakly. He still burns; his very blood aches with the power of his-dreamt?-encounter. Carefully he touches his throat and neck and finds both without any evidence of inflicted violence. The great Grecian warrior has not marked him with his sword.
He groans and sits up. Why on the fertile soil of his forefathers would he dream of his people’s enemy? An enemy he can now picture in vivid, glorious detail when all he knew before was the golden armor flecked with his countrymen’s blood. Utterly ridiculous, truly!
“Sweet dreams, brother-mine?” Cocking his head, a cold smile upon his lips, the young prince turns to the darkness near the entrance to his bedchamber. In the light seeping unobtrusively into the room he can just make out the outline of his oldest brother.
“Very sweet and very horrible.”
“That is contradictory.” Hector approaches the bed with measured steps. Some unknown annoyance tightens his body into a humming line of imminent outburst.
“But true.” The warrior makes a harsh sound that is neither a laugh nor a growl, but something of both.
“Where is your wife?” Hector inquires with false lightness as he takes a seat upon his brother’s bed.
“You know well where she is.”
“Moved on to braver pastures. I am sure Deiphobus[9] will regret her choice soon enough.” A warning growl crawls out of the younger prince’s throat at the mention of their brother’s name. Hector laughs and presses a tender hand upon his brother’s left cheek. Gently he presses the pad of his thumb against the delicate flesh beneath Paris’ eye.
“Do you love me, brother-mine?”
“I should hate you,” the boy whispers, nuzzling into the hand. “I cannot. I love you to my destruction.”
“Shouldn’t I say that?”
Paris lets his mouth take on a genuine smile and turns to kiss his older brother lightly upon his bearded chin. Surreptitiously he breathes in the trace odor of war and death that never seems to dissipate from Hector, as if it now resides deeply in his flesh, never to leave. Scent did not accompany the dream state, but he cannot help wondering if Achilles would smell the same.
“If you want.” His brother’s hand slips around to cradle the back of his skull. Paris yields to the firm lips that come to rest against his. The ache in his blood turns into a stabbing agony that has him pressing harder against his brother.
“Why are you here?” Hector whispers into his mouth before pulling away. The boy protests, but all his attempts to resume are expertly deflected. He settles back down with a pout as he reins the furious throb of his desires.
“I live here.”
“Not here, Troy. Here, your chambers.” Paris cannot recall the mocking laugh that escapes his mouth.
“Because they are mine. Where else would I be? The dog kennels? The stable?”
“You might have been better off there,” Hector answers coldly. “You were supposed to wait for me in my rooms.”
“Your wife would not approve, not that her approval truly matters to me. I thought I was to be your dark little secret, brother. The one stain upon your vaunted honor. Has the fair Andromache’s taste shifted to more adventurous endeavors in bed?” Paris is not surprised when his brother backhands him. Gingerly he probes his throbbing lips with his tongue and finds the lower oozing blood. He laps at it absently and leans towards Hector’s warmth, blood calling to blood.
“You never listen, do you, Paris? I told you that Andromache is performing a purifying ritual for the next six days.” Paris frowns and thinks back. Vaguely he recalls Hector pulling him aside to tell him something in darkly commanding tones. He had been distracted by the passage of a rather comely serving girl.
“Ah.”
“And I told you-”
“Your rooms, yes.” Carefully he curls his arms about his brother’s strong neck and shifts onto his lap. “I wish I had not been distracted.” He rocks his hips against the rising evidence of Hector’s desire and smiles in the dark.
‘I am no bearer of arms, but I am not completely helpless. I simply have more imagination when it comes to the use of one’s body as a weapon.’
His dream-spoken words flow through his mind and his smile turns grim.
“Hector, brother,” he breathes and fastens his lips to his brother’s. Strong hands grip his thighs and pull him closer.
“And so the mighty warrior, favored of the Gods themselves, sulks because his lusts have been denied a pretty slave girl[1],” a soft voice taunts beyond the dim light thrown by the unattended brazier. In an economical flex of muscle Achilles unsheathes his sword and brings it to press forcefully upon the unguarded throat of the intruder while his unarmed hand grabs a fistful of silken hair. With mocking tenderness he forces the intruder’s head back as if in preparation for a kiss. The orange-tinged twilight reveals features of unearthly symmetry set in a face no stranger to the Apollo’s burning grace. Two dark eyes outlined by sooty lashes and a touch of kohl meet his boldly. For a moment the man debates the gender of this preternaturally perfect creature, and then decides the huskiness of voice denotes the sex as male.
