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Time is at a stand-still, neither winds nor strategies pursuing the jewel of Troy. Men, with beards eating away their youth, laugh and snort as they spar with their brothers. Had they known the misery of waiting, the years they would be stranded on this beach, they would not smile as they do now.
Odysseus has not smiled in many years. His men enjoy the quick-wit, the sparring, and the plans of Troy. Yet, he cannot shake the feeling of his mate pulling him away from this beach, pulling him away from these ships, and pulling him away from men who would eat him alive if found out. His bones are infested with the gravel he walks on, each crunch echoing in his joints.
Odysseus stalks back to his quarters, an ache beginning in his stomach. He knows his heat is approaching-- an ailment he has kept hidden to all --- except his ruling Penelope. If one is to find out, may the ocean swallow him whole.
Nightfall is approaching, the hazed, dim sun slipping beneath the horizon. Winter is upon the camp, and Odysseus reminds himself this is the ninth winter, now, that he has laid in this tent with still no cry of war. He wouldn’t want to hear those screams, anyhow. If he could return to Ithaca, without the possession of a burning city, without the head of a leader, he would be content. Likely full with dinner, laying with his beautiful wife, and another son brewing within him.
He stokes his oil lamp and undresses. The light dances on the thick canvas and leather walls of his tent, his shadow barely passing through the efforts of the small flame. He kicks off his sweat-through chiton, his sandals, and enjoys, for a brief moment, the feeling of cold air on his burning, naked body. He grimaces, his body betraying him. His heats were usually tame, calm beasts. Easily kept hidden with a shower of charred oil and sea-salt sand, a tighter chiton, and slipping away for a hunt. Athena has protected him for the years spent dying on this beach, but this time, he knows his body is craving his wife, his union. The thought of her makes him dizzy. A heat for a lonely king, meant to be satisfied by his queen.
Something stirs within him. He cocks an ear to the tent flaps, hearing the shift of gravel beneath boots, as if the visitor is waiting for a signal to slip inside.
“Who is there?” Odysseus calls to the visitor, quickly wrapping his waist in the discarded chiton. He expects the grunt of a young man, or a lady maid returning with rations. The visitor does not respond, and instead smoothly steps inside the tent.
Odysseus’s body goes stiff.
“Agamemnon, my Lord,” Odysseus mutters cooly, slowly kneeling before the earthly, charcoal black armor towering above him. Odysseus’s heart begins to pound, that strange stir within him returning. He feels the slickness from between his thighs ooze down the length of his leg.
The smell burns the commander’s nostrils. It is of tall grass and wet earth.
The hair on the back of Odysseus’s nape stands on end as he hears Agamemnon remove his helm.
Odysseus dares to peer up at his commander. Long, rich black, curly hair frames a rosy face, a face easily the color of marble and chiseled like stone. His nose, long and beautifully arched, melts into a pair of indulgent lips.
Odysseus is staring.
“My Lord,” Odysseus starts, looking away and realizing he is known. “You appear to have caught me at the wrong time.” He stands. Agamemnon looks him over, his scars, the visible muscle of his legs and width of his shoulders.
He does not look like one, Agamemnon thinks.
“I do not believe so,” Agamemnon finally says. He meets Odysseus’s gray eyes. His armored hand ghosts over the man’s hip. Odysseus cannot think of a smart remark, his words dying against his tongue. His lower belly squirms and stirs, sweat beginning to collect at his temple despite the chill running down his spine.
“What do you mean?” Odysseus counters.
“It is common for… men like you to be helped,” Agamemnon says evenly. “A commander must aid those who fall ill. Although, it has never happened in war like this.”
Odysseus pauses.
Agamemnon, supreme commander of the Greek forces, my brother in arms, my ally…
Desires to bed me.
“I think you are mad,” Odysseus says without thinking. To offend Agamemnon is sin, yet telling by the wildness of his eyes, Odysseus’s smell has cracked him. “I am not what you believe.”
Agamemnon’s marbled face tenses. He steps forward, and Odysseus steps away until his back is to the tent wall. He leans in, sniffing Odysseus’s nape.
“I believe I smell the wetness of your thighs,” Agamemnon hisses. “The men could smell you from their posts. Their epigrammatic ally is nothing more than a nymph hiding beneath armor.”
“You cannot know,” Odysseus shakes his head. “They cannot know. I--”
“If the men find you, men who have nothing but their dry hands and whispers of imprisoned lady maids, they will take you for what you are,” Agamemnon threatens. Odysseus falls quiet. Penelope was able to protect him through his episodes, filling his body with her member and shushing his cries. It could last a week or more. The man in front of him is offering a rare protection-- but what of the rumors and talk of the fleet surrounding campfires?
What of Troy?
His thoughts cloud, his salt-tanned skin burning hotter. His heat is slowly devolving him. It has been nine years since Penelope touched him last. Should this be why he is drawn to this formidable king? A higher rank than he, blessed with the sex known for power?
“My Lord, I cannot,” Odysseus relents, yet his hands are trembling. His slick legs perfume the tent.
