As Lysander descended the winding path, Athens woke around him. Market smells — fish, cumin, hot olive oil — couldn’t mask Demetrios’ cedar scent lingering on his skin. At the fountain near the agora, old Eurydice eyed his limp. “Fell hard during drills, boy?” she cackled, offering a ripe fig.
Lysander accepted it, the sweetness bursting on his tongue like Demetrios’ kiss. He lied smoothly: “Slipped on quarry moss.” Her knowing smirk followed him down the street.
At the palaestra, Demetrios awaited, blindfolds coiled like snakes in his palm. Noon sun scorched the packed earth. Lysander’s every step echoed yesterday’s fierce rhythm against the quarry wall — hips sore, muscles humming with memory. Demetrios tossed him the rough-woven cloth.
“Trust the pull of muscle, the hitch of breath,” he commanded. “Not sight.”
Blindfolded, the palaestra roared differently. Shouts echoed off stone, disembodied. Sweat evaporated as Lysander circled, feet shifting over grit. Demetrios attacked first – a sudden rush of heat and motion. Lysander ducked instinctively, Demetrios’ forearm grazing his ribs where a bruise already purpled from quarry stone. The contact sparked memory: skin slick with moss, thrusts deep and claiming. Lysander gasped, staggered by sensation – raw hip aching, ass still tender. Demetrios chuckled low, his breath puffing against Lysander’s neck. “Distracted?”
Lysander lunged blindly toward the sound. They collided, Demetrios’ hands locking onto his wrists, thumbs digging into tendons. Calluses scraped skin already sensitized. A shiver ran through Lysander’s core, tightening his stomach. He felt Demetrios shift – a lean forward, chest brushing Lysander’s. The scents mingled: cedar oil, sunbaked dust, the faint musk of their quarry coupling clinging beneath sweat. Lysander twisted, driving a knee upward. Demetrios blocked it smoothly, thigh pressing hard against Lysander’s groin. Pressure bloomed – half-pain, half-pleasure – stealing his breath.
“Focus,” Demetrios growled. His grip shifted, fingers sliding down Lysander’s forearms to grip his biceps. He spun Lysander sharply. Lysander stumbled back, shoulder blades hitting Demetrios’ chest. The solid wall of muscle pinned him. Demetrios’ lips brushed his ear. “Feel where I hold you?” His calloused palms slid up Lysander’s ribs, thumbs grazing the sensitive undersides of his pectorals. Lysander froze. Every nerve screamed – the rasp of thumbs circling his nipples, Demetrios’ hips grinding against his aching ass. “Or are you still back at the pool?”
Lysander twisted violently, breaking free. He dropped low, sweeping a leg where he knew Demetrios’ ankles would be planted. His shin connected solidly. Demetrios grunted, stumbling sideways. Lysander surged after him, grappling blindly for leverage. His fingers found purchase on Demetrios’ hipbone – the familiar ridge where Sparta’s dagger had left its crescent scar. He hauled Demetrios closer, locking an arm around his waist. Their sweat-slick chests slammed together. The impact shuddered through Lysander’s bruised hips. He hissed.
Demetrios’ answering chuckle vibrated against him. “Still tender?” His breath ghosted Lysander’s jawline. Calloused hands slid down Lysander’s spine, fingers digging into the sore muscles flanking his tailbone. Lysander gasped as Demetrios kneaded the bruised flesh where he’d been pinned against quarry stone. Pleasure and pain tangled, sparking heat low in his belly. His cock stirred against Demetrios’ thigh. Demetrios shifted, grinding his own hardening erection into Lysander’s hip. Blindfolded, the intensity amplified – every scrape of callus, every hitch of breath, the humid puff of air against his neck. Lysander drove a knee up, aiming for Demetrios’ ribs.
Demetrios trapped his leg effortlessly, thigh locking Lysander’s limb against his own hip. He leveraged his weight, twisting Lysander sideways. Blindfolded, Lysander fought for balance, fingers scrabbling over Demetrios’ sweat-slick shoulder blade. Demetrios hooked a foot behind Lysander’s ankle and swept. Lysander hit the packed earth hard, dust choking his gasp. Before he could roll, Demetrios straddled his chest, knees bracketing Lysander’s ribs. The position vibrated with the quarry’s memory – Demetrios’ weight pinning him, hips caging him. Demetrios leaned down, the blindfold scratchy against Lysander’s forehead as he rasped, “Yield?” His thumb traced Lysander’s lower lip, slick with sweat and dust.