And this man is not a miffed Patroclus[2] come back to goad Achilles into the battlefield with his agile tongue and nubile body. The face and litheness of build would place the stranger in the same age range, perhaps some years the junior, but, again, the face could not belong to a mortal untouched by the Gods-if the other is mortal at all.
“It is rude to enter a man’s private demesne without prior invitation, and far worse to hurl insults, friend,” the warrior whispers, allowing the edge of the sword to draw forth blood from the gracefully arched throat. A small shudder runs the course of the intruder’s slighter form.
“I am no friend.”
“Then I should take your head.” He jerks the other’s head back to rest upon his shoulder and then lowers the blade, noting with satisfaction that no swells of feminine flesh hinder the progress, until it rests at groin level. “Or something else. But, before I do so, would you be so kind as to give a name? Dying unremembered is a horrible fate.”
“Perhaps I am deserving of that fate. It would be far kinder on my name, I would think.” The dark lashes lower and a wry smile curves the youth’s perfect lips.
“You have a certain morbid bravery, I’ll give you that.”
“Oh no, nothing brave lives in my breast. I am an impetuous coward, cursed with softness and all other of womenfolk’s qualities.”
“Truly?” Achilles presses the edge of his bronze sword against the tender apex of the man’s legs. “I could further assist you with the transformation.” The intruder twists away from the blade and presses his slim frame against the Grecian, who finds the firm pressure of a young body against his a bit of a distraction.
“Paris Alexander[3],” the man murmurs, wiggling back against him. “Son of Priamus of Illium[4].”
A harsh bark of laughter leaves Achilles’ throat before he can check it. Truly unbelievable! He almost glances around to see if one of his men has dared, in a truly monumental act of stupidity, to play a trick on him. But, no, there is only the two of them alone in his tent. This is in itself most perplexing and speaks ill of the alertness of his Myrmidons. None should have been able to enter the camp without identifying himself first and then requesting an audience with Achilles, if the matter concerns him. The laxness will have to be dealt with quickly, but for now he has the second youngest son of Priam[5] at sword point, or so it seems.
And this youth, with all the tender and symmetrical beauty of Aphrodite’s Chosen, must truly be the prince reviled among Achilles’ fellow Grecians. No doubt, since the royal house produced such beauties as Priam’s brother Ganymede, the Goddess did not have to labor hard or long to give the youth his current countenance. Truly the masculine counterpart to Helen’s own allure.
“The Whore’s newest husband, son of the man who paid Heracles for his life with his sister’s body and her golden veil[6], progenitor of the greatest war the world has ever seen… well met, cousin.”
“Say whatever you want of me, but eschew slandering those I love, cousin.”
“All this prattle annoys me.” Lowering his sword, Achilles takes a firmer grasp upon the young prince’s hair and throws him to the ground. The youth issues a noise of pained surprise upon impact and makes no move to regain his feet or sit up. Calmly the warrior takes a seat upon a hide chair and stretches out his long legs. He sets the sword across his knees and regards the obstinately downed form with callous amusement. He knows that no debilitating injuries can result from such a mild level of violence. The young prince, not so much a young man as a boy, merely seeks a sympathy from him that died a decade past.
“Tell me what you seek here.”
“And you’ll spare me or some such thing?” the prince inquires with an edge of bitterness that irks the great warrior. The boy should be grateful that his head and genitals remain attached. Besides, it is only the natural sequence of events for one such as Achilles to inquire upon the sudden appearance of a child of his enemy in his tent. Surely this is not a ploy to woo him away from his fellow Grecians; the Trojans should be grateful his own concerns, phrased so mockingly by this stripling, keep him from slaughtering all their sons and brothers.
“No, I promise nothing. I want to know.”
“Well, I do not know.”
“That does not satisfy me.”
“I do not seek to satisfy you.”
Achilles shakes his head in indulgent amusement and grins coldly. “I would seek to if I were you, but let’s move on to another question: how did you come here unmolested?” Achilles places his hand on the sword’s hilt as the prince raises his head and levers his torso up from the ground. In a liquid choreography of burnished skin and sleek muscles Paris moves to his knees and turns guarded eyes upon the Grecian.
“I do not know that either.” A look of confusion breaks across his features and then drowns in blankness.
“A hypothesis concerning the relationship between beauty and intelligence may be argued here,” Achilles mocks.
“Then you must be only slightly more intelligent than myself,” is the boy’s condescending reply. He yelps and jerks away as the tip of the warrior’s sword grazes his cheek and neatly shears off a dark curl. Achilles returns the blade to its position across his knees. The youth holds a trembling hand to his marred cheek and stares balefully into his enemy’s pitiless eyes.