“You are sick,” Agamemnon says carefully, his anger seeping away. He can see the fear swirling in his ally’s eyes. He notices the man’s scarred mark of union, placed perfectly on the junction of neck and shoulder. It is a small ring of teeth, fit for a woman’s mouth. His rushing blood wishes it was his teeth in place of the scar.
“I--,” Odysseus’s concerns are cut short with a sudden, violent kiss. A low, rumbling growl emanates from Agamemnon’s throat, his armored hands tightly gripping Odysseus’s sides as he pushes him onto the bed.
They break apart, saliva glistening on the commander’s plush lips. Agamemnon strips his armor, his chiton next. Odysseus whines, drunk off of his heat, any sense of decency evading him. Agamemnon is broad and muscular, with a pale, effortless beauty that makes Odysseus sick. He eases onto the bed, looming over the nymph, with his large cock erect against his flat stomach.
“Lord, please,” Odysseus begs, writhing under him. “I need…I need…”
“I know,” Agamemnon shushes him, easily spreading the man’s wet legs. He trails a large, calloused hand down the length of Odysseus’s tense body, and dips two fingers into his hot channel, exploring the velvety warmth that is leaking onto the sheets.
“My, you are wet,” Agamemnon hums, inching another finger into the tight hole. Odysseus whimpers pathetically. Through his daze, he wonders how many nymphs Agamemnon has bedded, how many desperate women have fought to be seeded by his knot. The teasing strokes against his walls, the large, rough thumb rubbing his pulsing clit-- it is all too much.
“Lord!” Odysseus cries arching from the bedding, trying to get away. He feels hollow though his commander’s fingers are filling him.
It’s not enough.
“Shh,” Agamemnon murmurs, his other hand gripping a fistful of Odysseus’s peppered hair as the nymph tries to worm away. He holds him down, dark eyes scanning the pinkness of Odysseus’s body, the rapid heave of his ribs as he thumbs his special nub. Agamemnon is sure the man’s heart is fluttering like a caged songbird. He knows what his nymph needs.
He retreats his fingers and licks the wetness off of them. He growls, his mouth full of the taste of sweet honeyed dates, earth, and salt. He feels his own burn rise to his ears, his pupils widening.
He is hungry.
“A good pet,” Agamemnon grins. “Begging for my cock.” He hooks Odysseus’s legs over his shoulders, pressing him down into the bed.
“Yes,” Odysseus cries. “Please, my Lord, please, I need it--need you.” A pulse of lightning shoots to Agamemnon’s cock. He looks at the wet mess beneath him, seeing not his ally, but a nymph who is his for fucking. For breeding.
He snarls, licking his sharp teeth impatiently. He readies his cock against Odysseus’s aching hole, his knot already beginning to swell. Sweat drips from his brows, and he wastes no more time, burying himself inside the whimpering nymph.
Agamemnon grunts, and pounds into the sweet, velvet heat ruthlessly. He presses Odysseus deep into the mattress, groaning as his knot presses the nymph’s swollen cervix. Odysseus’s knees are nearly touching his chest, his sounds becoming frantic as he feels himself softly getting closer to orgasm.
“Agamemnon--,” Odysseus mewls, rocking his hips against each violent thrust. Agamemnon’s blood burns hot. Hearing such a filthy tone be used for his name only makes him painfully harder. His thrusts become sloppy, needing to spill within this nymph, needing to feel him squeeze around his cock with release.
Agamemnon splits open Odysseus’s legs and shoves his face into the faded union scar on his neck. He grumbles, his heavy, broad body covering Odysseus, trapping him. Without thinking, he bites the tender skin and is met with a piercing whine. Odysseus cries through his orgasm, his slick spurting from where their sweaty bodies are joined.
Agamemnon is not far behind, his teeth still stuck in the nymph’s neck, as his knot finally catches. He chokes, sighing heavily as his seed spills heavily into Odysseus. He lazily strokes his cock in and out of Odysseus's sore hole, making sure not a drop of semen escapes the lithe form beneath him. He licks the sore mark on his nymph's neck, messily kissing the column of his throat.
"Are you alright, ally?" Agamemnon asks, hushed. He pets Odysseus's wet forehead, noticing the fever has subsided for now. Odysseus's eyes are dazed, clouded with satisfaction.
"I am alright," Odysseus mumbles. His weathered face saddens. "We have made a mistake, my Lord."
Agamemnon steels himself. He has grown close to Odysseus on this beach. To be torn apart, by war or home, he knows he will lose him. Mated or not.
"Do not think of it for now," Agamemnon murmurs, tightening his lips against Odysseus's temple. "Go to sleep."
He gently turns them on their sides, keeping his cock nestled within the nymph.
They lay in the midst of foggy breath and chilled sweat. Odysseus groans contentedly, feeling the warm ache in his stomach dull. He slowly realizes what has happened, like waking up from a strange dream.
There will be consequences.
Odysseus will not think of them, not until Troy is captured.