As far as he was concerned, Damocles knew that his unexpected arrival would have caused some form of a scene. It was simply just how things were, difficult and tense. Yet, in his, somewhat admittedly limited, scope of experience, he often found that really, in moments like these, in which opportunity never truly did show up at all, there wasn’t such a thing as a proper or right time. Besides, if things had to be done, for as uncomfortable as they might be, they should be done as quick and efficiently as possible so as to avoid any…complications. At least, that was the theory to his actions.

In practice, he felt much less brazen and bold inside. Though his lax, comfortable demeanor and easy swagger conveyed his typical boldness, which many could understand as arrogance, the grey-eyed man knew otherwise, it was all a front. Granted, whenever his anger or rage weren’t involved, he found that he had a bit of a habit for hiding his emotions rather well. Thus, he kept his movements languid and slow, moving at a deliberately torturous pace so as to exercise a level of uncontested ease and, dare he say it, grace. Just because the topic to be broached was not the most comfortable one, did not mean he had to go on and flaunt his awkwardness with the entirety. His broad, strong shoulders were pushed back, his clothes were as upkept as the tent he occupied and his dark, classically handsome looks were on full-display. Though, of note, despite his casual air of friendly charisma, one aspect of him had changed…his facial hair.

Normally, Damocles did not really think much about his beard, often letting it grow as it wished in whatever fashion it did. He often found that he had to groom himself somewhat, lest his appearance went from ruggedly handsome to unflatteringly dismissible. Yet, since his sixteenth nameday, the Colchian had rarely shaved, thinking that, given his frequency of growth, it was rather a ceaseless and thankless care. Some men might have struggled with the growth of their facial hair, but this was not his case. He knew that in about a week’s pass his hair would have grown in place, but that wasn’t his concern or reasoning.

Based off some idiotic conversations he had entertained a few days ago, Damocles had learned that, apparently, people who went clean-shaven were trusted more than bearded men. Though he really wasn’t invested in the business of vast, public trust, he wished to inspire some feelings of ease and comfort with Achilleas. He had nothing to hide from him, for the most part, and this was his way of proving it. Thus, his dashing, long, oval-shaped face was dressed with a playful half-smile and a set of friendly, bright eyes that did not hide their daring, shameless attitude. Nothing more, nothing less. His black locks were pushed backwards, and a simple steadiness was highlighted by the calculated languidness of his meticulously organized steps, movements and gestures. Oddly, he despite his inner reservations, he was, exteriorly, completely at peace.

Most uncharacteristic of him however was the silence and patience he seemed to exercise. Instead of interrupting and deviating the other’s words with petty talk and sidestepped topics, the Colchian turned to let his body channel the language of confidence and self-assurance. He could care less about the amphora jar that had been left behind in the room. That had just been a tool in his arsenal, even if it was an enjoyable one. Hence, he listened, observing the odd movements and general stiffness exercised by the other with mild levels of amusement. He seemed so flustered and out of his element. Yet, instead of potentially setting the other man on edge, Damocles opted to instead settle the tone of this conversation with charm and simplicity.

“I would tell you not to worry, but it seems a bit too late for that.” He mildly tease, chuckling lowly to his own small joke. Now wielding the same warmth that seemed to come naturally to him, Damocles settled his hand on the other man’s shoulder, settling a bit comfortably, given their very miniscule height difference. “Look at me and breath, Achilleas.” Soothingly commanded the deep-voiced Colchian to order by means of his enthralling, sonorous voice. An affable, but subdued smile now formed on his viciously attractive features, all done in the hope that he might be able to quell the other’s fastidiously finicky demeanor. “Come, take a deep breath in and then let another one out.” He instructed, doing the breathing exercises with the other man so as to encourage him to do the same. Once he was satisfied, the grey-eyed man retracted his hand from the other, showing a level of cordial respect for his personage.

