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A knock comes to prince Achilles’ door the moment he sets down his lyre. His fingers are still pink from plucking the strings, voice warm from humming a new hymn. He is not expecting any guests at this time, last he checked. His heartbeat quickens, for that can only mean…
“Come in,” he invites whoever is at his chambers’ entrance. He stands from his musician’s seat, hands smoothing over the ends of his crisp, white chiton.
The heavy door swings open, and Achilles’ face almost breaks into a grin as he regards the man who steps foot into his bed chambers. He attempts to calm his sudden surge of anticipation as Achilles lays his eyes upon him.
“Hail, great prince of Phthia.”
The man stands tall, dressed in a himation that looks to be made out of expensively dyed wool. Gold flecks in brown eyes catch some of the light peering through Achilles’ open windows. His midnight hair is tied back, though a few unruly curls spring from their confines and frame his face and sculpted beard. His shoulders are broad, deltoids sturdy and muscles defined under his clothing. His deep, umber skin is rich and supple, physique mature and toned.
“Hail,” Achilles greets him. “But here, in this part of the palace, I am just Achilles.” Swift as he always is on his feet, Achilles makes his way towards the man, as if to get a better look. “And do shut the door, if you would prefer a bit more privacy for our conversations.”
“Our conversations…” the man echoes, using his back to close the door behind him. His eyes look nowhere but at Achilles.
Achilles is drawing in close now, so close that he almost stands face-to-face with him. He asks innocently, “Is that not what we are doing right now?” Just as quickly as he came to the man, Achilles draws back, seating himself at the edge of his bed.
The man shakes his head, but he is smiling. He steps carefully towards the prince, though not as preternaturally brisk as Achilles. He reaches out to touch his leg, in the same way one would supplicate another, then falters, only continuing when Achilles gives him a tiny nod of approval. His large palm is heavy and comforting on Achilles’ bare knee.
"What would you have of me?" Achilles asks, raising his chin to regard the man through blonde lashes.
The man's smile grows into a smirk, and Achilles feels his adrenaline surge again. "It has not escaped notice the way you've had your eyes on me in the court, Achilles." The name sounds blessedly sweet on his tongue, although he still tips his head in some gesture of respect for Achilles' station. "Your father thinks it high time you took an erastes."
Achilles arches as he feels Pat's hand slide up the inside of his thigh, blunt calluses brushing ceaselessly over sensitive skin. "You?" he says breathlessly, ghosting laughter, "Erastes?"
Pat's hand moves higher still; Achilles gasps at the clever press of his fingers. "Why not? You enjoy it when I take you, if I seem to recall."
Patroclus bites down on his shoulder, and Achilles' laughter turns into a groan. He savors the idea for a moment— erastes, their people's word for an older, dominant lover. He thinks of Pat instructing him in the ways of pleasure as if he were young again, inexperienced, and has to suppress a shudder of arousal.
"I have long since lost my youth," he protests weakly.
Achilles can feel Patroclus' answering smile against his skin. "But you still remember how to be as coy." Pat's other hand is tight around his hip, and he bucks up into the firm grasp. "And how alluring you would be as my eromenos, the proud prince Achilles finally tamed."
Achilles clutches at him then. He might worry about playing the part, with so many lifetimes since the spring of his youth, but the way Patroclus is talking has him every bit the flushed and eager prince.
"Yes," he hears himself say before Pat claims his mouth in a searing kiss.
“Erastes,” Achilles tests the term on his tongue more than he calls out the man’s title. He holds his chin high, though the embarrassment of being caught swells in his chest. “If I am deemed ready for one, I think my say should rank higher than any others’ when choosing someone for my liking. My father is not an exception.”
At this, the man’s heavy brows lift in something that comes off as amusement; surprise, maybe? But the quirk of his lips does not fall. Instead he queries, “Then, young prin- Achilles,” he corrects himself. “Though I have not been chosen by your word exactly, tell me: am I nevertheless to your liking?”
It takes a breath’s pause for Achilles to get his bearings, but the chosen erastes waits patiently for his answer. Finally, he gets the words to speak. His voice is softer than he wants it to be as he simply utters, “Yes.”
Something glints intently in the man’s eyes. Achilles does not notice him leaning in until now. The man speaks, “Yes, what?”
Achilles feels himself swallow shallowly. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he dares himself to look away for a second. He returns his gaze a moment after, for he has never been able to ignore the man for long. What he says about Achilles is true; the prince has been stealing glances at him for many fortnights during Phthia’s court hearings and sessions.
“Yes, sir.” Achilles does not fumble with his enunciation, clear as crystal. “I have fantasized about men like you, many times.”
Achilles is rewarded by the man’s hand sliding ever so slowly to skim over the top of his thigh, just centimeters away from the hem of his shortened chiton. The prince wills himself to keep still.
“Hm, good boy,” he says like he is taking note of how Achilles reacts to his touches. The pads of his fingers stroke over his unmarred skin, tracing the definition of muscles there.
A shiver of excitement runs up Achilles’ spine, and he opens his mouth around a tiny gasp. He tries to cover it up with a question, “And I, chosen erastes, am I to your liking?”