Lysander bucked. Demetrios slammed a palm against his sternum, driving the air from his lungs. Pain flared through Lysander’s bruised hip where it struck the ground. He hissed, arching into the pressure. Demetrios’ breath warmed his throat.
“Yield,” Demetrios commanded again, softer now. His thumb dipped lower, brushing the frantic pulse at Lysander’s neck. Lysander felt Demetrios’ hips shift, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against Lysander’s ribcage through thin linen. The intimate pressure echoed the quarry’s claiming – deliberate, undeniable.
Lysander’s fingers clawed uselessly at Demetrios’ sweat-slicked thighs bracketing him. “Never,” he gasped, bucking again. Dust puffed around them as Demetrios ground down, the friction igniting Lysander’s own arousal.
Demetrios chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through Lysander’s sternum. His blindfold slipped askew; one hazel eye flashed gold in the harsh noon light, fierce and possessive.
"Never?" Demetrios tightened his thighs around Lysander’s ribs, restricting his breath. His thumb traced Lysander’s collarbone, calluses scraping over sweat-slicked skin. The scent of cedar oil intensified as Demetrios leaned closer, his erection pressing harder against Lysander’s sternum. "Then suffer."
He shifted his weight abruptly, pinning Lysander’s wrists above his head with one hand. Lysander gasped — half-struggle, half-invitation — as Demetrios’ other hand slid down his flank, fingers dipping beneath the linen waistband. Dust coated Lysander’s lips as Demetrios’ thumb brushed the sensitive skin below his navel. Blindfolded, every touch burned brighter: the drag of knuckles over ribs still aching from quarry stone, the press of Demetrios’ knee between his thighs forcing them wider. Lysander arched, a raw groan escaping him when Demetrios’ fingers found the damp heat trapped beneath fabric.
His fingers slid lower, rough pads tracing the wiry hair thickening at the base of Lysander’s cock. Lysander bucked, choking on dust. Demetrios chuckled darkly, palm cupping the hard length pressed against his thigh. He squeezed once, deliberately slow, thumb circling the flushed head smearing pre-cum through linen. Lysander cried out, hips jerking into the friction.
"Still sensitive?" Demetrios murmured against his throat, breath scalding. His fingers abandoned Lysander’s cock, sliding lower still — past trembling inner thighs, over the soft skin behind his balls slick with sweat. Lysander froze. The memory flared: moss-scraped cheeks, the brutal stretch, Demetrios’ groan as he emptied inside him. Lysander shuddered violently. Demetrios’ finger lingered, circling the tender rim, a silent promise echoing the quarry’s invasion. "Yield now," he whispered, "or I open you here. On Athenian sand." His finger pressed harder, breaching the tight furl just enough to steal Lysander’s breath.
Lysander arched, a choked gasp tearing free. Demetrios withdrew the finger slowly, deliberately smearing wetness over Lysander’s perineum. His hips shifted, grinding his rigid cock against Lysander’s hipbone through sweat-soaked linen. The friction sparked fire along raw nerves. "Yield," Demetrios commanded again, low and relentless. His thumb brushed Lysander’s swollen lower lip, tasting of dust and salt.
"Aye," Lysander rasped, breath ragged. "I yield." The word felt like surrender and victory fused together.
Demetrios released his wrists instantly, rolling off him. He tore Lysander’s blindfold away. The sudden glare of the palaestra sun blinded him for a heartbeat. When his vision cleared, Demetrios was standing, sweat-streaked and formidable, hand extended. Lysander grasped it, letting Demetrios haul him upright. Every muscle screamed – his bruised hip, his aching shoulders, the deep tenderness low in his belly where Demetrios had claimed him hours before. Dust clung to their damp skin.
"You fought well," Demetrios said, his voice rough-edged but approving. He brushed grit from Lysander’s shoulder with a palm already raw from the grapple. Lysander hissed at the scrape over tender flesh. Demetrios’ gaze lingered on the fading bruise blooming along Lysander’s flank – quarry stone’s souvenir. "Too well," he added, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "That sweep nearly took my legs." He bent, retrieving their discarded blindfolds, coiled them swiftly. "Come. My chambers. You need salve and wine before this stiffness sets like mortar."
They walked in silence through Athens’ waking streets, shoulders nearly touching. Market cries wove around them – salted fish, cumin, hot oil – but Lysander breathed only cedar oil and Demetrios’ sweat-dried skin. At Demetrios’ door, a faded blue lintel chipped at the corner, he shoved the heavy cedar wood open without ceremony. Inside, shadows clung thickly, smelling of old leather, dried herbs, and the metallic tang of athlete’s oil. Dust motes danced in a single shaft of sunlight slicing through a high window.