“Now, let’s not waste time with excuses, expectations and explanations, and instead focus on the facts ok? You’re a rational man, and I like to think that I am one too. So why don’t we focus on analyzing the situation by what happened and not by anything else. Forget about implications, and focus only on me.” He argued patiently, showing his analytical side above it all. It almost seemed as if Damocles was planning for battle, what with his composure and focus on the present.

Before continuing onwards however, Damocles changed the tone of their interaction. Though he walked slowly, the Colchian wade his way back around the Taengean, mimicking the non-distance that they had previously been thrust into just three days ago. Like the last time he had beheld him, Damocles lifted the other man’s chin up to his, letting his silver eyes make direct contact with the other’s blue orbs. A subdued heat emanated from his dangerously close touch, and the chilled calmness of his breath was replaced with unrestrained assertiveness. “What happened that night? I kissed you. That's what happened. Call it for what it is, a kiss. Nothing more, nothing less.” He whispered, upholding an unshakable resolve that could not be questioned. “As for why I did what I did, it's all really straightforward. I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you.” He assured, never breaking contact with the Taengean's eyes as he maintained their proximity. "I Kissed you because that that is what I wanted to do."

Under normal circumstances, Damocles knew that he would not have typically shown such softness and careful gentleness to another. As far as he was aware, if one of his soldiers had reacted the same Achilleas had, the Silver-eyed man would have bellowed at him or her, for he was a man of a fair mind, in a way that would have made said person quiver in their shoes. Yet, he resisted the urge and need to be abrasive and crude, to release harsh words in a circumstance that was, by its very nature, uncomfortable. So he took to channeling patience, a small, fragile virtue he rarely exercised, and used his words precisely, so as to not further upset the handsome Taengean.

“I know it is annoying to be talked down upon in such a manner, but…I am not good at these things…” said the Colchian in an effort to justify his approach in treating the blue-eyed lord with patience and understanding. “As we concluded before, subtlety is not my strength haha.” Self-deprecated Damocles in an effort to make the situation a little less awkward then before. Regardless of his words however, he kept his confident and bold demeanor, smiling warmly at Achilleas with calculated carefulness balanced by veiled, considerably suppressed passion.

It was true. For as charming and composed as he looked, Damocles wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull the Taengean to him, to feel the smoothness of his face, to smell the earthy, wooden aroma that armored his form, to place his overly-interested fingers against the firm, chiseled muscles that lied beneath that light, but elegant chiton. God! How he craved those to feel the maddeningly alluring press of those sumptuously sweet, but vaguely chapped lips. He wanted him! Terribly so! Damocles yearned to have him back in his arms once more, clutched heatedly in that maelstrom of cacophonous urgency that swept him from logic and reason, costing him a battle between heart and mind. Alas, he stayed his course.

Typically, Damocles was not one for self-moderation. He detested filtering his desires and hungers by diplomatic means. But he did not want to scare the man away, at least, not again. Just a week past they had not even settled on a pleasant conversation, and yet here they were, on the precipice of perpetual silence if things turned out for the worst. He was an expressive man, and he was a bold man, but he was not a foolish man, or that’s what he told himself. That was what he believed.

Once more however, his actions failed to match his words. In an instant, he came upon the smooth-faced Taengean once more, staring at his blue eyes with the same unrestrained desire he had exchanged with him at the beginning of the week. As per his usual habits, Damocles noticed the way that good-looking man wet his lips, causing him to think that despite the hesitance in his words, Achilleas too wanted him again. Sliding his hand against his the other’s squared jawline, the hot-blooded Colchian cupped the other man’s face with unusual tenderness and care, recreating their previously stolen moment. His roused fingers stroked his challenging face, easing against his false protests so as to set the tone of their proximity.

“Now I want you again…” firmly whispered the tanned skinned Colchian with unwavering conviction in his hushed tone. “Now I need you again…” Boldly confessed the rarely clean-shaved Colchian, as he tilted his oblong, saturnine-featured face to the right before closing his assertive, silver-hued eyes and pushed forward against the other man’s lips, stealing yet another kiss from Achilleas.