“That is a warning, boy. My patience with your games runs short. I have been too long from the pandemonium of war and feel its sweet cravings stir my blood. You are an enemy-though weak and pitiful-and my blade is hungry.”
“Then why don’t you return to the field, slayer of men? It is the girl; it is your pride. I have no pride to defend or assuage and so I am not as constrained.” A light enters the boy’s dark eyes and he tilts his head to the side, measuring the warrior against some unknown ideal. Achilles quirks a brow sardonically and contemplates driving his sword between the boy’s ribs and watching his death throes. It truly has been too long since he last spilled an enemy’s blood. He can almost taste the metallic wine pulsing beneath the youth’s fragile skin, smell it thick and hot in the air. The little he has already spilled is not enough, not nearly.
“I do not know how I came here or the purpose, but perhaps I will create one,” Paris murmurs softly with an enigmatic smile. Shaken from his crimson visions, Achilles watches with growing heat as the youth’s elegant fingers undo the expensive girdle about his waist. The tunic, stitched only at the shoulders, falls open and reveals the smooth planes of the prince’s flanks.
“You have many passions, do you not, my bloody lord?” The dim light catches a deep flush upon Paris’ cheeks as he strips the fine cloth from his supple body. “I, too, have them. Perhaps you should have given me the epithet of ‘whore’.
“I am no bearer of arms, but I am not completely helpless. I simply have more imagination when it comes to the use of one’s body as a weapon.” With every purred word and sinuous movement of the young prince, Achilles finds himself hardening, blood rushing down in heavy, tingling surges. When Paris crawls to his feet, spine a subtle bow of elegance and mouth moist with a recent flick of a pink tongue, the fearsome warrior takes no action to rebuff him. The nude prince leans over Achilles sword and places a single kiss upon the gleaming blade. The Grecian’s heart leaps against his ribs and settles in a steady beat between his thighs.
Neither a coward on the field of battle nor in the arena of Eros, Achilles finds himself unable and unwilling to deflect this enigmatic youth’s purpose. The power of deathless Love seems to breathe from the soft mouth and peer out of the smoldering eyes. The lightest brush of fingertips upon his knees manumits a thousand flames within his very blood. Paris did not lie when he intimated the capabilities of his slender form. Achilles can see the destruction of kingdoms and dynasties within the sun-blessed skin of the prince. Rapturous death fills the air and cleaves itself to the very core of the warrior’s being.
With sliding, liquid grace the prince replaces the weight of the sword. Thighs damp with heat and mild exertion straddle his and press against him fiercely. A warm hand insinuates itself beneath the hem of his tunic and grasps his rigid length while the other tangles in his hair. Paris licks at his lips like a pup begging its bitch and plays with the weeping head of his cock. Then the prince kisses him and the warrior is galvanized into action, as if the soft press of lips holds the antidote to the lust drenched paralysis. He grabs the bird-delicate wrists and forces the hands away from his body.
“This is a most dangerous game, young cousin.” The boy struggles weakly for a few moments, tender body squirming in a most pleasing manner against Achilles. Straining against the man’s hold, Paris leans in and presses open-mouthed kisses upon the man’s face.
“But I play it so well.”
“Then let us commence.” Once released the prince is a tender Fury. First a hot, wet mouth seals against Achilles’ and a bold tongue plunges in; then slender fingers caress and massage whatever flesh they can reach. The warrior grabs the boy’s lean thighs and yanks him closer, until pelvis meets pelvis and hot arousals find each other between the barrier of fine spun wool. Viciously he dominates the kiss, forcing the youth’s tongue into retreat. A soft murmur of approval slides into his mouth and the boy wraps long limbs about him. The rolling grind of hips and cocks is not enough, and Paris seems to sense this as he slides a hand between their tightly pressed bodies and tugs the man’s tunic aside.
“I’m going to ride you, my lord,” Paris moans as he plants his feet on the ground and, looping an arm about Achilles’ neck for balance, raises himself off the warrior’s tensed thighs. The Grecian finds his own body more than willing to comply with the impetuous prince’s declaration. Greedily his length draws more blood into itself in anxious preparation for the divine thrust. He holds the boy’s hips, pressing dark bruises into the delicious flesh, and watches as concentration draws small lines between his dark brows.
“I do hate you.” The prince closes his eyes and lets the words hang from his parted lips in drops of poisoned honey.
“You do not even know me,” Achilles hisses, slipping his fingers into the downy cleft of the youth’s buttocks and pulling the twin curves apart. The man growls when Paris reaches down to take hold of his upstanding rod and guides it to the prince’s clenching aperture. Paris opens his eyes and gives the aroused man a small smirk.
