Paris stood up, pulling away so suddenly that Achilles felt as though a knife had been wrenched from a wound. Paris turned his back on him and stumbled to the other side of the tent. He stood there, shaking slightly and breathing deeply.
Achilles got to his feet, lazily and languidly as a cat. He walked up close behind the younger man, smelling the beguiling scent of his hair and skin. It was almost too much for Achilles. He was wrapped in this boy, the sight of him, the smell…the remembered taste.
Paris did not move away but stood silently, his whole body taut as a bowstring. Slowly, gently, loath to scare him off, Achilles lifted his hand and stroked slowly the Prince's shoulder through his cloak. It was stiff and tense, reluctant and yet longing to be touched.
He ran his hand slowly, reverently, down the prince's arm and up across his back, enjoying the enigmatic feel of the svelte body concealed beneath the fabric. He watched as the lamplight licked at his hair and at the folds of his cloak as they shifted with Achilles's touch. As he ran his hands up the prince's arms and took a gentle, supportive hold of his shoulders, he felt Paris relax ever so slightly, shifting the way he held his head, his muscles holding him not quite so stiff. Encouraged, Achilles leant forward and endeavoured to kiss the exposed skin at his collar.
"No," Paris choked suddenly as Achilles's breath licked at this skin. He made a half-hearted attempt to pull himself from the Greek warrior's hold. "I don't care how many Greeks are camped on these beaches, you lay another hand on me and you shall live to regret it. I don't know how or when, but one day. People shall walk and spit on the stones with your name."
"So, harsh my Prince," Achilles murmured, bending and placing the soft kiss on the skin of Paris's neck. "When all I want to do is show you some pleasure, something to keep you warm during your lonely drift in Hades."
He kissed his neck again, delighting in the shivers it wrung forth from the sensitive skin.
"It's not right," Paris nearly sobbed, pulling away. "You're a soldier, an enemy…a man."
Achilles felt his hands aching for the touch of that skin again. He was a little unnerved at the need he was suddenly experiencing. It had started off as a bit of harmless mischief, seeing how far he could push this Prince deprived of a powerful touch in his life. It was clear he had been babied ever since he was born, wrapped in soft cloth, verily worshipped and protected by his father and brother. He was longing for something hotter, something more honest, something more…real.
But now, Achilles was wondering if he needed this just as badly. A gentle touch, a care more honest and equal than that of a woman. He had the adoration of his men, he had the love of his cousin. But what of something lighter than that? Something simple with no names, no attachments, no constraints. Just some gentle words, the touch of soft, friendly hands, the taste of a mouth that didn't bite. Something beautiful something special, a stolen moment to share, a secret memory to treasure. With the beautiful Prince of Troy.
It should feel wrong. This should be driven by false intentions, selfish harsh intentions. If he really meant to bed the youngest son of the king of Troy, it should have been out of spite, out of cruelty, for the sense of triumph, conquering his enemy in the most harsh and personal way. But those sort of thoughts seemed vile to him now as he saw the young man stood in his tent, torn and slightly frightened by all that he was experiencing. He found all he wanted was to share something with him, this virtual stranger. Give whilst taking some comfort for himself.
And the memory of that kiss was sparking much keener fires of desire along his nerves and in his blood than he could ever recall feeling. The brief taste of the boy's mouth, the feel of his skin, the sensation of being pressed against him and the soft thud of the wine glass dropping from Paris's fingers, suddenly rendered nerveless by Achilles's kiss...all of it was real and burning in his brain and in his blood.
He took a breath to still his shuddering heart, tried to calm his pulse. He clenched and unclenched his fists, the physical sensation of his nails against his palms giving him something to focus on, a point in the real world to prevent him from yielding to these sensations he just wanted to drown in.
Paris was still facing away from him, shaking slightly more than before. It was almost painful watching him try and master himself, repress these urges he didn't understand and was slightly fearful of.
"Have you never known the love of a man, young Paris?" he asked huskily. The silence was more than an answer. The revelation shot a spark of heat along Achilles's spine.