There had always been a thin line between courageous gallantry and blunt effrontery, one that Damocles had oftentimes crossed over unto towards unsteady directions of past mistakes. It was not easy to know when exactly he had ventured further than the parameters of bravery allowed him, but that did not ever translate into him changing his tone for a subdued, restrained one. He was well-aware of what it was he was doing, and had no false pretense of going back from the unchangeable turn of events that had transpired. He was fire, heated and explosive whence let to his own devices, with a mad intensity to his tone that could set others alight between folds of flames. Yet, he had no need to channel such side of him, for, just as fire could destroy, it could also mystify and enticement others with its brilliance, and that was exactly what the Silver-eyed militant did as he doing in that exact moment.



As the shadows of the Taengean’s strong-line face closed proximately against the sides of his own visage, Damocles once more took note of that familiar scent he had once detected not-too-long ago, allowing the hinted aroma to wreath around his senses so he could recognize that earthy fragrance that swayed him to course at week’s start. Before he knew it, his hands fell against that chilled form, luring Achilleas back to an embrace that had been unmistakable in its meaning. He took a dive, feeling the power and strength of that man as he held him in place, tracing Achilleas’s testimonially chiseled body against his rough, hungry hands. There was expressed excitement in his touch, herein underscoring the previous inquisitiveness in the Colchian’s touch. He was not going to simmer down his tensions or desires, but rather turn them into tools for a burning seduction that was meant only to sate his own needs first and foremost.



Wasting no breaths to his efforts, Damocles welcomed his high, and took his opportunity, sliding his fingers over the back of the other’s head, steadying the other man in place as he deepen their kiss by means of invasive, but welcomed waves that were meant to tangle the other to him. In a matter that was not too dissimilar to the one he showed before, the Colchian’s riposting kiss was filled with overwhelming passion, unequalled intensity and craved ravenousness, teasing and stroking Achilleas’s tongue with his own so as to allure him to the same madness that took hold of him. Meanwhile, he steadied the other’s nape in place, using it as a means to deposit his hold so as to not push too assertively against the other. After all, he did not wish to end their little ministrations too early. He liked the chase and pull of it all, the subtle contest for domination and control that they had seemingly moved to play as standard for their kisses. Naturally, he wasn’t going to make the other man go free from restraint, seeing as the bronze-skinned agitated his grip on the other’s fairer skin, digging into it resonantly with wanton interest.



“Yes, I shaved.” He confirmed, grinning in an amused tone to the man as he stared into his singularly striking orbs once more. “I thought you would like me clean-faced.” Assumed Damocles as he kept his steady hands on the other in an effort to maintain him close and unalarmed. He had lost him days priors amidst wild frenzied moments of upwards turned heat, and frankly, he was not going to leave it up to chance. With a impassioned sense of bold curiosity holding on to him, the Silver-eyed man slid his palms down against his figure, past the Taengean’s sides before settling on his hips, latching to them so as to ground his grip on the man he had been kissing. “You’re not going anywhere, prude.” He teased with a mirthful tone to his smoky, deep voice, recalling the fast-turning insult that was soon becoming a peculiar, if not oddly paradoxical term of endearment between them. With his heart beating hard and peaked, Damocles tilted his head to the side once more as he osculated those generous lips twice more before turning to thrive amongst the swirling temptation of their moment.



“Good?” he humored once more, laughing lowly as a way to let the other know that, right now, he had been growing comfortable with their kissing. Truthfully, it seemed Achilleas was more willingly eager to engage than he had anticipated, which only enticed the Colchian further and further, causing a grin to form on his face. Before long however, he stopped. His breath was ragged and roused as a sense of interest form inside him. In that precise instance, his hands freed from the other, returning to his sides only to make little of the outermost garment he wore. Wasting no time, the Colchian was fast to pull off his robes, revealing himself in the shape of a master-crafted statue of marble.