“And yet, I will kill you.” With that the boy arches back, hands flying out to clutch at the Grecian’s forearms, and sinks down upon his enemy’s cock. Achilles feels the very world tilt as the son of Priam takes him within his scorching heat. Heaving desperate breaths into the damp column of the boy’s fragrant throat, he grasps his scattered control and holds the prince still in his lap. This leads to an assortment of disappointed little noises filling the air as the boy struggles to continue with their congress.
“Would you have me a virgin, cousin? Unpenetrated and innocent in the ways of Eros?” the young prince purrs, hands sliding up the warrior’s shoulders and into his hair to pull his head back to meet his pleasure-clouded gaze. In response to those heated words, the Grecian cannot help but buck up, driving into the delicious sheath a scant length deeper. The prince arches within his hold, dark curls shifting away from his glowing face, and bestows an approving tug upon the warrior’s hair.
“Or perhaps you would rather picture me on my knees, weeping as my oldest brother[7] breaches me for the first time, begging him to stop.” The muscles holding fast to the base of his length clamp down, and the boy rotates subtly in a downward grind. “The greatest warrior of Troy pounding away the virginity of his younger brother, does that excite you?”
An image of this too-perfect being wailing in distress as the thick rod of mighty Hector plunges into him floods Achilles’ mind. For a moment he almost believes himself to be a witness to the depraved act: glistening bodies alike and different; golden deltas of flesh sliding together; harsh pants and frantic pleas heating the silence.
“And eventually I wanted it, craved it.” The prince raises himself, pulling free of the warrior’s grip, mindless of the broken nails digging red furrows into his flanks, and pauses with only the head of his enemy within his passage. A slow smile spreads across his face and it is almost tender, almost manic. “I am meant to burn.”
Violently he plunges down upon the man’s cock, full weight slamming down into the man’s lap. Achilles groans gutturally and rocks up as he encircles Paris’ tensed neck with one hand; the other moves to the boy’s waist. He could kill this son of Priam right now, snap the delicate neck with one hand or choke him and ride his death throes to orgasm. This knowledge fills the prince’s eyes and he continues to smile and moan and work himself upon his enemy. Madness glimmers in the depths of the youth’s eyes amidst a sea of mutilated dreams. This boy is a deranged whelp in need of drowning: too dangerous to let live, both a threat to others and himself.
With a grin of his own he forces Paris to ride him harder. Pleasure pulses through him, centers in his cock and balls and drives his hips to greater thrusts. Atop him the boy gasps and keens with eyes scrunched closed. The smile is gone and the lush mouth now forms an ‘o’ for every harsh exhalation.
“Little whore,” Achilles grunts, squeezing the vibrating throat beneath his hand. The burning tightness about his hard length ripples and the prince begins to convulse with brutal ecstasy, hot seed spurting from his unattended length. The hands in his hair threaten to rip out great chunks and the tearing pain only serves to excite him further. Into that quaking, pleasure-wracked form he thrusts, relentless in his pursuit of his own climax.
“Trojan whore!” An ocean of desire rushes from his buzzing head straight to his cock. The blood within his veins forms a dangerous riptide and rushes to follow the heated draw of the boy’s shuddering body. Roaring he crushes the prince’s throat and releases into his clenching sheath.
~*~*~*~
“Imagine! The mighty Achilles caught unawares!” The golden haired warrior blinks blearily up at his own bronze sword pointed at his face. He follows the blade’s line to a firmly muscled arm and then to the smugly grinning face of his own Patroclus. The younger man squats by his beloved friend and sets the weapon aside.
“I was sleeping?” The older man finds himself sprawled upon his pallet of furs, alone. No Trojan prince, asleep or dead-the sensation of a crushed windpipe beneath his hand remains vivid in his mind-lies with him. He distinctly remembers being in the hide chair, though. Or was that, too, a fiction?
“If not then I would love to find out who left this mess,” the Myrmidon[8] quips with a pointed look at the older man’s exposed genitals. Achilles follows his lover’s eyes and finds the dried evidence of his seed upon flaccid penis and thighs. “Must have been some dream, my lord.”
“Enough, Patroclus. I am in no mood for your levity.” The young warrior shrugs and moves away to retrieve a cloth for his leader to use.
“You were never this…tense when fighting. You should think about returning,” Patroclus says, tossing Achilles a wetted rag. The older man sits up and meticulously cleans up the dried fluid.
“I have vowed not to return until that swine of a king returns my property. Here I shall stay until he comes crawling into my tent upon his old knees.”