With his other leg, Achilles follows the man’s kneeling form starting with his ankle. He brings his foot upward, pointing his toes to keep them from catching on the himation as he traces the firm shape of the man’s calf. It is only when Achilles is in the vicinity of his upper shin that the man stops him, grabbing him with his free hand.
“Fear not. You will always be to my liking, Achilles.” He presses a kiss to the prince’s prominent kneecap like he would Achilles’ hand if he was holding it. Before Achilles can say anything, he brushes warm lips against his skin again. “If you would be my eromenos.”
“Oh,” Achilles has to steady himself. Inhale, exhale. He can do this, he thinks. “Then, as the king Peleus has decided you as my erastes, I will also become your eromenos, sir.” He adds haughtily, “Surely, you wouldn’t think I'd disobey my own father’s requests, now would you?”
The man sets Achilles’ leg down in gentleness, and Achilles feels the loss of his touch acutely. “It is ultimately your right to determine whether or not you want this.”
He is giving Achilles an out, the prince can see, but Achilles cannot find any reason not to want this. So, he says as such.
His curt response earns him a chuckle from the man, low and melodic. Achilles’ heart flutters a bit at the sound. Deft fingers return to their position and wrap themselves behind his knee, teasing the soft flesh that resides there. “Good then, prince… Achilles. What do you know in the ways of bodily pleasure?”
Achilles turns his head down, suddenly coy. “Not as much as you, I’m sure of it, but enough as any man my age knows how to become a father. Some of them may even be, already.” He flits his viridescent eyes towards the erastes. “Still, will you teach me, sir?”
The man cups the prince’s chin then, his pose something of the traditional greeting between an erastes and eromenos. Achilles’ heart pounds against his ribs. “Of course, Achilles, I shall instruct you in anything you wish to learn,” he affirms. His hand creeps along the prince’s limb, finding a path under Achilles’ chiton to discover that he is not wearing undergarments beneath.
Achilles bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from whimpering upon the erastes’ caress. His pelvis threatens to jerk up into his touch, ardor rushing in his veins.
"No loincloth?" the man says, as much an observation as a question. He seems pleased by this, thumb stroking up the sensitive inside of Achilles' inner thigh. "As erastes, I should instruct you in the ways of a proper man, yet…" His face breaks into a grin then, and Achilles finds he is even more breathtaking up close than from across the hall. "I would be a fool to pretend it does not arouse me."
Achilles parts his legs just a little, inviting the man's touch. He tries to thread the arousal into his voice when he speaks, just to entice his erastes further: "Perhaps I was hoping you would come to my chambers."
The man draws away abruptly and steps back, and the absence of his hot hand on Achilles is a sudden and fierce ache.
Before he can wonder if he's done something wrong, the man gestures languidly at him. "Well then, here I am. Let's have a look at you now."
The breath catches in Achilles' throat. He runs his palms down his chiton again, rumpled from where the man's hand had been just moments ago, and stands. He does not know how to be self-conscious, but the strange pang he feels is something similar; he wants this man to desire him, to hunger the way he does.
Achilles unties his clothing with sure fingers, his eyes never leaving his erastes’. When he is done he lets the fabric fall from his naked body, pooling at his ankles until he steps out of it and closer to the man.
Achilles shrugs into the short chiton and ties it with a slow, precise hand. Every moment feels suspended, drawn taut by the anticipation of preparing for Patroclus to see him.
He wonders if he'll be the one to take it off again, when the time comes, or if his Patroclus will undress him instead. The thought makes him shudder, even in the mild warmth of the room, and his eyes are wild when he catches them in the mirror.
He's surprised at how little he recognizes himself. Maybe it's some strange trick of Elysium that there seems to be a youthful quality about him again, but the person that gazes back at him in the mirror (a gleaming, polished thing that even the richest king in his time had not possessed) feels like the relic of a distant memory.
The golden circlet of a prince gleams where his silver diadem usually rests, and a faint flush of pink sits high along his cheeks. He imagines the way Patroclus will look at him, the way those clever eyes will drink in every change: the high cut of his chiton, long legs bared for the first time in ages, or the easiness of his smile.
He practices smiling now, a tomcat's grin, trying to recall the brashness of his youth. Let me remember how it feels to be untamed, Achilles thinks, so that he might tame me.
The thought takes hold in him, and he spares one last glance at the figure in the mirror before he turns to await his lover.
The man looks him up and down, a slow drag that sets Achilles' body aflame. A pleased smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He paces around Achilles in a tight circle, almost prowling; the tense, coiling shift of muscle beneath skin as he walks reminds Achilles of a lion.
"What do I call you?" Achilles breathes out and into the charged space between them, wanting for something to say to break the anticipation.
The man completes his appraisal, and Achilles can tell from the appetency in his eyes that he likes what he sees. "Besides erastes or sir, you mean?”
Achilles smiles despite himself; he likes the bluntness of this man. "Your name, sir."
His erastes chortles a fleeting note of mirth. “Ah, me.” He says, “My name is Patroclus, if you dare not to stumble over the pronunciation.”
“Never!” Achilles interjects. “I’d never mispronounce it, Patroclus sir.” He takes care to form each syllable of Patroclus’ name: Pa-tro-clus. It feels good rolling off his tongue; familiar and comforting.
Patroclus presses his mouth together before he confesses, “As much as I relish the sound of my given name from your gifted lips, it pleases me when I hear you call me ‘sir’.”
