Under the Olive Trees
folder
1 through F › 300
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
5,063
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › 300
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
5,063
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own The 300, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Under the Olive Trees
You met him in the grove of olive trees, air thick with the scent of ripened fruit. Watching—he was appearing on the horizon like a ship at sea—the sun was setting behind his lean frame as he approached you.
Fighting the urge to run to him, to cry with delight, you simply sat down, gently, on the soft grass, in the shade. The sun was casting long, narrow shadows on the earth, imprinting its last grasp on a world so quickly slipping into the night.
Suddenly, he was before you.
A callused hand unclasped his red cloak, and, in an uncharacteristic display of reverence for you, he draped it on the ground, and sat upon it, inviting you in with hard arms and soft eyes.
You joined him on the cloak, lying beside him in the shadow of the tender branches, smelling the dusty scent of earth and of him. There was blood mingled there, too, but it was so much a part of him that you hardly were alarmed. He rolled over atop you, pressing his lips to yours hungrily. No food nor wine nor anything else could satiate his hunger, for it was not a hunger of the belly but of the heart, of the soul. You yielded to his taste, letting him explore your mouth with heated kisses, his tongue running over your teeth, your lips, mingling with your tongue.
His soft beard scraped hotly against your pale throat.
Rough hands made their way under the pleats of your garment, pushing the sheer fabric up and over your hips. You’ve done this dance before, you know the steps. Nimbly, your hands make for his leather clothing, unclasping the snugness and releasing the hot flesh from within.
Above you, he groans in appreciation.
He can taste the wine on your lips and, in any other moment, would have paused to chide you. But this is not any other moment. This is the last moment on this earth, and his thick flesh is pressing insistently against your thigh. The rippling of his torso muscles presses you downward, into the cloak, into the grass, into the very earth beneath you. It would be so much easier if the earth would swallow you up, preserve this last tenuous thread of love in a dying world.
Instead, the thought passes, and he presses into you. A son has not diminished your beauty to him; your olive skin bears scars from each womanly war, and his hand reverently caresses this neglected part of your flesh. He enters into you with the force of the babe that left your loins, pressing deeply, stretching you, making you remember that, above all else, he is your king. Your head rolls back with a groan, half pleasure, half pain, and he stills above you, propped up on his forearms.
His face is sweaty in the night’s heat, sweaty with the effort to pause on your behalf.
But a gentle nudge from your hips urges him on wordlessly. He complies, withdrawing, then entering again, pushing you ever closer to the edge where reason disobeys, runs wild, and releases itself into the night.
His passion is a beautiful, terrible thing to behold. He clamps down his hands, one on your neck, one on your waist, drawing you close to his body as you welcome him into yours. With an un-kinglike grunt, he drives deeper and deeper, burying his face into the curve of your neck, nipping at your flesh as he tries to reach his own goal. His pace increases as you flex your inner muscles, urging him to abandon the last scrap of propriety.
With the one remaining thought, you stroke his back, running your other hand into his thick hair.
You are going to miss this.
He comes. It is an undignified thing that only the truly besotted can appreciate.
You feel his seed release within you, and offer up your last prayer to the gods that this one will take root.
Panting, he rests in your arms. You know, though you would never admit it, that there are tears left on your skin, a salty stain that echoes the one below. Your own pleasure can wait; you take him into your arms and rock him, gently, till the quiet sobbing subsides.
Later, the stars shining down their comforting reverie, he dips his hand gently into your aching flesh. He is the tender lover of your youth; he is the mighty ruler of your people.
Slowly, achingly, he brings you to a gentle climax, and you too cannot help but cry.
Gathering up his cloak and your discarded clothes, you return to the house, hand in hand. And in the morning, you stood, stone-faced, and watched him depart.
Fighting the urge to run to him, to cry with delight, you simply sat down, gently, on the soft grass, in the shade. The sun was casting long, narrow shadows on the earth, imprinting its last grasp on a world so quickly slipping into the night.
Suddenly, he was before you.
A callused hand unclasped his red cloak, and, in an uncharacteristic display of reverence for you, he draped it on the ground, and sat upon it, inviting you in with hard arms and soft eyes.
You joined him on the cloak, lying beside him in the shadow of the tender branches, smelling the dusty scent of earth and of him. There was blood mingled there, too, but it was so much a part of him that you hardly were alarmed. He rolled over atop you, pressing his lips to yours hungrily. No food nor wine nor anything else could satiate his hunger, for it was not a hunger of the belly but of the heart, of the soul. You yielded to his taste, letting him explore your mouth with heated kisses, his tongue running over your teeth, your lips, mingling with your tongue.
His soft beard scraped hotly against your pale throat.
Rough hands made their way under the pleats of your garment, pushing the sheer fabric up and over your hips. You’ve done this dance before, you know the steps. Nimbly, your hands make for his leather clothing, unclasping the snugness and releasing the hot flesh from within.
Above you, he groans in appreciation.
He can taste the wine on your lips and, in any other moment, would have paused to chide you. But this is not any other moment. This is the last moment on this earth, and his thick flesh is pressing insistently against your thigh. The rippling of his torso muscles presses you downward, into the cloak, into the grass, into the very earth beneath you. It would be so much easier if the earth would swallow you up, preserve this last tenuous thread of love in a dying world.
Instead, the thought passes, and he presses into you. A son has not diminished your beauty to him; your olive skin bears scars from each womanly war, and his hand reverently caresses this neglected part of your flesh. He enters into you with the force of the babe that left your loins, pressing deeply, stretching you, making you remember that, above all else, he is your king. Your head rolls back with a groan, half pleasure, half pain, and he stills above you, propped up on his forearms.
His face is sweaty in the night’s heat, sweaty with the effort to pause on your behalf.
But a gentle nudge from your hips urges him on wordlessly. He complies, withdrawing, then entering again, pushing you ever closer to the edge where reason disobeys, runs wild, and releases itself into the night.
His passion is a beautiful, terrible thing to behold. He clamps down his hands, one on your neck, one on your waist, drawing you close to his body as you welcome him into yours. With an un-kinglike grunt, he drives deeper and deeper, burying his face into the curve of your neck, nipping at your flesh as he tries to reach his own goal. His pace increases as you flex your inner muscles, urging him to abandon the last scrap of propriety.
With the one remaining thought, you stroke his back, running your other hand into his thick hair.
You are going to miss this.
He comes. It is an undignified thing that only the truly besotted can appreciate.
You feel his seed release within you, and offer up your last prayer to the gods that this one will take root.
Panting, he rests in your arms. You know, though you would never admit it, that there are tears left on your skin, a salty stain that echoes the one below. Your own pleasure can wait; you take him into your arms and rock him, gently, till the quiet sobbing subsides.
Later, the stars shining down their comforting reverie, he dips his hand gently into your aching flesh. He is the tender lover of your youth; he is the mighty ruler of your people.
Slowly, achingly, he brings you to a gentle climax, and you too cannot help but cry.
Gathering up his cloak and your discarded clothes, you return to the house, hand in hand. And in the morning, you stood, stone-faced, and watched him depart.