Title: Immortal Night
Author: Elandae
Pairing: Odysseus/Diomedes
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence
Disclaimer: Seeing as the time machine is not yet completed, this is complete lies. But just you wait until I finish…
Feedback: Would be much appreciated, as honest as possible.
Dedication: For perseph2hades and azewewish just because they appreciate these two together *g* And a huge thanks to Kels because she was so helpful while I was writing this!
The night air still held a lingering warmth from the day though the dark scorned any memory of the brilliance it obliterated. They did not speak as they moved, two shadows in the inky black of the night, eyes fixed forward on the vivid orange of the flames that burned in the open plain spread before them.
Diomedes stiffened as he caught sight of the figure that moved towards them, a lone man unaccompanied as he made his way towards the darkness. Diomedes spoke under his breath to his companion but he too had caught sight of the man, watched his approach with eager eyes.
They kept silent as he drew near, lying down among the dead so that he would not detect them, smelling earth and drying blood around them. He passed them with careless ease not dreaming that there may be another who lay in wait in the cover of the shadows, nor that there may be two such beings. When he had passed they drew themselves up, exchanging watchful glances and followed behind him.
They did not stop him then but waited until he had passed far enough into the shadows that no hint of flame could be seen from the fires. No light behind to serve as a beacon back to safety, no light ahead save for what wan rays the moon may lend to their liaison. Diomedes tightened his hand around the smoothly worn shaft of his spear, feeling the familiar slickness of the wood, providing a comforting solidity to his grasp.
The air changed the moment that Dolon became aware of the two men that followed him, realizing too late that these were not friends, there was to be no word from Hector that bade him back to the safety encapsulated by fire light. These were foes and there was no welcome in their eyes. He turned and ran; relying on his fleetness of foot, praying the Gods would let him find some safekeep, somewhere where he might elude these two pursuers who drew ever near, determination outweighing desperation.
Diomedes did not let fly his spear until he realized the chase had pressed their prey almost into the grasp of the Achaean camps. No man should lay claim to the task that which he had taken on. It flew in a smooth arc departing from his hand with practiced ease, spearhead polished to a deathly sheen, but it found not its home in the easy give of flesh but in the coolness of the earth.
Dolon froze, his chest rising and falling, the jagged sound of his own breath rough in his ears, but overshadowed by the footfalls of the men who drew ever nearer. Both seemed larger in their fearless approach, knowing that their target had no route of escape now and all the cards fell neatly into their hands.
His eyes were wide as he drew in a gulping breath the whites showing clearly in the dark as they darted from one man to the other, countenances barely visible in the uncaring night. One watched him fiercely, his gaze unfaltering, black eyes making fear press upon him insistently, demanding to be heard. The other’s face was sternly composed, forsaking any ludicrous hope for escape.
He spoke first, the man with the unreadable features and his voice was low, slow and casual. Dolon replied quickly, his words clashing into one another in his hurry to get them out. His voice sounded high to his own ears and foreign. The other man did not speak yet, but he watched Dolon yet with those dark eyes.
Dolon’s eyes darted back and forth between the men, obviously unsure where his attention should rest and so roved ceaselessly. A brief smile touched Diomedes’ lips though no one caught it as he watched Odysseus study the man before them, withdrawing the information he sought with a careless ease.
Dolon spoke again then, wishing to know his fate. To be tied in fetters or brought to the Achaeans, he wished to know which awaited him this night. Diomedes smiled once more, a slow smile that spread across his face like honey flowing down a lover’s body. Odysseus watched as Dolon swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing uneasily as he waited, perhaps sensing by the looks in their eyes the finality of the statement that approached.
Odysseus knows well the predatory glint that will darken Diomedes’ eyes, knows Dolon would be half terrified, half seduced by that look if he could but see its true potency, if he had even had a chance to absorb the sight. It happens too fast for Dolon to even react though. The sword seemed to guide itself into Diomedes’ hand, so eager is it for this blow. It takes no more than one stroke, one quick flash of a well muscled arm, years of training compressed into a single sinuous movement that incites the warm release of blood that flows over the pristine blade and drenches Dolon’s furs.
His body slumps gracelessly to the ground, the earth darkening as blood seeps slowly across it, sinking easily into its chill embrace. There is left only gleaming black shadows, darker even than the immortal night.
