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Patroclus does not think he has ever gone so long without having Achilles since they first slept together. Except for his stint at Scyros, they have always been together, always wanted each other.
The war has ate at them in ways they never expected. Their love for each other is not gone, certainly, but what is he to do when Achilles’ pride is as immense as it is? Sitting around and fuming because of one minuscule slight. It is hard to not feel furious at him in times like these.
Many nights now Achilles has turned over to sleep before Patroclus crawls into bed, or has been gone when Patroclus himself settles in. They are around each other more than ever now that Achilles has retired from the fighting, and yet nothing has eased between them. If anything, the gulf has only widened.
What is Patroclus to do? Mourn? He has been mourning enough already. And the feeling will not abate.
Now Achilles is here. For once, taking a break from his fuming and peacocking because he has decided he wants Patroclus again. He presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “Patroclus,” he sighs. “Patroclus.”
“You want my thighs,” says Patroclus.
Achilles nods against his skin.
Ha.
“Well, take them, then.”
Achilles’ fingers stutter on their path to his hips. “Hm?” he says.
“The oil’s on your side,” Patroclus sniffs. “Why should I do all the work?”
He wants to roll over, just to see the look on Achilles’ picturesque features, the hesitation he is sure is shadowing them. He has spoken to Achilles sharply before, has ordered him around, for he quite likes that, but he knows there’s a cruel edge to it now. And Achilles has been so sensitive to being put in his place recently, always on the edge of fury. It is probably not a good idea to push it.
But, really. He cannot resist. If Achilles wants his body, fine. If he wants his affection, he must earn it.
Achilles’ hands leave his waist. “If you wish it,” he says slowly.
He hears the clink of the bottle of oil, and then Achilles’ hands are at the apex of his thighs. He parts them with obvious reluctance. The oil is cold—he sighs, displeased.
“What?” Achilles asks.
“You did not warm it,” Patroclus says, disappointed. “You usually warm it.”
A hint of embarrassment now. “My mind is elsewhere.”
Patroclus lets out a laugh. “Where else?”
“On the beauty in front of me, that is all,” Achilles replies, setting back to spreading the oil on Patroclus’ thighs.
He lingers longer than he should have on the muscle of Patroclus’ thighs, his hands pushing and squeezing, almost massaging the oil onto the dark skin. It is a very loving caress, the kind Achilles has not shown him in too long, so caught up in his petty wrath. His hands slip away, brush the back of Patroclus’ thighs and the curve of his ass, and then he is shifting closer.
“Patroclus,” he says in his ear.
Patroclus lifts his hand to his face, picking idly at his nails. “Go ahead,” he replies, disaffected.
Achilles is silent for a moment. Then he huffs. The warmth of him at Patroclus’ back disappears, the weight of him on the bedroll shifts, and he is talking, now, from further away. “Patroclus, will you look at me?”
Only because he asks so nicely, Patroclus turns over.
Achilles is sitting on his knees, a pout on his pink lips—he would probably like to think it more dignified than that. He is nude, of course, and his hard cock rests against his belly, flushed as his cheeks at the tip.
“I do not understand,” he says. “Do you not want me?”
Patroclus rests an elbow on the bed and pushes himself up to better meet Achilles’ gaze. “What does it matter what I want?” he asks. “Recently, it has become clear that it’s only your desires that matter.”
“Patroclus!” Achilles exclaims, scandalized.
Undoubtedly he is about to rattle off some spiel about how his memory is all that matters, and his legacy is being tarnished, and every single other selfish, demanding thing he has subjected Patroclus to time and time again. But Patroclus holds up a hand.
“I am not your whore, I don’t think,” he says. “You can have me if you’d like. But I won’t just let you crawl into my bed after such a distance and moan for you for nothing.”
Achilles is stunned into silence, for one of the very few times Patroclus can remember. He thinks the only time he has ever seen him so thrown off was when he discovered him on Scyros. For a second he thinks he might have pushed it too far—that Achilles will throw on his chiton and armor and march out, or, worse, throw Patroclus out himself—but then, Achilles’ sharp eyes narrow.
“But you will moan for something,” he says.
“…For something,” Patroclus allows.