Achilles knows how to decipher a request and follow one. He keeps his hands at his sides, fixed as he replies, “Yes, sir.”
That earns him a tiny huff of satisfaction from Patroclus, who stands in front of him now. “I brought you a little something. It is customary, as your erastes, to give you presents.” Reaching into the recesses of his robes, he procures a leather pouch. He undoes the string that binds the ends together, then presents the gleaming contents of the bag. “I would like to adorn you in the finest I have to offer, if you would let me, Achilles.”
Achilles stares owl-eyed at the finely crafted gold gauntlets that Patroclus holds. Gemstones that shine like rainbows sit inlaid within the gold, casting the ambient light this way and that. A thin, matching chain loops around the man’s palms twice, but he is not sure what it is just yet. This must have cost Patroclus a fortune, he thinks.
Slowly, Achilles nods his approval. “Yes,” he answers. “Yes, you may decorate me in whichever way you see fit, sir.”
“Good boy,” his erastes praises sweetly. “So here, hold your wrists out for me.”
Achilles does as told, pulling his fingers into loose fists so Patroclus can put the gauntlets around him. They snap into place with a tiny clasp at his radial pulses, the glittering metal and jewels complementing his sun-kissed skin. The chain goes next, worn like a collar, but splitting into two more threads of gold towards the middle. It frames both sides of his chest, looping under his arms only to reconnect at the nape of his neck where the collar piece sits.
“I wish you could see just how beautiful you are, with and without the adornments,” Patroclus murmurs when he steps back to observe Achilles.
“You will just have to tell me, then,” Achilles says. “Tell me how I look, sir.”
Patroclus' eyes never leave him; they flit ceaselessly over his body, between shining gems and stretches of bare skin. How is it that he feels even more naked now, adorned as he is?
Achilles finds himself holding his breath, dizzy with a sort of anticipation. He craves the approval of Patroclus' smirk again, but when the man's eyes meet his, they are ferine and smoldering instead.
"Like a godling," his erastes answers, and Achilles feels a heady rush at the weight of such praise.
"A godling," he reciprocates, raising a finger to trace the line of one delicate chain. Patroclus' eyes follow. He does not know what he is doing, not exactly; only that he wants to feel the pleasure that his erastes' heavy-lidded gaze promises.
Patroclus makes a noise of assent, and he raises a hand to trail up the line of Achilles' golden collar and cup his jaw. "A ripe one," he says, and the gold at Achilles' neck flashes when he turns his head roughly. "And eager, too. Do these gifts please my beloved?"
Beloved. Another word sometimes used for an eromenos, but one so intimate that it has him flushing anew.
Achilles lifts his chin, looking into those rich brown eyes and drinking down every drop of desire he sees there. "Yes," he says, his hand coming to brush Patroclus' where it rests against the curve of his jaw. "How am I to thank you for such fine offerings?"
He presses himself to Patroclus then, making it perfectly clear how he intends to thank him.
Patroclus' hand trails down, along the column of his neck and across the fine jut of his collarbone. Achilles feels fire spark in the wake of his touch, spreading wild beneath his skin with each hammering beat of his pulse.
"If you are to serve me with your body, my fine prince, then you must allow me to teach you the ways of pleasure."
His hand shifts abruptly, grasping Achilles by the hip and bringing him somehow closer. Achilles' own need is already stirring, cock rising in interest with each brush of Patroclus' hands on his naked skin, and he feels delicious friction now with the way it presses against the man's thigh through the folds of his chiton.
"I think you will find me a willing pupil, sir," Achilles breathes, hips stuttering just slightly to seek more of that tension.
Patroclus stills him with a firm grasp, and Achilles swallows a moan at the strength he feels there. Even older, every bit the soldier, Patroclus would still be no match for a demigod in battle— but he is as capable as any of the men in Peleus' great halls, and Achilles thinks it would be no displeasure at all to allow this man to hold him down and take him.
The thought of being taken by his erastes has him drawing further into the touch, as if they could be any closer.
"I do not doubt your willingness, boy," Patroclus says. He punctuates the words with a roll of his own hips. Achilles cannot help but gasp, especially as the shape of Patroclus' own clothed arousal becomes apparent where it brushes against his.
He wants me just as much, Achilles thinks, and remembers the way his erastes looked at him with such hungry eyes.
"If you'll allow me…" Patroclus brings a hand to his other hip and maneuvers him deftly around until Achilles' back is flush to his chest. He can still feel Patroclus' arousal, straining now against the swell of his ass.
Yes, he thinks, I'll allow you anything.
His thoughts are interrupted when he feels Patroclus' lips at his ear, beard brushing coarse along the sensitive curve of his jaw. "Tell me, eromenos, have you ever given yourself to another?" He punctuates the question with a kiss, pressed tenderly to the soft skin just below Achilles' ear.
Achilles arches back into him, craving the scrape of Patroclus' jaw against every inch of his skin. "No," he breathes without hesitation. I did not know what I was waiting for until this moment, he wants to add. "Does this please you?"
Patroclus exhales against him, breath fanning hot over Achilles' skin. "Most ardently," he says, and his voice sounds almost strained with the force of his desire.