His belongings are quickly gathered together, marking both their hands with traces of his blood. They make their way through the darkness, following Dolon’s last words to direct themselves towards the Thracian camp where no sentry stood watch to betray their approach.
Sleep resides undisturbed upon the eyes of the soldiers, unaware of the two figures that crept ever closer to their camp, of the double-edged blade that shone wickedly in the firelight, still darkened with the blood of its last kill. Their armor was laid out in preparation for battle, durable metals gleaming dully, looking plain in comparison to the finery that adorns their King’s armor.
Diomedes moved towards the nearest man, footsteps soft upon the earth lest he wake any of the peacefully sleeping soldiers. Odysseus followed in his wake, eyes moving over the horses that stood tethered, watching with quiet disinterest.
As Odysseus loosed the tethers for the first horses, Diomedes struck, the graceful swing of a blade through the night air meeting with flesh, blood spilling forth upon the earth. Odysseus then grasped the man by his ankles, pulling him quickly from where he lay lest the horses be expected to step across such carnage. So they moved around the party, until there lay 12 men with throats slit, unseeing eyes staring glassily up at the stars that shone obliviously in the unclouded black blue of the sky.
Diomedes paused before the thirteenth man, King Rhesus, before he swung the blade once more with relish, another contribution to the river of blood that had been spent upon the earth under the cover of the night. The horses were tied together and Odysseus took a moment to admire the beauty of the creatures before him, using his bow to prod one beast, having no whip upon which he could lay his hands and urge the horses forward. Diomedes turned with regret and mounted another. The horses were off, the speed of their movement creating a chilled breeze, their eager movements smooth and fluid.
Jovial was their welcome back into the Achaean camp, both men sitting astride horseflesh the likes of which none of the men had laid eyes upon before. The horses were stabled alongside Diomedes’ own, the air smelling sweetly of grain. Dolon’s belongings were stowed on Odysseus’ ship, the dark shade of the drying blood taking on more color in the growing light, waiting patiently until the time for the sacrifice to the Pallas Athene was upon them.
Their armor was removed, the loss of the familiar weight upon their frames seeming to make each man buoyant, each step lighter as they splashed into the ocean. The chill waters first rushed over their feet, before slipping around their ankles and finally greedily settling around smoothly curved calves, slicking fine hairs to their skin as they waded deeper into the cold water. Hands rubbed briskly over legs and arms, water streaming gleefully down the contours of a well muscled thigh, the generous curve of a bicep before falling back down to the sea with a disappointed splash.
Odysseus cupped his hand, filling it with cool sea water and smoothing it over the back of his neck. The majority of it ran off, falling in sparkling arcs to the water below though a small trickle slid down heated skin, leaving a narrow trail of dampened skin along his spine.
Odysseus paused then, feeling the ocean swell smoothly around his legs, watching as Diomedes ran one hand up his arm, skin glistening with water, strong fingers accustomed to the weight of a sword conforming easily to the elegance of his forearm, smoothed to perfection from the rigors of battle. The tip of Odysseus’ tongue crept out, moistening his lips, his breath slowing as he watched the movements. Yet he made no move to go to him, stood stock still where he was, the slight expansion of his chest as he inhaled the only sign of life.
Diomedes looked over at him, water now trailing from his neck over the curve of his shoulder, lingering over the lines of his collarbone before slipping down his chest, lost under the material of his shirt. Odysseus imagined the path it would take over firm, tanned skin, wondered for a moment if it would slip slowly over heated skin, savoring every inch or if it would rush headlong, unable to stop its descent, knowing only that this could not be slow and easy. Knowing only that it needed to consume.
Diomedes watched him steadily, dark eyes made darker by the low light even though far off the night was beginning to relent against the day that pushed forward. Two strong hands making a simple container, a solidly muscled frame stooping as he bent low to allow the eager sea to rush in, hands seeming to be raised in slow motion, the droplets falling from them finding their short journey elongated. The water was splashed over dark hair, smoothing easily as he pushed it back from his face, rivulets slipped heedlessly down. His face seemed more defined without the dark hair falling across his forehead, now revealed to be finely sculpted, his dark eyes disarming. The curve of his cheekbones seemed more defined; his lips full, ready to whisper dark words into a lover’s ear.
Odysseus wondered vaguely why the water no longer seemed so chill, pausing around him as though it too meant to linger here and watch. He wanted to move closer, follow the trail of the water, taste the salt upon his tongue but he did not move. He knew his hand would start on Diomedes’ arm, the touch would be simple but it would not stop there. He could not stop there.