“I have changed my mind.” Now it is Achilles’ turn to look like a lion, seconds away from the fatal strike. Of course he thinks he can do it. “I would like to take you.”
Patroclus will crumble his smugness. He has to fight hard not to smile. “Whatever you like.”
He allows Achilles to turn him over, and spreads his legs at Achilles’ urging so that Achilles may kneel between them. His fingers are still covered in oil, and he squeezes Patroclus’ ass briefly, then spreads his cheeks. His calloused fingers are so familiar, pushing into Patroclus’ hole.
“At least it is warm now,” Patroclus muses aloud, careful to keep his voice steady.
It is all much more work than he anticipated—avoiding clenching around Achilles’ fingers as he works one, two, three inside of him, avoiding sighing or moaning or grunting. There is a mirror beside Achilles’ bed, one of his most beloved war prizes, and though Patroclus has come to loathe the topic of prizes and loot as of late, he is thankful for the ability to look askance into it. In its surface he can see Achilles’ face, hard-set and pink with determination, and his own, ever smooth. Achilles nudges his prostate, and he grinds back on instinct, and has to bite his lip to keep from making any noise at the way Achilles’ face lights up.
No, he won’t allow it.
“Patroclus,” Achilles says, bending down to kiss his shoulder. He is looking in the mirror too—two of them watching the two of them. “Are you ready for me?”
“I have been ready for you,” Patroclus dismisses.
Achilles flushes, but, obediently, presses the head of his cock to Patroclus’ hole. Patroclus bites his lip and drops his head to obscure him from the mirror as Achilles pushes inside of him. He is large and thick and hot, and more than that there is Achilles’ choked-off moan as he sheaths himself. He pushes in, in, in. Against Patroclus’ word, it is a stretch, but he dutifully does not make a sound.
Finally, Achilles presses all the way in, his hips pressed against Patroclus’ ass. Patroclus steels his expression and chances a glance into the mirror. His Achilles’ eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth open in pleasure.
“Well?” Patroclus says.
Achilles draws out and thrusts sharply back in. It feels better than good, feels like ecstasy, but Patroclus thinks he might have changed up the pace just to try to get a reaction. Of course he wants to clench around Achilles’ cock, to take his pleasure from him, but he won’t. Not yet.
Achilles fucks into him quickly, with sharp, precise thrusts. It only takes him a few thrusts to fall into a rhythm, and all the better for it, for it makes it even easier for Patroclus to anticipate what’s coming and school his expression into nothingness. He is only glad Achilles cannot see his cock, sandwiched between his body and the blankets, hard and throbbing and leaking. He sighs, resting a cheek on one hand.
“I thought
aristos achaion
could do a little better than this.”
Achilles’ hips stutter.
“But, no, it is all about you… you want release, don’t you? You crave it.”
The emotions he sees flicker across Achilles’ face in the mirror, first shame then lust then something like rage, and then lust, again, the unabashed look in his eyes, like he wants to devour Patroclus. He opens his mouth, but, occupied as he is with fucking Patroclus, can only manage a high moan.
“Yes, you are desperate,” Patroclus says slowly. “Listen to yourself. It’s as if you’re the one being fucked.”
Achilles whines, needy, but keeps thrusting into Patroclus at that same pace, desperate for pleasure.
“Like you’re a whore.”
“No,” moans Achilles.
“You want to cum, don’t you,” Patroclus says, with a viscous, barely-hidden glee. He’s never been able to speak to Achilles like this—no one alive ever has. “You don’t care about anything else. Selfish little whore.”
“No-o-oh, fuck,” Achilles keens.
“No?” Patroclus asks, over the sound of Achilles’ hips slapping against his ass. “You’re not a selfish whore?”
Achilles shakes his head frantically, fucking into Patroclus. He is lucky that the mirror is there.
“I don’t think so. I think you are. If you weren’t selfish, you’d be working harder to make me cum, would you not?”
Achilles’ cockhead hits his prostate, and against his better judgement he groans, his fingers curling into the blankets. Taking this as encouragement, Achilles pounds him even harder, letting out little high-pitched grunts and groans. His cock hammers against Patroclus’ prostate, and gods above, it feels so good. Patroclus has to tighten his fingers in the bedding and bite down hard on his lip to keep any more moans from escaping, and he knows he’s moving his hips back to meet Achilles’ thrusts, embarrassing enough on its own. He lets out a trembling, fragile sigh.