In that dim light, he appeared, tanned and brawny, with broad shoulders, powerful arms and a set of chiseled abs that could inspire envy upon others. He was muscled like a fantasy, with his olive flesh molding to the ridges and edges of his Herculean body. His ridiculously handsome features however were serious and unquestionable, showing a clarity and tranquility of form that he wished conveyed the tone of their intimate privacy. He was not going to push this deal further than it had to, for he was in no condition break away from the perils of the hour and leave the whole thing to some Godsforsaken chance. But, in those hushed moments of mightnight conspiracies, Damocles stood captivating and patient, waiting for the other to make his reply and answer his call, to give him his reply to a question he had never asked by means of words or speech. Theirs would not be a moment of great declaration or fantastic proclamations. Rather, behind the thin veneer of the tent, he waited, unmoved, unbent and unmatched in his confidence, with his Silver stare deeply fixed on those blue eyes that had only to reach forward and confirm what he knew was true: Damocles wanted Achilleas, and Achilleas wanted Damocles.

Since he had been of sixteen summers, Damocles had entertained the prospect of enjoying men in addition to the pleasurable company of women. To him, it was erroneously disingenuous to holster and finely selected only one of the two over the other, as if by mere preference so as to sate some quickened desire that truly itself was, by its very nature, insatiable. To those that denied themselves and claimed to enjoy only one or another, Damocles would refute and rebut by answering that to enjoy only one was to deny oneself of the other. In his mind, only a fool would deny half of the pleasures of the world. The Gods in their wisdom had made both men and women enjoyable in different ways, and in their own separate manners, he partook in either at equal measured weight.

Hence, as someone who had enjoyed himself with the pleasurable company of both, Damocles was able to ascertain that entertained look in Achilleas’s wide-eyed face. It was hurried desire, the same that made aggressive boys wet their lips with wanton lust and made girls bite their lips with salacious intent hid beneath thin-veiled masks of prudish piousness. Seeing those strong, chiseled features and strong, marked limbs grasp and stammer in stuttering, unexplored intoxication delighted the Colchian, causing him to form a devilish smirk on his face that betrayed his roused titillation. He recognized that look in the other’s wide-held eyes, that unexplored, but curious stare that equally betrayed Achilleas’s sense of want and craving, and he knew exactly what the other man had told him without having to even whisper a single word.

Sure, it was evidence enough by the confession of the other that he had never shown interest in men, but the silver-eyed Colchian was able to deduce this expected finding moments prior, relishing the small, but meaningful ministrations in his squared face. And when that boy, unraveling and tempted, laid a hand on one of his sculptured, decades-forged pectorals, Damocles instantly knew that he had him by the short hairs. Of course, it wasn’t as if he had not set up the scenario on purpose. Just moments prior, he had stripped away most of his layered garments, save for a thin raiment that barely concealed his rousing privy parts. There was little sense in denying it either, for he was quite amused by the prospects that had been answered by the other’s exploring digits.

His strong hands tipped the other’s chin upwards, before one of his fingers caressed the velvety side of Achilleas’s face, coursing him right above so his mesmerizing grey eyes cast their signature charm and attempted to take the other’s breath away for his own selfish pleasure. His devilish smirk turned to an excited grin, and said grin further slid unto a naughty smile that left nothing to the imagination. His features were lavishly laced with assertive confidence, and his trancing grip on the other man cascaded away as the taller of the two pulled the other man closest and pressed his lips against Achilleas’s, locking in a stolen kiss that sealed itself with the pressured tongue that carelessly stroked, teased and pushed against the Taengean’s in a passionate challenge of urging covetousness.