Achilles drifted to stand in front of the confused and needy Trojan youth. He did not look up. Achilles fought the desire to touch him. Paris's eyes were shut against the world, seemingly trying to shut out all he was experiencing. Achilles longed to coax him out, stop him burning himself in trying to smother the fire with his hands. He wanted to show him how it was best to let it burn.
The thought that he could be the first to show him, the first to touch him thus threatened to overpower Achilles. The very first man to kiss the Trojan prince, the first man to reveal to him the powerful and sensuous passion he was capable of. The thought alone almost undid him.
Achilles leant his face close enough to smell his sweet breath, but was careful not to make any contact. "How then do you know you won't like it?" he whispered
Paris let out a shuddering breath. Show him, Achilles thought, show him how he good it can feel to give into the fire. The Myrmidon Captain allowed himself to graze his scarred and weathered fingertips against the unblemished skin of Paris's cheek. He savoured the sight. Paris gave a sort of sigh but did not open his eyes. Achilles bent his head for another kiss.
"Please don't," his voice was quiet, desperate.
Achilles paused. Paris opened his eyes. Achilles caught that burning, tortured gaze with his own.
"Don't what?" he asked, slowly. "Don't do this?" he leant forward again and brushed his lips tenderly against the Prince's flushed cheek.
"Or this?" he murmured against the prince's skin as he undid the beautiful and ornate Trojan brooch that had given him away as it glinted in the shadows as he attempted to sneak through the Myrmidon camp. Paris's cloak slunk to the sandy floor.
"Or perhaps this?" Achilles pushed the soft fabric of the Prince's thin, blue tunic off his shoulder and bent to kiss it. He brushed his lips against the warm skin, tenderly kissed his collarbone. Achilles could not mistake the shudder in the prince's body or the manner of his breathing. Paris wanted this. The Trojan prince wanted it so badly he was ashamed.
Achilles had to show him how there was no shame in wanting to be loved. He raised his lips and kissed at the tender part of his neck under his jaw. He felt intoxicated, propelled by something sensual and powerful, deep within his very being. He found he could not get enough of the taste of this responsive skin. He mouthed ever more boldly at his neck, caressing it with his lips and his tongue. The tiniest of helpless noise escaped Paris.
"Let me show you," he whispered into Paris's ear.
Achilles slipped his hand into the prince's tunic and wound his arm around the slender waist and pulling him close. He marvelled at the feel of the toned and slender body against his hand. He could feel the first of the prince's barriers coming down with a crash as he leant into the embrace, wrapping his own arms around the taller warrior's neck. Achilles felt his blood sing at this contact and was afraid his need would consume him.
He captured that mouth again, feeling every nerve in his body tremble at the feel of it. Paris's mouth was now hot and insistent and Achilles wanted to savour every taste of it. He pushed into the kiss and Paris's lips parted for him. Achilles's tongue quested forward, insistent and hungry. Achilles heard another wonderful sound escape the Prince's throat. He found the younger man pressing urgently against him, responding feverishly to Achilles's hungry exploration of his mouth.
Achilles moaned slightly himself. He revelled in the intensity of the kiss, grasped the slight waist tighter to him, wanting the pressure, longing for the heat. The taste and the smell and feel of the Prince against him was impossibly wonderful, lighting his body in all the right places. He doubt he would ever get enough.
He took a careful, experimental step backward, back towards the pile of furs. Paris came with him, never loosening his grip on the Myrmidon's neck, never ceasing in his responsive kiss. Encouraged, Achilles backed further up until his heels encountered his bed. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. Both their breathing was heavy. Paris's eyes were dark and heavy, gazing intently through his lashes. His lips were parted and moist and there was no trace of his previous fear in the heady and passion-fuelled expression on his face.
Achilles lowered himself onto the bed, keeping a hold of Paris's hand. He kept his eyes steady, their locked gazes crackling in the still air. He didn't speak. Paris's eyes flickered slightly. Achilles could see him absorbing all. Once more there was a battle going on behind his eyes. Achilles did not move, did not pull at the slim hand still in his grip. He waited.