Instead he forced his legs to move, to push back against the water that seemed determined to hold him where he was. He could hear the rush of the sea as Diomedes moved after him, sluggish movements and he knew that the sea would be reluctant to release its hold on him. He knew that should it be him that had that man within his grasp now he too would not let him be released so simply.
***
Water had already been heated and poured into shining tubs when they returned. Steam rose in hazy stretches above the water before dissolving into the air. Odysseus watched silently as Diomedes began to disrobe, muscles elongating as his chest was bared. He absently followed suit, paying no mind to his own clothing unless they were obstructing his view of the other man.
He meant to speak when Diomedes turned to face him, his body bared, bronzed skin marked with lighter shaded scars, but somehow every word paused before it could form fully upon his tongue, dissipating in the knowledge of their own insufficiency. A languorous smile spread across Diomedes’ face, predatory. Lethal. He moved slowly towards the other man, a stealth to each movement that brought to mind a tiger stalking its prey, and Odysseus was once more reminded of the look that would be in his eyes just before he let loose his blade, part desire, part satisfied arrogance that he should emerge victorious, conquest effortlessly realized.
He paused before Odysseus, eyes roaming blatantly down the other man’s nude form before returning to his face with another of those lazy smiles. He trailed a single finger up the side of Odysseus’ body, the touch teasing yet just firm enough to feel the heat that radiated from him, inviting a more intimate touch.
Odysseus watched the progression of the finger, eye flickering up to Diomedes, watching as he bent his head, still damp dark hair falling forward as he leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath ghosting across Odysseus’ skin, sending shivers down the length of his spine before the wet heat of Diomedes’ mouth fastened upon his throat, teeth scraping over the pulse point.
Odysseus reached up, one hand twining through the dark strands of hair, making a fist there and pulling Diomedes’ head back, eyeing the column of his throat for a moment, before he pulled the other’s man body tight against his own, crushing his mouth against the other man’s. He could feel teeth nipping, the lightly bitter tang of blood on his tongue.
Diomedes pressed back into him, shifting his hips so that the length of his erection rubbed against Odysseus’ making him moan into the other man’s mouth. He started when felt the rough wall of the hut scrape his back, had only a moment to wonder how he happened to be here before Diomedes’ hand slid down his body, insinuating itself between them to wrap around hardened flesh. His head fell back against the wall, his breath catching as Diomedes tightened his grip, stroking slowly upwards.
Odysseus drew in a shaky breath, moving so that he now had Diomedes pinned to the wall, taking the other man by surprise. He wrapped his fingers around Diomedes wrists, feeling the heat of the skin in his palm. He felt a slow throb in his groin at the loss of contact but the look in Diomedes’ eyes more than accounted for it. He shifted his grasp until each of Diomedes’ hands were pressed to the wall, neatly secured by his own. He pressed his body forward, using his weight to pin the stockier man to the wall knowing full well that if he wished to, Diomedes could throw his weight off. Yet he simply watched Odysseus, the pink tip of his tongue snaking out and across his lips, his chest rising and falling roughly, skin sticky with sweat.
This time it was Odysseus who smiled, beguiling as always, his breath warm against already heated skin. Diomedes pressed back into him, watching Odysseus as he did so, waiting to see if the grip around his wrists would tighten. Their eyes were locked together, mouths so close that each could feel the heat that came from the other.
Odysseus leaned back a little, his eyes never leaving Diomedes’ as he slid slowly down the man’s body. Diomedes watched him intently, his breath taking on a hint of a shudder as he inhaled.
“The craftiest of all the Achaeans,” his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, “And I have him on his knees.” There was a possessive pleasure to his words, a breathless anticipation.
Black eyes never drifted from the sight before him, watching as Odysseus’ tongue slipped past his lips, gliding over the tip of Diomedes’ erection. He was tempted to close his eyes then, let the sensations that shot through him as he was drawn into the warm wet mouth completely overtake him but he forced his eyes to stay open, reluctant to miss a moment of this. He watched as Odysseus took more of him into his mouth, slick tongue playing against sensitized flesh, the labored sound of his own breath echoing in his ears, accompanied by the staccato beat of his pulse as he watched the way Odysseus’ cheeks hollowed as he let Diomedes slip almost entirely from his mouth before drawing him back in.