Achilles wills himself to stay put, to refrain from turning around and launching himself at Patroclus. A surprised squeak jumps from his vocal cords when the erastes locates his pert nipples under the jewelry he had gifted Achilles, squeezing them lightly between both his thumb and index fingers.
“You are sensitive here.” It is not a question. Patroclus takes care to ease the pressure on Achilles’ chest before rolling his pebbling nipples with the callused pads of his fingers.
“Sir…” Achilles swears he can feel Patroclus’ cock twitch again despite the thick cloth that the man is still draped in.
Patroclus is not done yet. “And here,” He abandons one of Achilles’ nipples to stroke a path down the firm frontal plane of his torso. He traces the vee of his hips before brushing against the neatly trimmed, blond hair that starts from Achilles’ belly button, trailing below.
Achilles worries his bottom lip with his incisors, willing himself not to moan when Patroclus feels the girth of his cock.
“How do you touch yourself, beloved?” As soon as Patroclus has laid his hand on him, he lets go of Achilles’ length. His voice is smoky like a bonfire as he says, “Show me.”
Not caring to bite back a whine, Achilles tilts his head to stare with lust-driven heat at his erastes. Then, with impatience, Achilles sets to work. He closes a fist around his own stiff member, jerking himself up and down in a quickened pace so second-nature to him that he almost forgets he should be showing off for Patroclus, not simply trying to find quick relief. He arches his spine a little, ass grinding against Patroclus’ front, slowing his hand so he can tease the head that peeks from his foreskin. He is leaking precum at the slit, using it as lubrication to ease some of the dryness of his palm against his cock.
He hisses when he plays with the sensitive head, smearing the precum again and again. Achilles tips his head back, resting it on Patroclus’ shoulder so he can take in the way his erastes is watching him. His lips part around moist pants of air, sensing the oncoming of an orgasm. Just a little more, and he will fall over the edge…
“Sir, oh sir,” he gasps, brows knitting together when Patroclus stops his hand; the man puts his own over top of Achilles’. “Please.”
“It is not yet your time,” Patroclus chuckles when Achilles pouts at his answer, “Relax. Be good for me, eromenos.”
Achilles cannot do anything but nod in return, because Patroclus is guiding their hands together to move languidly over Achilles’ cock. He tightens and loosens his fingers over Achilles’ own, urging the prince to do the same around his erection. Sparks of pleasure zap through Achilles’ nerves, and he groans high and needy as Patroclus tells him, “Do it properly. Yes, just like this. You must do it proper.”
He squeezes his legs together when Patroclus begins to twist his wrist as he strokes upward, causing Achilles to follow. Achilles quivers helplessly, so aroused. The wool of Patroclus’ himation clings to the thin sheen of sweat that glazes his golden body, as the man is fully clothed whereas Achilles is nude. He wiggles his hips slightly, feeling the outline of Patroclus’ concealed cock. He wants to see the man, wants to do more than just look. But, oh, he is getting close. Achilles knows the telltale tingling in his navel right before he comes. He is drawing ever nearer to completion, closer to spraying his and Patroclus’ hands with his sticky spend.
He finds it only fair to warn his erastes of this; Achilles mewls wantonly.
“Soon, Achilles.” Patroclus leads Achilles to a straight-standing position, keeping their hands far away from Achilles’ cock. “I have much more to teach you.”
Achilles is so strung up, so frustrated from being denied the right to come that he nearly speaks out of turn. His eyes narrow, nostrils flared as he angles his head to look at his erastes. Patroclus sees this and presses a tender kiss to his lips, much too soft for the thundering emotions of Achilles’ soul.
Patroclus says, “Why don’t you situate yourself on your pallet? I will retrieve the oil.”
“Erastes,” Achilles begins to whimper, but Patroclus gives him a look that is so clear and direct that anything other words that are ready to launch from his sharp tongue shrivel to nothingness.
Patroclus moves towards the head of the bed, searching under the pillows for the small vial of oil that Achilles likes to keep there for… special occasions. The prince clears his throat, “Do you not want to ask me where I keep my lotioning oils?”
The man freezes in his tracks, then he laughs, “Ah, yes, my apologies.” He looks the farthest thing from sorry. “Tell me, Achilles, where do you keep your lotioning oils?”
Achilles climbs over the top of his pallet, settling onto his knees. “Under the right hand pillow, sir. Hurry.” He gazes at Patroclus with lidded eyes.
“Patience is virtue, boy.” The erastes grasps the bottle of pomegranate infused oil and meanders his way to Achilles, whose fingers are itching to move, itching to touch and pinch and caress either himself or Patroclus. The man places the vial near Achilles feet and stands behind him once again. “Present yourself to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Achilles obeys the pressure of Patroclus’ warm hands on the small of his back, steering him to place himself on all fours.
The bed dips as Patroclus closes the gap between them, parting Achilles’ limbs with a thigh. There is rustling; what Achilles surmises must be Patroclus’ himation dropping to the floor reverberates through the bedchamber. His heart nearly jumps to his throat when the man’s leg is removed from between his.
Patroclus obtains the oil again, uncorking it before pouring it generously over his digits. Sealing the vial again, he drops it forgotten onto the bed sheets. He warms the viscous liquid, rubbing his hands together.