Achilles got to his feet, lazily and languidly as a cat. He walked up close behind the younger man, smelling the beguiling scent of his hair and skin. It was almost too much for Achilles. He was wrapped in this boy, the sight of him, the smell…the remembered taste.
Paris did not move away but stood silently, his whole body taut as a bowstring. Slowly, gently, loath to scare him off, Achilles lifted his hand and stroked slowly the Prince's shoulder through his cloak. It was stiff and tense, reluctant and yet longing to be touched.
He ran his hand slowly, reverently, down the prince's arm and up across his back, enjoying the enigmatic feel of the svelte body concealed beneath the fabric. He watched as the lamplight licked at his hair and at the folds of his cloak as they shifted with Achilles's touch. As he ran his hands up the prince's arms and took a gentle, supportive hold of his shoulders, he felt Paris relax ever so slightly, shifting the way he held his head, his muscles holding him not quite so stiff. Encouraged, Achilles leant forward and endeavoured to kiss the exposed skin at his collar.
"No," Paris choked suddenly as Achilles's breath licked at this skin. He made a half-hearted attempt to pull himself from the Greek warrior's hold. "I don't care how many Greeks are camped on these beaches, you lay another hand on me and you shall live to regret it. I don't know how or when, but one day. People shall walk and spit on the stones with your name."
"So, harsh my Prince," Achilles murmured, bending and placing the soft kiss on the skin of Paris's neck. "When all I want to do is show you some pleasure, something to keep you warm during your lonely drift in Hades."
He kissed his neck again, delighting in the shivers it wrung forth from the sensitive skin.
"It's not right," Paris nearly sobbed, pulling away. "You're a soldier, an enemy…a man."
Achilles felt his hands aching for the touch of that skin again. He was a little unnerved at the need he was suddenly experiencing. It had started off as a bit of harmless mischief, seeing how far he could push this Prince deprived of a powerful touch in his life. It was clear he had been babied ever since he was born, wrapped in soft cloth, verily worshipped and protected by his father and brother. He was longing for something hotter, something more honest, something more…real.
But now, Achilles was wondering if he needed this just as badly. A gentle touch, a care more honest and equal than that of a woman. He had the adoration of his men, he had the love of his cousin. But what of something lighter than that? Something simple with no names, no attachments, no constraints. Just some gentle words, the touch of soft, friendly hands, the taste of a mouth that didn't bite. Something beautiful something special, a stolen moment to share, a secret memory to treasure. With the beautiful Prince of Troy.
It should feel wrong. This should be driven by false intentions, selfish harsh intentions. If he really meant to bed the youngest son of the king of Troy, it should have been out of spite, out of cruelty, for the sense of triumph, conquering his enemy in the most harsh and personal way. But those sort of thoughts seemed vile to him now as he saw the young man stood in his tent, torn and slightly frightened by all that he was experiencing. He found all he wanted was to share something with him, this virtual stranger. Give whilst taking some comfort for himself.
And the memory of that kiss was sparking much keener fires of desire along his nerves and in his blood than he could ever recall feeling. The brief taste of the boy's mouth, the feel of his skin, the sensation of being pressed against him and the soft thud of the wine glass dropping from Paris's fingers, suddenly rendered nerveless by Achilles's kiss...all of it was real and burning in his brain and in his blood.
He took a breath to still his shuddering heart, tried to calm his pulse. He clenched and unclenched his fists, the physical sensation of his nails against his palms giving him something to focus on, a point in the real world to prevent him from yielding to these sensations he just wanted to drown in.
Paris was still facing away from him, shaking slightly more than before. It was almost painful watching him try and master himself, repress these urges he didn't understand and was slightly fearful of.
"Have you never known the love of a man, young Paris?" he asked huskily. The silence was more than an answer. The revelation shot a spark of heat along Achilles's spine.