Odysseus looked up, his eyes meeting Diomedes, the glint there proving overwhelming, a final assault against Diomedes’ senses until he could not keep his eyes open any longer, could not bear to watch the exquisite sight of himself sliding into Odysseus’ mouth, not when coupled with that look in bright eyes. Such beauty was not meant to be seen by a mere mortal. His eyes slipped shut, the image of Odysseus yet emblazoned in his mind.
He started when Odysseus pulled back, letting him slip entirely from his mouth. His eye flew open then, the protest on his lips silenced by Odysseus’ mouth. He could taste the lingering traces of his own arousal on his lover’s tongue. When Odysseus pulled back, the jagged sound of his own breathing was mingled with Diomedes’ until it was no longer possible to distinguish what came from which man.
Gentle hands turned Diomedes until he was facing the wall, meeting no resistance from him. He felt the lavish warmth of Odysseus’ mouth flutter across his shoulder, lingering in the gentle curve at the base of his neck. Then nothing but air, chill and unfamiliar against his skin, stark after the lush decadence of Odysseus’ mouth.
He could hear the soft sounds of movement, could feel when Odysseus stepped back behind him again, his presence felt before he even touched Diomedes. His eyes slipped shut again at the warm touch against his back, fingers slick against him and almonds scenting the air with their delicate fragrance.
Odysseus watched as the oil slipped easily over smooth skin, pausing momentarily at a scar before continuing down the graceful incline of Diomedes broad back. He followed the trail with his fingers, pausing where the droplet had at the scar, lightly tracing the length of it. He slipped farther down, the movement aided by the slick oil that coated his fingers making them glisten, matching the trails on Diomedes’ skin.
Still lower they journeyed, Odysseus pressing a little closer as they drew lazy circles around the ring of muscle. He slid one finger slowly inside, working it unhurriedly in and out. While part of him wanted nothing more than to push himself inside and lose himself in the sensations, he would not rush this, the buildup to that one moment of unspeakable perfection when he finally slid inside Diomedes.
He added another finger, easing it inside the tight muscle, feeling it gradually loosen to accommodate his oil slicked fingers. He could hear the low sound of impatience that came from Diomedes, knew that he wanted more than just Odysseus’ fingers. With hands somewhat lacking in their usual competent grace, Odysseus removed his fingers, slicking fragrant oil along his length, the muscle in his jaw clenching at the sensation, recalling the feel of Diomedes’ hand tight around him, anticipating the tightness that he would feel around him in mere moments.
The space of time between his hand moving from himself, settling against Diomedes to when his hips shifted was no more than an intake of breath and still it stretched out interminably. The world shrunk until it was nothing but feeling the heat of his lover’s body at the tip of his erection, the shift of hips pressing back into him and then nothing but tight heat surrounded him as he pushed slowly into Diomedes.
He did not stop until he was fully in, could not push any farther forward. He caught his lip between his teeth, finding that air seemed to take more time than was usual before it flooded into his lungs.
He drew slowly out, hearing a hiss cut through the air though he was unable to tell if he had made that sound or if it had come from his lover.
He reached around, wrapping his hand around Diomedes’ erection, biting down softly on the tender skin of Diomedes’ shoulder at the soft sound he made as he felt Odysseus’ hand upon him, the way the hardened flesh seemed to fill his hand just right.
His strokes became faster, his hand moving in time with his hips. He could think of nothing but the sensations that flooded through his body, nothing but the soft sounds that slipped unheeded past Diomedes’ lips making his pulse race and his vision swim.
He could feel the way Diomedes’ body tensed, tightening around him so that he cried out, his voice hoarse and uneven, mixing with the sound of Diomedes’ own voice as his body jerked, warm fluid spilling eagerly across Odysseus’ hand. Unable to resist the siren call of Diomedes’ voice as he climaxed or the way his body tightened around him, Odysseus gave in, the crescendo building to an impossible height until it crashed down around him with a groan that echoed in his chest.
He could not move, could find no will or energy that would make him stir from his position just this moment, nothing that could hold more appeal than the sweat slicked skin of his lover against him, the only sound in his ears the harsh pace of their breath, one echoing the other in delayed imitation.
The flickering light of the candles seemed inconsequential in the growing light in the room and Odysseus realized vaguely that the cloak of the night had been drawn aside to reveal the brilliance of the newly awakened day. The night had flown from them.
The End.