“The Grecians are dispirited, my lord. They need your fire.”
“They have fire enough in Ajax and the others. No, I remain firm, and, if you have nothing more important to babble about, leave.” The young man ducks the thrown rag and stalks to the tent’s entrance.
“You came here to fight, beloved friend. Sitting around here with your injured pride seems rather contrary to your purpose.”
“Leave.” With a disgusted shake of his shaggy blonde head, Patroclus leaves the annoyed Achilles to his own thoughts and confusions.
Alone, the golden warrior searches for any sign that more than a dream occurred last night. Nothing. A dream.
~*~*~*~
The sensation of his own climax and death burning through his arteries, Paris opens his eyes to find the cool stone ceiling of his own chambers overhead and the weak glow of false dawn lighting the sky. A choked sob bursts from his mouth and he shudders weakly. He still burns; his very blood aches with the power of his-dreamt?-encounter. Carefully he touches his throat and neck and finds both without any evidence of inflicted violence. The great Grecian warrior has not marked him with his sword.
He groans and sits up. Why on the fertile soil of his forefathers would he dream of his people’s enemy? An enemy he can now picture in vivid, glorious detail when all he knew before was the golden armor flecked with his countrymen’s blood. Utterly ridiculous, truly!
“Sweet dreams, brother-mine?” Cocking his head, a cold smile upon his lips, the young prince turns to the darkness near the entrance to his bedchamber. In the light seeping unobtrusively into the room he can just make out the outline of his oldest brother.
“Very sweet and very horrible.”
“That is contradictory.” Hector approaches the bed with measured steps. Some unknown annoyance tightens his body into a humming line of imminent outburst.
“But true.” The warrior makes a harsh sound that is neither a laugh nor a growl, but something of both.
“Where is your wife?” Hector inquires with false lightness as he takes a seat upon his brother’s bed.
“You know well where she is.”
“Moved on to braver pastures. I am sure Deiphobus[9] will regret her choice soon enough.” A warning growl crawls out of the younger prince’s throat at the mention of their brother’s name. Hector laughs and presses a tender hand upon his brother’s left cheek. Gently he presses the pad of his thumb against the delicate flesh beneath Paris’ eye.
“Do you love me, brother-mine?”
“I should hate you,” the boy whispers, nuzzling into the hand. “I cannot. I love you to my destruction.”
“Shouldn’t I say that?”
Paris lets his mouth take on a genuine smile and turns to kiss his older brother lightly upon his bearded chin. Surreptitiously he breathes in the trace odor of war and death that never seems to dissipate from Hector, as if it now resides deeply in his flesh, never to leave. Scent did not accompany the dream state, but he cannot help wondering if Achilles would smell the same.
“If you want.” His brother’s hand slips around to cradle the back of his skull. Paris yields to the firm lips that come to rest against his. The ache in his blood turns into a stabbing agony that has him pressing harder against his brother.
“Why are you here?” Hector whispers into his mouth before pulling away. The boy protests, but all his attempts to resume are expertly deflected. He settles back down with a pout as he reins the furious throb of his desires.
“I live here.”
“Not here, Troy. Here, your chambers.” Paris cannot recall the mocking laugh that escapes his mouth.
“Because they are mine. Where else would I be? The dog kennels? The stable?”
“You might have been better off there,” Hector answers coldly. “You were supposed to wait for me in my rooms.”
“Your wife would not approve, not that her approval truly matters to me. I thought I was to be your dark little secret, brother. The one stain upon your vaunted honor. Has the fair Andromache’s taste shifted to more adventurous endeavors in bed?” Paris is not surprised when his brother backhands him. Gingerly he probes his throbbing lips with his tongue and finds the lower oozing blood. He laps at it absently and leans towards Hector’s warmth, blood calling to blood.
“You never listen, do you, Paris? I told you that Andromache is performing a purifying ritual for the next six days.” Paris frowns and thinks back. Vaguely he recalls Hector pulling him aside to tell him something in darkly commanding tones. He had been distracted by the passage of a rather comely serving girl.
“Ah.”
“And I told you-”
“Your rooms, yes.” Carefully he curls his arms about his brother’s strong neck and shifts onto his lap. “I wish I had not been distracted.” He rocks his hips against the rising evidence of Hector’s desire and smiles in the dark.
‘I am no bearer of arms, but I am not completely helpless. I simply have more imagination when it comes to the use of one’s body as a weapon.’
His dream-spoken words flow through his mind and his smile turns grim.
“Hector, brother,” he breathes and fastens his lips to his brother’s. Strong hands grip his thighs and pull him closer.