“Poor you…” mockingly, but playfully teased  Damocles after breaking away from that intensified kiss but not before biting on the other’s lower lip so as to elicit another calculated response from the other. In that moment, the Colchian straightened his back and pushed himself further so as to cause himself to appear larger than he was, motivating him to continue his conquering inquest against the inexperienced youth. “Fuck it! Come here!” He snarled excitedly as he mischievously laughed at his untroubled predicament and pushed Achilleas against the surface of his creaking kline, crawling atop him. Again, he kissed the other again, yet this time, he did so without caution or qualm, lurching against the other so as to claim his lips one more time in an maddeningly explosive kiss that pushed aside any trace of logic and reason in favor of unabashed longing and yearning. His grip moved against the other’s chiton, pulling at it aggressively with his brutal, primal strength in full display as he tore against the fabric and ripped right through the garment so he could have exactly what he wanted. Damocles needed to feel the Taengean’s flesh, to grasp and scratch that fair, but lightly tanned skin and to take what he wanted come hell or high water.

"I care not whether this is wrong or right. I don't care at all. I want you. I need you. Be mine!" he declared, digging his hands against Achilleas's sides, whilst languidly gliding his head to the other's exposed neckline, grunting with a gruff puff of his growling, untamed baritone voice. First, he lathered the area with his tongued and traced around the shape, before he kissed at it and added pressure, culminating in a rascally snap of his teeth. Yet, he had learned from his mistakes past and would not leave anything to chance. Meanwhile, his stubborn fingertips busied themselves with the other's ridged muscles, growing satisfied with the inebriating sensation of that taut, daily-trained complexion that he seemed to progressively enjoy more and more. He was long past restraint, and he had no need of it. Gods knew he might very well be felled by a sword or arrowhead come the next morn. He was not going to hold back for he had made his decision. He needed this more than ever before and would not back down. Not now, not ever again in that melting night.

Silence? That was what Achilleas had demanded? The unsounded noise of quiet, fast-escaped words and bygone dismissed commotion of tousled and teased skin against skin? Well, if this is what he wanted, what he had desired and craved as condition to their unspoken gentleman’s agreement, Damocles would not renegade or deny him, for as tediously fun and seedy as that might be. There were boundaries and restrictions to these sorts of things, and it would be in poor sport to not abide by the contracting pact that formed between those hushed moments of precocious, but dangerously progressive heat. So let there be less words and less spoken contact. Actions always spoke louder anyways, so what did it care if little would be expressed here and then?

With a focus on the other’s bared, lofty neck more and more exposed to the Colchian’s ardent, conquests, Damocles kept biting and sucking onto the revealed flesh, nibbling on it ever so capriciously so as to elicit those same unsung sounds that Achilleas had wanted to keep quashed and suppressed between them and the shifting sands of the land. Though he had welcomed his own silence, and would retain a self-imposed sense of control and authority over his own ministrations, the Silver-eyed youth wanted to hear his partner’s voice, to lure and snare his arousal, to show what a desperate and needy man he had been rendered, and make him accept his submission without the grace and elegance his title and birthright falsely allotted him.

Damocles was not going to hide his selfish greed in this time and place. He simply refused to do so. A hand, freed and inquisitive in its rugged grasp, snaked and traveled against the other’s now-freed chest, cementing itself on the firmness of one of those comparatively paler, but equally masculine pectorals, pulling and enticing the darkened tip of his nipple with the same eagerness that his teeth had entertained upon his neck. Oh he would remain quiet, of that he was sure, but he was going to punish Achilleas for making such a request. With the added friction of his digits against those sensitive tips, and his teeth still bared against their latched place, Damocles kept hungry in his seductions, firmly determined to undermine the other’s stony reception and traditional masked image by any and every means possible.

With his last remaining hand, the olive-skinned Colchian’s elongated fingers nestled at the tips of that curled, black hair. He was confident and assured in his movements, overcoming any and all reservations he perhaps might have harbored behind the deepest precipices of his dark, foreboding mind. A shameless, audacious smirk formed on his face, which had abandoned its attack on the Taengean’s neckline and hovered above the other’s own visage. His silver eyes once more shot out piercing arrows in their captivating stares, adding to the asphyxiating circumstance that was their current untroubled predicament.