Achilles nearly startles out of his skin when his erastes firmly grips the inside of his thighs, lubricating them at the same time he massages the flesh there.
“I need not be broken in like some mare, sir,” he attests when Patroclus continues to knead him. “I am a prince and a demigod, besides.”
Patroclus thrusts his hand further and draws deft fingers along the seam of Achilles' balls, murmuring quiet satisfaction when the prince arches back into the touch. "I don't doubt it, my demigod prince," he says, a thread of amusement weaving through the arousal in his voice, "but I aim to teach you true pleasure, and that cannot be rushed." Achilles makes a noise of protest, but Patroclus only strokes up the inside of his thigh languidly. "Do you think I won't take good care of you?"
Achilles cannot help but bear back into the touch. Each brush of Patroclus' hand against his straining need sends sparks dancing hot over his spine. "I know you will, sir," he gasps. "I only—"
His words taper into a moan as Patroclus rewards him with a firm, deliberate stroke along the underside of his leaking cock. He feels the bed dip as his erastes leans over him, pressing a row of searing kisses down the curve of his back.
"You need not explain yourself to me, boy," Patroclus says, and Achilles almost makes a noise of protest when those clever fingers slip from between his thighs. "I was young once, too, as desperate for release as you are now."
The pallet shifts again under them as Patroclus straightens, and Achilles hears the unmistakable slick sound of a hand working his cock. He groans and squeezes his thighs tighter for some kind of leverage, the anticipation a hot and living thing inside of him. How he wants to turn over, drink in the sight of his erastes finally exposed to him— what would Patroclus' fine features look like, he wonders, knit together in pleasure from this type of foreplay?
He almost dares to ask, but the thought of such a cool, capable man as eager and needy as he feels, surfaces now like a wave in his mind. "I cannot imagine you so inexperienced as I," he manages, voice ragged with want.
Patroclus laughs, but the sound is strained. A generous thrust has the blunt head of his cock smearing the tops of Achilles' thighs, and they both groan in wordless pleasure. Achilles feels a thrill at having affected him so; he still senses those ravenous eyes on him, even with each calm and measured word. "Do not doubt it, beloved," Patroclus says, and yes— there it is, that deep husk of desire that Achilles has been desperate to draw out. "Even now, you tempt me to forget myself…" Patroclus leans over him at this, and the press of his cock against Achilles is a deliberate weight upon him. "...To rut against you like an animal until I am spent."
"Sir," Achilles gasps, pressing himself against the length of Patroclus. "I am yours, have of me what you will." He can hardly force the words out from under the immensity of his need. Take me. Mark me. Anything you want.
"My sweet boy," his erastes praises, and Achilles feels the shape of the words where Patroclus' mouth claims his flesh. "I would not forget my duty to you so easily. Legs tight together for me now, yes?"
Achilles obeys instantly, thighs pressed together and back curved almost obscenely to offer himself for his erastes. Patroclus grips him firmly, and he moans as the insistent press of that slick cock starts to work between his thighs. It is a slow thing; then all at once, Patroclus drives in suddenly, claiming his heat. Achilles is pitched forward against the pillows with the force of his thrust.
The friction is exquisite, Patroclus' cock pinned hard and fast under his, but it is the shape of him that has Achilles gasping. "You're so big," he breathes, clutching at the sheets for purchase.
He knows, distantly, that men so well endowed are often thought to be uncivilized and lecherous; people of the court might call them the spawn of satyrs, or some other lust-addled coupling. But he has never cared for decorum, and the depraved thrill of it only has him aching for more.
He imagines how that generous cock would feel in his hands, his mouth— would he choke on it, the hot weight of Patroclus thick against his tongue? He wonders how his erastes might like that, the sight of him on his knees with his lips stretched wide and eager.
"Do you find me barbaric?" Patroclus murmurs, driving out, then back in, with a rhythm that nearly punches the air from Achilles' lungs. Perhaps it is unbecoming for an erastes, but he cannot find it in himself to care for propriety when all he wants is to be taken.
He finds his own rhythm, rolls his hips until he hears Patroclus gasp with it. "I could not have, ahh— could not have hoped for more," he confesses.
This seems to please Patroclus. His hips stutter once, twice, in deep, rocking thrusts that have Achilles scrabbling to keep his legs held tight when all he really wants to do is spread them.
"Careful now, boy." Patroclus pulls him in by the hips, and his broad palms are a blessed anchor as Achilles spirals into mindless pleasure. "Talking like that has me wanting to do things to you that I shouldn't." His touch is firmer now, bruising. "Even now I should be instructing you, but I—"
He breaks off into a wordless cry as Achilles bears back onto him, using just a lick of that demigod strength that he has kept at bay for his erastes until now. Achilles clenches, keeps him there, delights in the way his own precum smears hot over the length of Patroclus beneath him. "I won't tell, sir," he pleads, half-gone with need already. He has never begged a day in his life, and yet this man has undone him so perfectly in the space of a single hour. "I want everything you know, please."
Patroclus groans, the hands on Achilles' hips dragging up now to grasp the swell of his ass. "It would be unbecoming of a prince," he protests, even as his fingers dig into supple flesh. Achilles encourages him with a roll of his hips, and Patroclus presses blunt thumbs against the cleft of him to spread him wide.
