Work Text:
Achilles did not beg Patroclus to come to Troy. Nor would he have entertained the idea of doing so.
He was a warrior as much as Achilles was, raised in the same house, trained by the same teacher. The same extremes guided his spirit; his own rage saw him sent from his first home and into the one they shared. Death and blood had come to him too young to ever fear it as a man, and Achilles could attest to the chill raised on the flesh of any man within earshot of his battle cry.
“If you leave me behind and die there, I will not forgive you. I am going. Refuse me as a soldier and I will join as someone else’s.”
Achilles did not refuse him.
Still, despite all that Patroclus was still a creature of extremes, gentleness included. He washed their clothes and hung them to dry, repaired their armor and took care of the leather. He patched the holes in the canvas at first, and helped build their rugged little house when it became clear Troy would not open its doors. He tended to the fire. He cooked their dinners.
He was cooking now too, even though they wouldn’t starve no matter how long without it.
He sings while he does it, sweet and unassuming while Achilles props his spear in its proper stand, kicks off his sandals by the door and throws his cloak over the back of their sofa mid-stride to the kitchen.
Achilles can tell by the way Pat jumps at the embrace that he made it the whole way without being noticed.
“Gods above, Achilles!” His love bit out before relaxing backwards into him, tension leaving in increments with every apologetic yet amused peck kissed into his shoulder. “I have a knife in my hand, you should know better.”
Achilles props his chin up on the same shoulder he’s been smooching, squinting at the knife and whatever tedious challenge is sitting on the counter. He did know better, actually. He has a scar on the inside of one elbow from sneaking up on Pat while he still had a sword in one hand.
(One of the first years at Troy, that was. Patroclus felt terrible and had stitched and bandaged it himself while Phoenix and Achilles laughed about it for nearly three days straight. It did sting and itch, though.)
“Ah, I should have checked first.” He allowed with a smile, coiling even tighter around and giving a great squeeze before relaxing his grip. “What are you making?” He asked, gesturing with a nod at the remains of a mess on the cutting board.
“A somewhat convoluted scheme, thank you for asking.” Patroclus began promptly after craning his neck to return a kiss that Achilles wished would linger just a bit longer. “There is, let’s say a bread-adjacent item in the oven. I just put it there.”
Achilles noted the clay pot with a lid nudged inside the oven- in the coals, not the fire. Elysium was always cool and today had been downright chilly, but Patroclus had soaked in the heat from the oven on his left and the hearth on his right. Surely he didn’t mind Achilles trying to warm his nose against his skin.
“I wanted to find something that would sweeten it, but there’s no honey here. Why would there be with no bees, yes?” Patroclus explained, reaching up to play with one of Achilles curls for a moment before picking up something pink off the counter to show him. “But there are bats, I’ve seen them. They only sniff out nectar in a few types of flowers, and I had to climb to get to them but I did gather quite a few.”
“Seems like a lot of work for a few blossoms. Did you get much out of them?” He asked.
“Truthfully more than I thought I would.” Patroclus sighed, the last of the tension in his frame melting away. He tilted his head so subtly that it was barely noticeable, but Achilles knew an invitation when he saw one and planted a few more kisses there. “You seem to be in a terribly amorous mood, today.”
Achilles nodded solemnly.
“Terribly so.” He agreed, sighing into black hair that smelled always of citron and cardamom. His love finally took pity on him with a theatrical pout and a coo, turned his head again to give the full kiss Achilles had wanted before.
He was going to break away, at some point, to tell how he’d been plagued by affection and lust for the entirety of the work day.
Elysium was still new to Achilles, and there was time spent talking and relearning each other with no small amount of guilt and hesitation on his part. He had been so sure he wouldn’t be welcome or wanted here that he had to be coaxed into every embrace. After that was a long while of needing the touch so badly he could weep, but having to wait until it was offered. He couldn’t ask for it, couldn’t be the one to initiate.
Not now, not anymore.
It had simply taken time for it to sink in, that Patroclus had wanted him here, had wanted them together as much as Achilles did. And once he realized he really would be met with open arms, it was hard to even think of anything other than kisses and bare skin and warm breath, of hands in his hair. Celebratory Clinging.