“You want me to moan for you, hu-uh? You want me to praise your cock?” He grits his teeth. “Well—unh—I won’t. You can fuck me better than this.”
In a second, Achilles pulls out of him. Then he is being manhandled onto his back, his legs being pulled up to Achilles’ shoulders, and Achilles shoves his cock back into him. His chest is flushed a beautiful red, and as he pounds Patroclus at a new, ferocious pace, Patroclus tips his head back and hisses.
His cock is so deep inside of him. He can feel his orgasm coming, a knot coiling inside of his belly. Sooner or later he won’t be able to resist anymore, won’t be able to fake disinterest, won’t—
Suddenly, Achilles lets out a broken, high wail. Warmth floods his insides. He watches as Achilles tips his head forward, thrusting weakly once, twice, three times inside of Patroclus, until he is done cumming. Then they are both quiet, except the sound of Achilles’ heavy panting.
“Oh, Achilles,” Patroclus says, condescension dripping from the words. “Really?”
Achilles pulls out of him. He doesn’t look at all ashamed—on the contrary, he looks shyly pleased, a gleam in his lowered eyes.
“Of course I was right again. You’re nothing but a selfish little slut.” Now, pushing himself up into a sit, he can watch directly as the words make Achilles shiver with pleasure. For a moment he lets it linger before he twists the knife: “And you like it, don’t you? You like being such a whore.”
Achilles shakes his head, still clearly smiling.
“I thought you weren’t a liar,” Patroclus tuts. “But you’re already aroused again, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Achilles replies.
Patroclus rolls his eyes. “Of course you are.”
He shuffles a little closer to Achilles. He has to move a little gingerly, sitting so soon after Achilles fucked him so hard, but it’s worth it to spread his legs and get a look at the poorly-hidden eagerness that blooms on Achilles’ face.
“You can get off on my thigh next,” he says, disinterested.
It takes Achilles a second to process this, but he flushes, and clambers onto Patroclus’ thigh. Soon he is grinding against Patroclus’ leg, rocking his hips like he was moments ago. Patroclus’ cock, throbbing and oozing precum, is left untouched as Achilles moves.
“So strange that no one’s ever spoken to you as such before,” Patroclus muses, watching Achilles get himself off. “You already came once, and still, you’re so greedy for more.”
Achilles nods, with little hitched breaths.
“You’re not even embarrassed.”
Achilles humps Patroclus’ thigh with no decency, no hesitation, no shame. His pretty pink lips fall open and his head falls forward as he grinds his cock against Patroclus’ muscled thigh.
Eventually, he gasps out, “Please.”
Patroclus lifts his gaze from his rutting hips. “Hm?”
“Please,” Achilles says, his eyes alight, “let me, ah, ah—let me cum, please…” His movements pick up speed. “Please, I can be good—“
“Ah,” Patroclus says. “Well, clearly you can’t. A good boy would’ve made me cum long before now, wouldn’t he?”
Achilles whimpers, looking down in shame. It’s such a strange emotion on him, unmitigated by anger, mixed only with arousal.
“You’ll do it whether I tell you to or not,” Patroclus says airily. “So you might as well.”
Achilles dissolves into cries of “thank you, thank you, thank you,” as he humps Patroclus’ thigh. His breaths pick up speed and his cries lose all sense and shape until they are sound only, and then he is coming undone again with a beautiful wail, spilling all over Patroclus’ thighs.
It is almost an afterthought when, on shaking limbs, he settles between Patroclus’ legs to mouth at his cock. Patroclus has been so keyed up for so long that it takes just about nothing at all, only a glimpse at the warmth and heat of Achilles’ mouth, before he’s spilling onto that skilled, wet tongue. He doesn’t even get out a grunt of warning, and still, Achilles swallows it all, every single drop.
He runs a hand through Achilles’ hair as he pulls off of his softening cock. Achilles looks up at him through his lowered lashes, glistening gold in the low light.
“…Good boy,” he concedes.