There's a low noise of surprise from behind him as his slick, oil-rimmed entrance is bared. He's still flushed from his preparation, and he shudders when the pad of a single finger brushes against his taut hole. "Achilles…” Patroclus says, and it is not the commanding tone of an erastes that threads his voice. Achilles feels him falter, and his own resolve starts to slip away with it.
"Please, sir," he begs. "Take me, make me yours." He struggles to hold fast to his character now, desperate with a need he has known a hundred lifetimes over. Please, my love, he thinks, I am so empty without you.
Achilles stifles a moan as he circles his entrance with an oiled finger. He will never quite tire of the illicit thrill of it, not even after his Patroclus has taken him a thousandfold.
To be owned in such a way is emasculating, in their custom; if other men share in such an act, they do not speak of it. Penetration is a humiliation reserved for servants and prostitutes alone. But there is no humiliation in it, between them— Achilles was once said to be the best of men, and even in that he belongs to Patroclus still. All his life he had dared anyone defy their bond.
For them, there is no greater ecstasy than to be made one. Perhaps things would have been different if he had known shame in his youth, but Patroclus' body holds no boundaries for him; together they have shared every pleasure they could imagine.
Achilles imagines the hot press of that pleasure now as he thrusts a single, shallow digit into himself. Would Patroclus be a slow and teasing erastes, or rough and urgent instead? He does not know which to hope for. He lets his thoughts drift to the scene that lies ahead of them— how Patroclus might claim him, overstepping the role of a proper lover to sink inside his tight heat.
Would he still play the role? Would he defile his eromenos, make Achilles beg for more than the slick weight of his cock between his thighs? Or would he grow desperate with the familiar need of it?
He pictures Pat's surprise when he spreads Achilles to find him wanting and ready, and the thought has him swallowing a wanton groan. He adds another finger, and then another, working himself until he does not think he cannot stop if he goes any further. He lets the fingers slip from his entrance, wet with oil, and forces his breath to slow to a normal pace.
It will do no good to be too worked up when Patroclus arrives; he wants to seem coy, demure in only the way someone young and inexperienced could be. He returns the oil to its place, pulling the chiton back down over the tops of his thighs and standing— albeit a bit stiffly- to seat himself by his lyre.
The stretch is there with every breath, every motion, and he shudders to think of how he will be rewarded for such restraint.
He can practically hear the way Patroclus’ breath stills, his heart palpitating deep in his sturdy chest; how his eyes widen and his bearded jaw clench at Achilles’ bold words. He does not have to imagine when Patroclus’ cock twinges next to his, willing and wanting nothing more than to be buried inside the prince.
But Patroclus stays put, unmoving as he seems to take his time processing Achilles’ request, like any sensible erastes would. There is so much unsaid between them here, but it does not need to be spoken. Still, Achilles squirms in Patroclus’ hold, pleading in a nonverbal fashion. He wants this, he is saying. He wants what is running rampant through his erastes’ mind, customs and societal statuses be damned. There is no one else in the room to judge them, to catch what they are doing, so why stop here and now?
Then, finally— finally- Patroclus comes to agreement with his eromenos, it seems; he draws back, leaving Achilles’ warm thighs to move onto something more. Achilles keens high and needy, then gasps wetly when the erastes slaps the length of his cock over Achilles’ waiting hole without warning. Arousal jolts straight to his groin, and a moan elicits from his vocal cords before he can stop himself.
“Careful, prince,” Patroclus murmurs, rutting over his entrance but missing his mark each time. It drives Achilles mad with desire. “You know I cannot resist you. Not when you present yourself so divinely like this.”
Achilles would scowl if he were not so desperate for the man. “Patroclus…” He whines when the head of Patroclus’ cock catches on his rim. They both stifle a noise; Achilles feels as though he will melt right through the bed at this rate. “Then give in. What is keeping you from taking what you want?”
A palm comes down on Achilles’ left buttock then, and the prince’s sharp tongue suddenly shrivels as he yelps at the impact. Patroclus chuffs, his voice gravel and grit as he says, “Behave, eromenos. We cannot…”
“But we can,” Achilles counters stubbornly, gyrating back against Patroclus’ length. “Sir, do not hold out on me.”
“Achilles.”
“Now, Patroclus.” Achilles imagines Patroclus smirking, as if he is still teasing, but the thing about teasing Achilles also means that he is teasing himself; both of them know that. There is no sense in waiting any longer, no sense in stopping now, not when they have egged one another on this far.
Patroclus’ erection skims Achilles’ entrance one more time, drawing a hiss from pinched teeth. Then, as inexorable as a rushing tide upon a sandy shore, he lines up with Achilles and obliges his eromenos.
“Ah!” Achilles grapples the bed sheets with clenched fists, his knuckles flushing white.
It is not so uncomfortable as it is tight; Patroclus is far bigger than anything Achilles has ever dared to imagine. His chest heaves, inhaling and exhaling like he has run a kilometer.
Behind him, Patroclus growls his pleasure, “O-oh, eromenos.” His hips still as he stops sliding into the prince halfway. His large, comforting hands pet Achilles’ flanks in a soothing manner as he prompts, “Relax, Achilles.”
“But erastes,” he groans, throbbing from the inside. He feels so full already, though there is still much more to come, and he craves more.
