The arms of the enemy should only inflict pain, not pleasure.
That was the thought that ran through Hector's mind as he helplessly strained against the golden arms that held him firmly. This was wrong. Very wrong. It was a deed punishable by the gods and enough to shame his family for the next few generations. He was a sinner. He was despicable to feel the pleasure.
He should be fighting furiously and viciously, not writhing in pleasure like a woman. And he hated himself for not being able to fight the enemy off.
It was all wrong. It was not meant to be this way. No – he had only meant to sneak into the enemy's camp and kill their king to prevent another round of bloodshed. He had seen enough for the day. He had seen enough of his own men fall to the cruel sands. Enough.
He knew it was rather suicidal of him to have tried to enter the camp. But he had never expected their best warrior to be waiting for him. He had never expected the empty tent and had foolishly backed out, only to run into Achilles who eyed him with slight disbelief and amusement.
He had drawn out his sword, watched as the firelight bounced off the sharp edge of the sword, onto the face of the warrior.
'What are you doing here, sneaking around like a lowly thief, Prince of Troy?' Achilles had not drawn his own sword, but merely blocked the entrance of the tent with his lethally muscular body.
'It's none of your business, you filthy murderer,' Hector had snarled.
'It is – if you choose to try to throw Greece into chaos,' Achilles coolly offered as he closed his fingers around Hector's sword and easily tugged it out of the Prince's hand. Hector's eyes burned with hatred for such arrogance.
'Your friend, Odysseus, is sure to take over, that will even out the country enough,' Hector observed.
'That is partially true,' Achilles found the Prince intriguing and agreed. He was only toying with the Prince.
'Then why not just let me kill Agamemnon?' Hector spoke evenly, but Achilles saw the hatred and passion burning in there.
'Can't you guess, Prince of Troy?' Achilles' eyes darkened as he looked at the brunette openly.
There was something familiar in Achilles' eyes. Hector tried to recall where he had seen it. And it struck him, Paris. The darkening of the eyes was of desire, as Paris had often gone with, when they both were younger, reckless. When Paris innocently believed that Hector could always be his lover and protector, when Hector had naively trusted his own heart, leading to reckless nights of passion.
Hector had coldly pushed his brother away when he got married. But the hurt would always remain with him. And now, years after he last laid with a man, Achilles was staring at him with the same desire and reckless passion Paris had once used.
'Well, Prince?' Achilles demanded softly.
'You won't lay a finger on my brother,' Hector snarled. You willfully mistake me, PrinceAchilles raised an eyebrow in amusement.
'You mistake me,' Achilles held up a hand as Hector prayed to which ever god was listening to let him escape miraculously.
'I do not want your brother, I care not for a pretty boy who frolicks with soft women every night, similarly, I care not for women for they are soft and breakable,'
'No, I want you, beautiful Prince of Troy,'
And he had surrendered willingly, to the arms of Achilles. To the brutal, passionate kisses of the warrior.
It could just have been a casual dalliance with the enemy but Hector made the mistake of going back there for the next night. And Achilles walked willingly into the trap the gods had set for them.
Hector could remember the time, night was converging to the first lights of dawn.
'I won't come back again, I promise,' Hector kissed the callused palm of the warrior. It would be the last time he allowed himself to sink in those blue eyes.
'Pray then, that we don't meet at war, Hector,' the bittersweet laugh that accompanied the comment made Hector clutch more firmly at the bronzed body, inhaling the scent of grass on the demi-god before cruelly tearing himself from Achilles.
Hector only walked three steps before he turned back.
'If this war passes and we still live... ...,' he trailed off, realising the impossibility of his request.
'We'll talk about that if we do escape unscathed,' the rough lips of the warrior found his.
But sadly, there was no future.
Just days later, Hector faced off with Achilles on the sands of Troy. Achilles made no move to acknowledge him and Hector knew there was no possibility of replacing the hatred in the warrior's heart.
He let himself get distracted and merely collapsed when Achilles fatally injured him.
But as Achilles crouched over him, Hector noted silently, before he closed his eyes.
The tears of love that flowed silently down the warrior's face were for Hector.
