Cleansing

Disclaimer: If I said they were mine, would anyone believe me?

This is a PWP one-shot involving Patroclus and Achilles, and goes out to everyone who giggles every time they hear the word “cousin.”

I sure hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

PS: this follows the timeline from the Iliad, if just in the sense that the war takes ten years and not something like twenty days.

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It had been a bloody day, Patroclus reflected. They had made the Trojans pay dearly for earlier deaths, but it had been at the cost of many more Greek lives. No matter how many ships they had started out with, Patroclus privately thought that it was a wonder they had any men left, after eight long years of war.

After placing coins of the eyes of yet another of his friends who would never see home or their young wives again, he sighed, and sought out the comfort of Achilles’ tent. He pushed back the tent flap, and smiled to see the great hero struggling to wash his own back. Patroclus gently touched his friend on the shoulder, to alert him of his presence, then relieved Achilles of his washcloth. He dipped it in the basin of water, then gently swabbed the blood and grime off of the back of his friend.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” Achilles murmured. “After all, it isn’t my blood.”

Patroclus gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, and began washing more forcefully. He knew that however much Achilles loved to play the barbarian in public, deep down he loved to be totally clean at night. He whispered, “You fought well today,” and Achilles replied with a snort. Patroclus chuckled as he finished his friend’s shoulders and back, and Achilles unbuckled the rest of his clothing, obviously indicating for Patroclus to finish the job.

Patroclus marveled at the way Achilles' body seemed to move even in stillness, dancing in the candlelight. As he cleaned the dirt off his friend, the bronze skin seemed almost to glow, a divine testament to the perfection of the male form. He caressed Achilles flesh with the washcloth, cleansing his buttocks, then dipping down to his thighs and calves. He likely would have attempted to clean Achilles’ feet if his friend hadn’t abruptly spun around to grasp him by the shoulders, hauling him into a standing position to kiss him thoroughly.

Patroclus gasped as Achilles’ hot tongue swiped his lips, demanding entry, which he immediately granted, opening his mouth. Molten silk seemed to caress the inside of his mouth, and he pressed himself closer to Achilles, wanting to feel more. No matter how often he and Achilles made love, he never seemed to get used to it. His lover’s arms snaked around his body, pulling him even closer, and Patroclus tangled his hand in Achilles’ hair, drowning in sensation.

He felt Achilles’ hand roughly tugging off his garments, and immediately helped unfasten hisic, ic, smiling around Achilles’ kiss. His friend never had been one to take anything slowly, and this aspect of his life was certainly no exception. He gasped at the sensation of flesh against hot flesh as his tunic crumpled to the ground beneath them, and desperately tried to rub against his friend, trying to get more delicious friction, but Achilles had other ideas.

With his arms still full of Patroclus, Achilles somehow navigated them somewhere near his bed of furs, and tumbled down upon it. Patroclus winced as Achilles landed on top of him, but immediately forgot the bruises, as his lover’s hands had begun to wander. One hand propped his head up, but the other slipped between them to caress Patroclus’ chest, making him pant heavily into Achilles’ kisses, then slipped farther down to stroke his flat stomach. Soon, Patroclus was gasping with need, and whispered, “Please, Achilles!”

His friend smiled, sat back on his heels, and began caressing Patroclus’ thighs, careful not to touch his friend’s throbbing erection. Smirking devilishly, he murmured, “Please what, my friend?”

Patroclus groaned, wishing Achilles would save the games for some night when he wasn’t so needy—then again, Achilles could do this to him every night, and the result would be the same. But if begging was what Achilles wanted tonight, then he would beg—anything to be loved by that man. “Please, please take me, Achilles!”

He knew by his lover’s smile that that was all he had been waiting for. Achilles leaned forward to caress his friend’s face with one hand, then presented three fingers at Patroclus’ lips, which he immediately sucked into his mouth. When Achilles was satisfied, he withdrew the fingers, causing Patroclus to whimper slightly, even though he knew what was coming.

Sure enough, within moments he felt one of those same fingers probing at his entrance, and he heard Achilles’ voice in his ear, whispering, “Relax.”

How could he not trust him? Achilles knew his friend’s wits left him when they were making love, and knew he had to take every initiative, which was fine by him. Patroclus forced himself to relax, and shuddered as the finger slipped completely inside of him. He was always tense—not with fear, but with anticipation. He moaned as Achilles eased two more fingerto hto him, gasping as they brushed something he could never get enough of. He began to see colors, and impatiently tried to push himself farther down on the fingers, but let out an exclamation of dismay as they retreated.

He felt a hand stroking his face, and he opened his eyes to see Achilles’ eyes mere inches from his own, and leaned up to kiss his lover as he felt Achilles’ manhood nudging at his opening. Achilles whispered, “Spread your legs for me, love,” and he complied, wrapping them around his lover’s hips, as Achilles began to push into him with a groan.

Patroclus felt himself stretching, and gasped in delight as his lover filled him utterly, pressing deeper and deeper into him. He could feel Achilles’ hot breath on his face, could feel his hand behind his head as the other hand grasped his hip. Slowly, carefully, Achilles sheathed himself entirely in his comrade, and paused, sweating. Then, he pulled nearly all the way out, and thrust slowly back in, with a slight groan. He pulled out again, and thrust in faster, the fluid leaking from the tip of his member helping to lubricate the way. Soon, he began thrusting faster, making Patroclus moan every time he hit that secret spot deep inside of him.

However much he loved to tease his friend, the time for teasing was long over, and Achilles was soon pounding mercily ily into Patroclus’ body, panting harder and harder. Patroclus’ world narrowed to three things; Achilles’ eyes, Achilles’ breath on his neck, and Achilles thrusting into him, over and over. Achilles bit his ear, and he moaned, wanting more. He arched up to meet Achilles’ thrusts, losing any semblance of control or dignity as he felt Achilles’ hand on his hip slip between their bodies to grasp his manhood, and begin stroking him roughly to the timing of his thrusts, which began growing more and more erratic. Patroclus felt himself reaching the pinnacle, both wanting to end this delicious torture and wanting it to go on forever.

He cried out, and burst into Achilles’ hand as the warrior reached his own climax, burying his face in his lover’s shoulder and his seed deep in his lover’s body with an almighty groan, with a few last thrusts.

Panting, they lay together as they recovered, Achilles still buried inside Patroclus. Reaching up, Patroclus brushed aside a strand of golden hair plastered to his lover’s forehead, leaving a kiss in its place. Reluctantly, Achilles pulled out of his friend, and lay curled up at his side, leaving Patroclus to wonder just how much longer they would be blessed to have each other.

He banished his dark thoughts, and murmured to his sleeping lover amid the darkness, “I really should have given you your bath afterwards.”