“Push outwards, gently,” Patroclus instructs him. “Yes, that’s right. You feel incredible, Achilles.”
Achilles chews on his bottom lip, leaving it spit-slick and blushing. Pleasure and pain race up and down his spine as he adjusts to Patroclus, unable to contain the noises that vibrate from his vocal cords. The man is absolutely gigantic, so big, and Achilles has nothing to compare him to except for maybe the prince’s own fingers. Patroclus stretches him, breaching him wide to the point he feels like he will break, but he trusts Patroclus enough to know that he will not; that his erastes will take good care of him.
“Oh, you are absolutely enormous,” he speaks when he deems himself acclimated enough to continue.
Patroclus swallows thickly. “Too enormous to continue?”
Achilles shakes his head; pants, “More, sir. I’m ready.”
Patroclus makes a strained, wanting noise at that, pushing slow and thick into Achilles' heat. Achilles spreads his legs wider and gasps through it, the delicious burn of being so utterly filled. There is a taut moment of silence, save the wet drag of skin on skin; Patroclus bottoms out, his hips brushing the swell of Achilles' ass, and they groan in unison.
It is his first time; it is his thousandth time. In the heady rush of their coupling, he finds that their fantasy starts to twine with memories of being filled like this a hundred times over.
Patroclus' hands brush down the curve of his back, soothing, finding purchase at his hips as he pulls out. "So good for me," he says, and then those clever fingers are tightening like a vice as he drives back in.
"Pat— Patroclus, erastes, yes," Achilles pants, the force of it coercing the words from him. Achilles’ jewelry dangles around his torso, swinging with the thrust.
Patroclus begins a driving rhythm then, more desperate than before - Achilles can feel him clinging to the bounds of their charade as he grows mindless with lust. "Eromenos," he answers, the word tapering to a moan. "How— hah, how well you take me for your first time."
Achilles lets out a small noise of amusement. He rolls his hips in unison with Patroclus' thrusts, gasping when he feels his erastes' thick weight brush against the sensitive spot inside of him. "I could have had no better teacher," he manages between breaths.
Patroclus stills in him then, suddenly, and Achilles makes a noise of protest. "No," Patroclus says, his beard a gentle scrape as he bends to plant a trail of kisses up a section of Achilles' spine. Achilles tries to move, but those firm hands on his hips still him again. "No, a good teacher would not defile you so…" Patroclus' beard brushes his neck now, and his breath fans hot over Achilles' ear. "But you are too great a temptation for me, Achilles Pelides."
He punches in again just as the name leaves his lips, again, again, and Achilles can only keen at the punishing pace of Patroclus' cock driving deeper. He is still bent over his prince, and the weight of him holding Achilles down has him rutting into the sheets like a desperate pet.
"Yes, yes," Achilles chants, each thrust drawing a raw noise from him. "Use me, then— please, I'm yours."
Patroclus growls low in his throat, one hand snaking from Achilles' hip to tangle in his hair. He pulls, sharp, baring Achilles' neck to pant open-mouthed against sweat-slick skin. "Mine," he says, his cock buried impossibly deep. "Always. Say it again, Achilles."
“I’m yours!” Achilles’ voice breaks on the last syllable.
Patroclus grunts and goes faster, slamming into Achilles hard enough that the sound of flesh against flesh is deafening. His cock hammers into Achilles’ core, rucking him up the bedsheets with each thrust.
It feels incredible like this. So base is this type of copulation, yet so loved and needed by those who can set aside the pressure of societal norms for ultimate pleasure. Achilles’ eyes roll back in their sockets as Patroclus slams back inside with a particularly good angle, once more brushing the bundle of nerves that send a million sparks of ecstasy through his body.
“Again..!” He hears himself demand, “Do it again!”
“Achilles.” Patroclus roars his name like a wild beast. His mane of hair, once clasped back in a neat style, is coming undone, and Achilles can feel springy ringlets brush along his nape and back to the rock of their motions.
Achilles wails when Patroclus hits his prostate with deadly accuracy, hands clutching the sheets so hard he is certain they will tear with a bit more force. “Yes!” He babbles, “Yes, oh, right there.”
Patroclus’ hips piston wildly, stabbing at him with precision. The friction is so good. The pleasure is too much, yet not enough. I need him deeper, Achilles thinks. I need him completely inside me.
It is as if his erastes can read his mind; Patroclus ceases his movements to pull out of Achilles, flipping him onto his back. Then, with practiced ease, he lifts the prince’s hips and repositions himself at Achilles’ winking entrance. Achilles follows suit, quick like the demigod he is, folding himself until his knees touch his chest. He holds them there.
When Patroclus re-enters him, Achilles gasps. No matter how many times they embrace each other, he knows he will never get used to the feeling. He revels in it, snaking his arms around Patroclus’ shoulders as the man presses their torsos together.
Passion is thick like molasses around them. Patroclus piledrives his eromenos, his hips pounding an intense rhythm that Achilles’ heart beats to. He smashes their lips together in a kiss, tongues coming out to play as Patroclus makes him feel like he is flying. The man’s tongue fucks into his mouth the same time that his cock plunders Achilles’ innermost area. Achilles can do little but hold on for dear life, his hips pushing back when Patroclus thrusts forward in an attempt to draw more of him in.