He was going to break away to vocalize these thoughts. Truly. It was difficult to do so with teeth worrying at his lower lip, pulling away with a pop only to swoop back in and soothe it with easy swipes of tongue.
Patroclus was leaning backwards on purpose, ever so slightly pressing his ass into Achilles' hips and playing it off like an accident with a playful laugh. He was also wearing perhaps the shortest tunic Achilles had ever seen him in, wine-dark and pretty.
“I am starting to suspect maybe you have as well.” Achilles teased, hands shifting to play with the hem of the tunic. It was split on both sides up to the hip—it’d be useful under armor, would keep movement free and easy. At the moment however, Achilles' thoughts were elsewhere. He gripped Patroclus by the hips, hands kneading at bare skin in the gaps of fabric, thumbs brushing the divots of muscle.
“Mm, suspect I have what?” He hummed, insufferably pleased with his head resting back against Achilles’ shoulder, with his favorite coil of blonde hair twisting idly between his fingers.
Achilles trailed one hand lower, slow enough that it’s trajectory could have been diverted or stopped at any time. But it wasn’t. Not at the naval, not along the decorative trail of dark curls that started just beneath it. He should have taken Patroclus’ smug relaxation as a hint to brace himself.
He was so wet it wrenched a groan from Achilles, though he kept petting between petal-soft folds while he pressed more heated kisses just under Patroclus’ ear, nipped and pulled ever so slightly on the little gold hoop he wore.
“How long have you been standing here this slick?” Achilles asked, finally earning a jolt and a caught breath as he trailed fingers up to slide teasingly on either side of his cock. He leans back a ways so he can watch Pat’s face, watch his lashes flutter and his lip get caught between his teeth when Achilles stops teasing and starts stroking him between two fingers and his thumb.
“All day.” He huffed, pulling his own hand out of Achilles’ hair to hold onto his forearm tenderly, as if to praise the work of his fingers.
“Ah, poor thing.” Achilles teased with a pout and a deceptively chaste peck on the cheek, trailing his unoccupied hand up. “Was that a factor in your wardrobe?”
The tunic was sleeveless, and the open sides allowed Achilles to pet along the dips of pretty anteriors, (the ones he was admittedly jealous of), over one of the long smooth scars left by Chiron’s careful blade and Thetis’ healing hands, all to settle and grope at the pec. (That he was also jealous of.)
Patroclus laughed breathlessly, petting over the skin on Achilles’ arm, perfectly at ease. His smile was contagious.
“I admit my vanity was involved when I bought it.” He allowed, pausing to collect his thoughts while Achilles tried with single-minded focus to make it harder to do so. “There may be more than one of them.” He was rocking his hips up to the touch, hypnotic to watch.
But he was actually so wet that when he moved Achilles would occasionally lose his grip or the position of his fingers, then lose the rhythm while trying to correct.
“How long ago did you put the bread in the oven?” He asked, almost colloquial.
“Not all that long ago.” Patroclus assured him breathlessly, clutching now at Achilles arm and starting to wilt forward as if curling around it.
A quick glance backward was all the warning he gave before heaving Pat upright against him and walking them both backward several clumsy steps towards the table that separated their kitchen from their living space. He pulled out one of the chairs and turned it outward with his foot before plopping down, dragging Patroclus onto his lap with his back still pressed to Achilles’ chest so he could continue working at him.
This was much better, easier on his wrist for certain as well as allowing a great deal more kissing. It was familiar in a relaxing sort of way; the sound of shifting coals and the crackle of the hearth, the weight of Patroclus against him and warm breath on his face.
Inspired by a sudden wave of affection, Achilles hastens the twisting motion of his hand. Not fast by a long shot, but even the jump from idle to leisurely to steady has Patroclus in a lather, makes him break the kiss to pant for more air.
“I’ll come like this if you don’t move along.” He managed, squirming when Achilles paused only to dip down and rewet his hand before continuing.
“I know.” Achilles replied with a nip at his ear, groaning at the filthy sound his hand was making. “No need to hold back, you‘ll get more than one,- I want you on my tongue after this. I’ve thought of little else all day.”