That was the thought that ran through Hector's mind as he helplessly strained against the golden arms that held him firmly. This was wrong. Very wrong. It was a deed punishable by the gods and enough to shame his family for the next few generations. He was a sinner. He was despicable to feel the pleasure.
He should be fighting furiously and viciously, not writhing in pleasure like a woman. And he hated himself for not being able to fight the enemy off.
It was all wrong. It was not meant to be this way. No – he had only meant to sneak into the enemy's camp and kill their king to prevent another round of bloodshed. He had seen enough for the day. He had seen enough of his own men fall to the cruel sands. Enough.
He knew it was rather suicidal of him to have tried to enter the camp. But he had never expected their best warrior to be waiting for him. He had never expected the empty tent and had foolishly backed out, only to run into Achilles who eyed him with slight disbelief and amusement.
He had drawn out his sword, watched as the firelight bounced off the sharp edge of the sword, onto the face of the warrior.
'What are you doing here, sneaking around like a lowly thief, Prince of Troy?' Achilles had not drawn his own sword, but merely blocked the entrance of the tent with his lethally muscular body.
'It's none of your business, you filthy murderer,' Hector had snarled.
'It is – if you choose to try to throw Greece into chaos,' Achilles coolly offered as he closed his fingers around Hector's sword and easily tugged it out of the Prince's hand. Hector's eyes burned with hatred for such arrogance.
'Your friend, Odysseus, is sure to take over, that will even out the country enough,' Hector observed.
'That is partially true,' Achilles found the Prince intriguing and agreed. He was only toying with the Prince.
'Then why not just let me kill Agamemnon?' Hector spoke evenly, but Achilles saw the hatred and passion burning in there.
'Can't you guess, Prince of Troy?' Achilles' eyes darkened as he looked at the brunette openly.
There was something familiar in Achilles' eyes. Hector tried to recall where he had seen it. And it struck him, Paris. The darkening of the eyes was of desire, as Paris had often gone with, when they both were younger, reckless. When Paris innocently believed that Hector could always be his lover and protector, when Hector had naively trusted his own heart, leading to reckless nights of passion.
Hector had coldly pushed his brother away when he got married. But the hurt would always remain with him. And now, years after he last laid with a man, Achilles was staring at him with the same desire and reckless passion Paris had once used.
'Well, Prince?' Achilles demanded softly.
'You won't lay a finger on my brother,' Hector snarled. You willfully mistake me, PrinceAchilles raised an eyebrow in amusement.
'You mistake me,' Achilles held up a hand as Hector prayed to which ever god was listening to let him escape miraculously.
'I do not want your brother, I care not for a pretty boy who frolicks with soft women every night, similarly, I care not for women for they are soft and breakable,'
'No, I want you, beautiful Prince of Troy,'
And he had surrendered willingly, to the arms of Achilles. To the brutal, passionate kisses of the warrior.
It could just have been a casual dalliance with the enemy but Hector made the mistake of going back there for the next night. And Achilles walked willingly into the trap the gods had set for them.
Hector could remember the time, night was converging to the first lights of dawn.
'I won't come back again, I promise,' Hector kissed the callused palm of the warrior. It would be the last time he allowed himself to sink in those blue eyes.
'Pray then, that we don't meet at war, Hector,' the bittersweet laugh that accompanied the comment made Hector clutch more firmly at the bronzed body, inhaling the scent of grass on the demi-god before cruelly tearing himself from Achilles.
Hector only walked three steps before he turned back.
'If this war passes and we still live... ...,' he trailed off, realising the impossibility of his request.
'We'll talk about that if we do escape unscathed,' the rough lips of the warrior found his.
But sadly, there was no future.
Just days later, Hector faced off with Achilles on the sands of Troy. Achilles made no move to acknowledge him and Hector knew there was no possibility of replacing the hatred in the warrior's heart.
He let himself get distracted and merely collapsed when Achilles fatally injured him.
But as Achilles crouched over him, Hector noted silently, before he closed his eyes.
The tears of love that flowed silently down the warrior's face were for Hector.