Tilting his head to the side, the devastatingly handsome Colchian took in the sight of the captive man beneath him and allowed his own senses to run rampart in their perception. He picked-upped on that familiar scent, earthy and wooden, but not touched by the presence of sweat and heat, It delighted him, to feel the slow, but welcomed warmth of the man beneath him. He lowered himself in his hunt, forcefully guiding those seemingly innocent, but apparently emboldened lips with his own in a passionate kiss that harbored no reservations or lack of intentionality behind their purchase. Meanwhile, though his eyes closed so as to invite a greater sensation for now, his grip on those luscious, rich black curls tightened and grew more and more aggressive, denoting the abrasive arousal that Damocles would not deny feeling at that exact time. Of course, he was no fool and instead started slow and languid on his hold, measuring the strength of his devious fingers by the catched breath he nonverbally demanded as payment for his actions for now.

Achilleas had no mistake to make however. Though the Colchian was committed to maintain his growing dominance over the other man, there was a slightness to it all that had not been much present in this nightly engagement. Damocles was no stranger to the appearance of a man in heat, the unequivocal sensations that came with being with another one of his own sex that often denoted a certain ruggedness that women oftentimes, and in his preference, certainly lacked. Yet, this was something different, new and rougher in its own form. Achilleas was not a small or slight man. He was the stoic image of a proper hero made manifest, blessed with a fortitude that did not, at any time, display weakness or fault in its shape. He was undeniably masculine and strong, and this caused Damocles to relish his muscular form more and more. There had been few in his past whom had been so aesthetically pleasing to the Magnemean as did the Lordling beneath him. It was thrilling in its own way, to behold the singular good-looks of the Taengean in a way he doubted many had ventured through before.

The smell of the once-dignified man below him undercut the singular purpose of the bold Colchian. His instincts told him to chase after that scent, to hunt that maddening aroma and to try and tame the colossal warrior that had now lain against the creaking kline with him. Damocles knew he couldn’t press his assertiveness in its absolute manner still, even if he wanted to make short work of the Adonis that laid was between his own powerful hands. Yet, he didn’t want to do so. Yes, there was a risk that he might have been punched square in the jaw by Achilleas, but the prize that was the Mikaelidas youth was far too enticing to let go. It was reckless of him to take such a warrior as companion for the hour, but it also was, in its own way, monopolizing amusing, this small contest of wills and determinations that, realistically, had no losers.

Inch, by torturous inch, Damocles moved the clasp of the hand he had taken against the other’s seduced nipple away and savored the make of that brawny, powerful body, savoring the gratifying impressions that his fingertips enjoyed. The feel of Achilleas’s own hands on his war-warn skin caused the Colchian to rumble in pleasure, letting the other know that his touch was also welcomed. In fact, he couldn’t get enough of it. He wanted the paler of the two to keep his daring traces against his own darker physique. The rippling muscles of the Silver-eyed man flexed and tensed in their composition, subtly giving the other more to delight as he showed his own well-built constitution. And yet, the militant knew better than to surrender himself too much.

Entangling himself with the sinful pleasantry that was the other soldier’s chest, the Magnemean made sure to target the myriad spots that he knew would disgrace the other more and more. He traced the taut, dedicated abdominals that trailed to the sex lines on his chiseled torso. It felt incredibly pervasive to appreciate that part of the man’s body, to entertain his hand on the lower hand of his chest and to take note of the way his form tensed, but then suddenly eased. It almost seemed like a fantasy come true, like a relished secret that none should ever know about. But that mattered little, for he was too impatient to enjoy such a sensation for too long.