Their voices, pants, groans reverberate and bounce from the walls of Achilles’ bedchamber, colliding with one another until they meld into one cohesive sound. Achilles decides that he loves it, this sound. To Achilles, he and Patroclus are like music together, the two of them creating the sweetest, most devoted melody he has ever heard. They move in tandem, their eyes never looking away from each other for a second. As each swell of pleasure cascades over them, they are pushed further towards the edge of orgasm, their rapture inevitable.
Achilles barely has the time to warn his lover, his philtatos, his everything. His abdomen tightens, the muscles in his slicked thighs going taut until the burn. His back arches and his toes point like the dancer he once was. His nails dig crescent moons into Patroclus’ fuscous back. His eyelids flutter rapidly as ultimate pleasure washes over him. Then, from the tip of his shaft, he sprays his seed across both their bellies.
His lungs fail to work as he is suspended in his orgasmic rapture. It is like Achilles is choking, he finds, unable to breathe yet finding elation within it. His whole being quivers with tremors of pleasure, rocking his spirit closer to where he and Patroclus are connected. The barrier between him and his erastes was broken when Patroclus penetrated him. Achilles cannot discern where he ends and where Patroclus begins. They have become one, found each other like they have always meant to be a singular unit.
Patroclus fits Achilles as perfectly as Achilles fits Patroclus. So in tune with each other are they that he can feel Patroclus topple over the edge, crying out and burying his face in the crook of Achilles’ shoulder. His erastes fills him with wet heat, their souls reaching for each other until, finally, they meet in the middle. It feels exquisite, coming together like this. He cannot imagine anything better; to be connected with Patroclus, becoming whole again, even if it is just for a little while.
Over and over, Patroclus fucks him through their orgasms. Achilles feels Patroclus shiver in completion, nipping and biting his collarbones in a sign of possession, passion, and love. He sighs into each mark he makes upon Achilles’ skin, hips undulating erratically until he slows to gentle grinds against his lover. Achilles’ body responds, milking every last drop of his spend from him.
“Patroclus,” Achilles whispers, unwilling to break the comfortable silence that has settled around them when their hearts have begun to slow.
Patroclus brings his face to Achilles’, pressing whiskery kisses along his jaw, then his lips. “Yes, Achilles?” He makes a gesture to move, but Achilles catches him, grabbing one of his wrists.
Achilles says, “Stay.”
“You’ll get itchy in a moment, love.” They both moan as Patroclus’ softened dick slides from Achilles, leaving a trail of heady cum in its wake. “I don’t suppose you have a cloth around that I could use to clean us up?”
Achilles wiggles his hips, feeling pitifully empty. He wants nothing more than to go at it again with Patroclus; let the man satisfy him in every way possible tonight.
“Little minx,” Patroclus chuckles at him softly, stilling him with a hand on his hips.
“Philtatos,” breathes Achilles, pecking his lover softly on the mouth. “My most beloved. Agapi mou. Thank you.”
“What for?”
“You know what for,” Achilles grouses jokingly, “Must you make me say it?”
“No, love, but it is fun to tease you.” Patroclus tucks a golden twirl of Achilles’ hair behind his lover’s ear. “Was this everything you hoped for?”
Achilles nods, sultry eyelashes sweeping across high cheekbones when he blinks, recalling the prep, the foreplay, the whole scene in their bedroom. Everything was perfect. “I wish you could have been my erastes, Pat.”
Both men know that it was not the case while they were alive. The concept of erastes and eromenos had not been put upon them, and Achilles had not heard about it until he arrived in the Underworld. He guesses that the concept must have missed them, as he had chosen Patroclus as his philtatos, not the other way around. They had gone to train with Chiron in the mountains of Pelion, away from all eyes of the aristoi. And later, the war had taken them to Troy, to Ilium, stealing them away and sentencing them to their fate. But there could have been a chance, had Achilles stayed at the palace, refraining from electing Patroclus as philtatos and waiting for his father, king Peleus, to find an erastes for him. Perhaps, if he did that, Patroclus would have been his erastes, guiding him just as he did moments ago.
“Do not dwell on the past, my heart,” Patroclus says, drawing him away from his thoughts. Somehow, the man has found a spare rag to clean him with. It is dry, but welcome on Achilles’ skin as Patroclus mops up his mess between his lover’s legs. “What matters is that I can be your erastes now.”
Achilles hums, “And I your eromenos.” Even if we weren’t able to be in life, we can be for the rest of eternity, he thinks.
“And you my eromenos,” Patroclus agrees. He tosses the scrap piece of soiled cloth away from the bed, maneuvering both he and Achilles to their sides.
Achilles’ legs feel like jelly. He throws a thigh over Patroclus’ and curls into the man’s body with a content breath. He can afford to rest next to his other half for a while.
“I love you,” Patroclus says, lips on Achilles’ forehead.
Achilles returns a kiss on a bare section of Patroclus’ neck. “I love you, too.” He yawns, the exhaustion of energy spent beckoning him to close his eyes. “I do not want to let go of you yet.” He tightens his arms around Patroclus.
“You do not have to.” Patroclus reassures him, “Not even Sleep cannot separate us now.”
In each other’s arms, the two men slip into a dream smelling of Pthian wind and sun.