Achilles drifted to stand in front of the confused and needy Trojan youth. He did not look up. Achilles fought the desire to touch him. Paris's eyes were shut against the world, seemingly trying to shut out all he was experiencing. Achilles longed to coax him out, stop him burning himself in trying to smother the fire with his hands. He wanted to show him how it was best to let it burn.
The thought that he could be the first to show him, the first to touch him thus threatened to overpower Achilles. The very first man to kiss the Trojan prince, the first man to reveal to him the powerful and sensuous passion he was capable of. The thought alone almost undid him.
Achilles leant his face close enough to smell his sweet breath, but was careful not to make any contact. "How then do you know you won't like it?" he whispered
Paris let out a shuddering breath. Show him, Achilles thought, show him how he good it can feel to give into the fire. The Myrmidon Captain allowed himself to graze his scarred and weathered fingertips against the unblemished skin of Paris's cheek. He savoured the sight. Paris gave a sort of sigh but did not open his eyes. Achilles bent his head for another kiss.
"Please don't," his voice was quiet, desperate.
Achilles paused. Paris opened his eyes. Achilles caught that burning, tortured gaze with his own.
"Don't what?" he asked, slowly. "Don't do this?" he leant forward again and brushed his lips tenderly against the Prince's flushed cheek.
"Or this?" he murmured against the prince's skin as he undid the beautiful and ornate Trojan brooch that had given him away as it glinted in the shadows as he attempted to sneak through the Myrmidon camp. Paris's cloak slunk to the sandy floor.
"Or perhaps this?" Achilles pushed the soft fabric of the Prince's thin, blue tunic off his shoulder and bent to kiss it. He brushed his lips against the warm skin, tenderly kissed his collarbone. Achilles could not mistake the shudder in the prince's body or the manner of his breathing. Paris wanted this. The Trojan prince wanted it so badly he was ashamed.
Achilles had to show him how there was no shame in wanting to be loved. He raised his lips and kissed at the tender part of his neck under his jaw. He felt intoxicated, propelled by something sensual and powerful, deep within his very being. He found he could not get enough of the taste of this responsive skin. He mouthed ever more boldly at his neck, caressing it with his lips and his tongue. The tiniest of helpless noise escaped Paris.
"Let me show you," he whispered into Paris's ear.
Achilles slipped his hand into the prince's tunic and wound his arm around the slender waist and pulling him close. He marvelled at the feel of the toned and slender body against his hand. He could feel the first of the prince's barriers coming down with a crash as he leant into the embrace, wrapping his own arms around the taller warrior's neck. Achilles felt his blood sing at this contact and was afraid his need would consume him.
He captured that mouth again, feeling every nerve in his body tremble at the feel of it. Paris's mouth was now hot and insistent and Achilles wanted to savour every taste of it. He pushed into the kiss and Paris's lips parted for him. Achilles's tongue quested forward, insistent and hungry. Achilles heard another wonderful sound escape the Prince's throat. He found the younger man pressing urgently against him, responding feverishly to Achilles's hungry exploration of his mouth.
Achilles moaned slightly himself. He revelled in the intensity of the kiss, grasped the slight waist tighter to him, wanting the pressure, longing for the heat. The taste and the smell and feel of the Prince against him was impossibly wonderful, lighting his body in all the right places. He doubt he would ever get enough.
He took a careful, experimental step backward, back towards the pile of furs. Paris came with him, never loosening his grip on the Myrmidon's neck, never ceasing in his responsive kiss. Encouraged, Achilles backed further up until his heels encountered his bed. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. Both their breathing was heavy. Paris's eyes were dark and heavy, gazing intently through his lashes. His lips were parted and moist and there was no trace of his previous fear in the heady and passion-fuelled expression on his face.
Achilles lowered himself onto the bed, keeping a hold of Paris's hand. He kept his eyes steady, their locked gazes crackling in the still air. He didn't speak. Paris's eyes flickered slightly. Achilles could see him absorbing all. Once more there was a battle going on behind his eyes. Achilles did not move, did not pull at the slim hand still in his grip. He waited.