He sinfully steered forward in his invasion on the other’s body, traveling deeper and lower than any other man had done so, based on what Achilleas had expressed to him before. There would be sounds to make at this impression, for sure, but Damocles had been told to keep quiet and remain silent, ordered to do so. And, though he had never met anyone who could boss him around, there was a certain delight in using the other’s conditions against him, to turn the tables in his favor and make it so it was Achilleas who wanted to cry out in pleasure, to roar like the lion his family had so arrogantly claimed as their emblem and sigil.

Without abandoning the clip of his fingers on his hair, nor the pull of his lips, Damocles slowly pursued down the last, remaining garment of worth on the Taengean’s form. Previously, their virilities had been pressed together in heated arousal, but as he made his move, the Colchian detached himself a bit and dug the tip of his digits beneath the cloth. Brazenness had called to him, and he was not going to deny such a prospect. First, there was a coarseness to his sex that the Colchian had expected, but still found interesting. Then, there was the base of his neglected member, teased and maddened by the impression of his thumb on it. A lonely pull along his length stretched, yet Damocles refuses to free Achilleas from his undergarment. He hadn’t deserved it yet, and so would continue to punish the man until he was like the Colchian wanted. After breaking their kiss so as to breach the quietness of their contract, Damocles smirked devilishly at his newly christened partner for the night and finally brokered words.

“Beg…”

There were rules in enjoying the company of another in matters of the flesh and heat, rules that seldom were talked about, and in the oft chance where they were uttered, they were done in but hushed, quiet voices and silenced whispers. The Greeks were a people famous for their prudish conservativism, a proud, hypocritical people that oftentimes pretended to be so above mortal temptation and desire so as to shut them down with metal bars and clasped locks. Yet Damocles had never agreed with that inclination entirely. Life was too short to deprive oneself of the pleasures of the time and place, and though he was contempt with his achivements in life, and more often than not busied himself with his work, even he admitted that there always was time for fun.

One of said rules concerning the affair of flesh and heat concerned itself with approval and discussion. Of course, no proper lover would dare bore his partner with oratory and rhetoric. No, the discussions and negotiations were oftentime subtle, and nonverbal. It was the bated breath that hitched upon one’s throat in a failed attempt to surpress a pleasurable moan after being bitten by the side of the neck, it was the rush of flushed red spread evident across the face when engaged with the slide of ones member upon entry, it was the furious, passionate tugging of locked-lips that wrestled and fought for conquest in a battle that had no winners and losers. These were the rules of the game, the simple, unspoken truths that most parents would shudder explaining to their young.

Damocles had never gained an insightful education into the matter. Instead, he learnted by practice and experience, contemplating what was usually enjoyable in midnight hour embraces that always ended in the sweetest of releases. But he had also learned of the use of words, and their importance in these moments. No meant no, and a bird that did not sing could not be made to twitter melodiously unless it was through consent and approval. He was not going to press any advantage here, at least one that dared go too bold in this inquisition. So when Achilleas voiced his objections, the Colchian stopped and retracted, hovering over the breathtakingly good-looking man as he cupped his chiseled jaw once more and kissed him in a calculated effort at restraint, a silent promise and an apology for his forcefulness.

“Guess this lion found his claws at last!” teased the devastatingly handsome warrior as he resigned his apologizing kiss, smirking eagerly so as to try and turn the back the other’s attention to a more appropriate tone. “Don’t worry. I will never do anything that you do not approve of when it comes to this. You only have to let me know and I will stop, without asking. Nor will I ask for an explanation. What matters to me now is that you are comfortable, that is all.” Solemnly swore the Colchian with a subdued smile and a serious tone to his voice as he stared longingly at those electrical-blue eyes and found himself lost in their azure reflection.

Once finished, he laughed lowly and kissed the Taengean again, sliding down against the exposed side of his neck as he huffed in reaction to the other’s fingers against his own smallclothes. “Now, where do you want me to continue, you damned idiot.” His ministration, playful and energetic as they were, hinted at his excitement, one that he rarely felt when laying with another man.