His words must have conjured the sensation, just like he thought they might. Patroclus called out and fell forward, torso curled protectively, hands grasping at Achilles’ arm and trembling thighs clamping down on either side to keep him in place while he rode out his orgasm. Literally riding, trying to draw it out as long as he could before Achilles finally wrestled his hand away.
He spared little time before coaxing Patroclus up on wobbly legs, swooped him up by the waist playfully with a laugh before plopping him down to lie on his back on the table, while Achilles simply turned his chair and sat back down, heaved him closer to lick at his thighs.
“How I spoil you, honestly.” Patroclus laughed before sighing, content while Achilles let him catch his breath for a moment. “All day, was it?”
“Yes.” Achilles nodded with grave seriousness, sucking stray slick off the inside of a long leg before nibbling upward. He stopped short of his destination, repeating the same motion on the other leg and hoping he’d be given a signal to continue, busying himself elsewhere even while his mouth watered just at the smell of him.
It must have been the smell of him, Achilles mused; clean musk and spice somewhere on his clothes or his hands or his face that the rag had missed the night before that had him practically squirming at his guard post.
“By all means, help yourself.” Patroclus allowed, hands returned twisting a few favored blond coils in his fingers. “Slow, at first.”
Achilles had been planning to take his time regardless, so he did start slow—licked with a wide wet tongue from his hole up, stopped before he got to his dick in case it was still too sensitive, though he couldn’t help it if his nose nudged him here by accident. He kept the pace leisurely if not downright luxurious, repeating the motion again and again, drinking his fill of the faint taste of salt.
Patroclus breathed only in great sighs above him, had taken scratching gently at Achilles scalp in a way that made him shiver and hum, extravagantly pleased when the first gentle swipe he made over his cock was met with a gentle and hushed “oh!” .
Achilles kept that up for a bit longer, taking the long drags of his tongue all the way up and over, lingering more and more while Patroclus filled back out, putting more and more pressure at the root to help him plump up. His patience must have paid off, Patroclus’ legs squeezing together and both hands clutching at Achilles’ head when he finally devoted all of his attention here. (There was a time when he would have had to pry himself free to gasp for air, but that time was long past.)
The legs around him proved too strong to maneuver against anyway, so without any possible vertical motion he simply chuckled and took his cock into his mouth, suckled as gently as he dared and just let Patroclus fuck his face while he choked and panted on gasps of Achilles’ name.
A particular weakness of Achilles’ in fact, who moaned in reply and shifted to get a hand in his own lap for a brief moment before thinking better of it. The wet spot he originally thought Patroclus had left had actually been his own doing it seemed, and the heel of his own palm on the outside of his clothes had been almost enough to push him over a brink he hadn’t noticed the approach to. He whined but ignored it otherwise, busied his hand elsewhere.
Patroclus was too soft to bother with one finger inside for very long, made a nearly insulted little huff and a pout at the fluttering of two, so Achilles acquiesced and gave three, set a resolute rhythm with them to distract while he readjusted the placement of his mouth, and then just waited.
He made note of each familiar cue,— the trembling thighs, the clenching at the abdomen, the roll of his hips growing tighter and quicker, same as whatever mantra or praise muttered under his breath did.
Patroclus spilled when he came this time. Just a little, just enough to feel trickle over Achilles’ hand— but even that had made his eyes roll back, nearly had him finish untouched before he managed to ground himself, gradually slow his motions before extracting himself from precisely all four of his lover’s limbs.
Achilles stood, wiped his mouth while he risked a glance down at the state of Patroclus. A bit of genuine awe and admiration tempered his own impatience, made him take pause and settle. Sweat made his skin glow and his tunic stick to him here and there, though not as much as his hair did—nearly covering the majority of his face. He was catching his breath, the heave of his chest slowing, the puffs of air from his mouth sending a few wild black curls fluttering about.
He almost says something, wants to wax poetic, to feed Patroclus’ vanity for a little while, but his attention is as easy to snatch away as ever. It was a little cooler in the room than before, maybe a bit dimmer. It sent Achilles’ eyes roaming the kitchen before landing on the oven.
“You might have been over-cautious with the oven, my heart. The flame’s gone out and the coals are cooling.” He chuckled, watched Patroclus’ face go from post-coital bliss to tense exasperation in the span of four seconds.
“Ugh!” He groaned, swiping hair out of his face climbing down off the table. “I’ll tend to it. Wait on the couch for me, will you? And take this cuirass off.” He added, knocking on the metal of Achilles’ armor.
Achilles did as he was asked with a sigh and a smile, meandered over their favored sofa piled high with cushions and sat his cuirass on the ground but plenty out of their way. As he turned to sit down he began to speak, to confess that he likely wouldn’t last more than a minute so there was no need to set aside designated time to get him off, but was made speechless once more.
Patroclus had pulled his tunic up and off, tossed it haphazardly in the direction of their current pile of laundry to be done. He stood in their kitchen bare, the newly stoked fire showing off his sharp angles and swooping curves while he loosely braided his hair halfway down, letting the rest hang free.
Achilles only found his words again when his lap was full, having gawked mindlessly the entire walk to him. A mortal like a god, truly.
“I hate to disappoint,” Achilles murmured against a warm collar bone, “but you won’t get much from me, love. You’d be lucky if I lasted more than a full minute.”
Patroclus only pressed closer for a kiss, cradled Achilles’ head and did his damndest to suck the taste of himself off his mouth. “Cute.” He teased, still reaching in the scant space between them to find the part in Achilles’ skirts and sweep the fabric out of the way. Before he can even hiss at the relative cool of the room, Patroclus has risen on his knees and lined them up.
There’s no resistance when he slides down, just molten heat that punches a too loud groan from Achilles, a silk vice that has him throbbing and clutching at his hips when he settles down and stills completely, pressed flush together, fully sheathed.
Patroclus just watches him struggle with heavy lidded eyes, full to the brim of affection and mischief in equal parts.
“No need to hold back, my love.” He purred at Achilles, doing little more than shifting back and forth. “You can have more than one.”
He didn’t need any more prompting.
Achilles clutched at his back and shoulders, trying to hold him down, fell forward into his chest and worked his own hips up as much as he could, truly only managed to jostle them in place but it was all he could handle anyway. He came immediately, a weak dribble that was almost painfully unsatisfactory, left him flagging but not soft.
The second one was better.
Patroclus stayed in his lap for what felt like hours, kissing and cooing, sucking on his tongue and leaving brutal bruises all over his tanned throat, kept him tucked away inside the whole time. He gradually returned to his gentle shifting from before, filled the room with more slick sounds that made them both gasp and groan, waited until Achilles was ready before holding himself up on his knees just so, let Achilles take over the pace and the work while he returned to kissing lovebites and moaning in his ear, praising when the slide is just right-
Achilles finished that time to the repetition of Patroclus’ walls clamping down on him, both of them calling out with a shout before collapsing, wilting together like a straw house, too tired to actually work each other through the aftershocks. So they just sat, catching their breath and feeling every little twitch and tremble.
…
“Don’t fall asleep like that.” Achilles managed after a while, muffled by a shoulder with his own eyes closed. His only reply was a deep sigh, ambiguously awake. “Hey.” He nudged, only a little louder.
“What?” Pat bit back, grouchy about being disturbed despite being the one on top of him.
“Don’t sleep, you put bread in the oven, remember?”
Possibly not the best thing he could have led with.
Patroclus' eyes shot open with a full body jolt. He gave a startled curse a bit too close to Achilles ear and rose so quickly it was obvious he had truly dozed and forgotten they were still somewhat attached. It took him until he was upright and turned on his heel for the sensation or lack thereof to unsteady him, made one leg wobble and nearly give out underneath him as he gave an even louder curse, but to his credit he did correct and shuffle quickly to the kitchen.
Achilles was trying so hard to laugh as quietly as possible that he was curled in on himself, holding his own middle and covering his eyes. He thought he had gathered himself enough to peek through his fingers, but the sight of Patroclus, —lying inexplicably forlorn and naked, face down on the kitchen floor next to the pot he yanked out of the oven—made Achilles squeak and wheeze into another fit of laughter.
“Did you burn it?” He choked out, voice high and tight with watery eyes.
Patroclus whipped out one of his arms to give a very prim and princely gesture to the pot, not even looking up.
“It’s not even fucking done.” He mumbled, turning his head away from Achilles' good-natured mockery.
It tasted good later, when it was done, and only tasted a little like flowers.