Demetrios gestured to a low cot draped with worn wool. "Sit." He rummaged in a clay amphora, pulling out a smaller jar of pungent salve – rosemary and pine resin sharp on the humid air. He knelt before Lysander, fingers dipping into the cool ointment. Lysander hissed as Demetrios’ calloused hands found the deep bruise purpling his hipbone, pressing firmly. The pressure was a counterpoint to the quarry’s remembered agony and ecstasy. Demetrios’ thumb circled slowly, working the salve deep into the battered muscle, his touch methodical yet intimate. Lysander watched his bent head, the damp curls at his nape, the corded strength in his forearm flexing with each stroke.
The scrape of linen against Lysander’s stretched skin was forgotten under Demetrios’ purposeful kneading. He traced the bruise’s edge, fingers sliding lower, grazing the sensitive skin of Lysander’s inner thigh – a deliberate echo of earlier possession. Lysander’s breath hitched.
"Still tight?" Demetrios asked without looking up, thumb pressing into the sore muscle where thigh met hip. The intimacy of his touch – clinical yet charged – stole Lysander’s voice. He nodded, gaze fixed on the sweat-damp curls clinging to Demetrios’ neck.
Demetrios scooped more salve, its sharp pine scent cutting through the room’s leathery musk. His fingers slid lower, tracing the tender crease where Lysander’s leg joined his body. A shudder ripped through Lysander as calloused fingertips brushed the swollen rim left raw from the quarry. Demetrios paused, thumb resting against the heated skin. "Olympus wept, Lysander," he murmured, voice thick. "I marked you deeper than Sparta’s blade."
He pressed the salve gently into the abused flesh, a cool balm against the phantom burn of intrusion. Lysander gasped, hips jerking forward instinctively. Demetrios held him steady with a palm flat on his stomach. "Easy," he breathed, working the ointment in slow circles. Each touch was a rekindled echo — water sloshing, stone scraping his cheek, Demetrios filling him to bursting.
Lysander’s cock stirred, heavy against his thigh. Demetrios’ gaze flicked upward, hazel eyes darkened to near black. "Does it pain you?" His thumb pressed deeper, circling the sensitive pucker. Pleasure-pain lanced through Lysander’s groin.
"Only when you stop," Lysander breathed. Demetrios’ answering smile was feral. He dipped his fingers back into the salve jar, scooping a thick glob. With deliberate slowness, he slid his slicked thumb over Lysander’s entrance, pressing inward. The breach was cool, medicinal — yet Lysander arched off the cot, knuckles white on the wool. Demetrios worked the salve inside with shallow thrusts, each stroke easing the quarry’s brutal memory into a throbbing warmth.
He withdrew abruptly, wiping his hand on his thigh. Standing, he towered over Lysander, sweat and pine resin sharp in the dim light. "Salve’s done its work." His voice roughened, gaze dropping to Lysander’s half-hard cock. "Now strip. All of it."
Lysander obeyed slowly, linen pooling around his hips. Demetrios watched, eyes tracing every exposed bruise and scrape as if mapping battle lines. When Lysander stood naked before him, Demetrios stepped close, fingers grazing Lysander’s chest. "Yesterday," he murmured, thumb brushing a nipple, "I filled you. Felt your heat tighten around me." His palm slid down Lysander’s flank, settling low on his belly. "Now I want that heat inside me. Your cock. Your pace. Let me feel what you felt against that quarry wall."
Demetrios turned abruptly, facing the cot, and bent forward, hands braced against the wool-draped surface, muscles flexing across his broad back. The old Spartan dagger scar gleamed silver in the shafted light. "Do it," he commanded, voice thick. "Take me."
Lysander moved behind him, calloused palms sliding over Demetrios’ sweat-slicked flanks. His fingers traced the familiar ridge of hipbone, dipped into the crease beneath taut buttocks. He pressed forward, groin flush against Demetrios’ ass, his hardening cock nestling between clenched cheeks. Demetrios shuddered, pushing back instinctively. Lysander bent, beard scraping Demetrios’ shoulder blade as he reached past him, scooping a thick dollop of salve from the jar. The pine resin scent spiked sharply. He slicked himself slowly, fist pumping his cock until it stood rigid, gleaming with ointment.
Demetrios groaned, low and ragged, when Lysander’s slicked fingers found his entrance — probing, circling the tight pucker with deliberate pressure.
Lysander leaned over him, chest pressed to Demetrios’ sweat-slicked back, beard scraping his spine. He worked one finger inside, slow and deep, feeling the clenching heat yield around his knuckle. Demetrios shuddered, hips jerking backward, driving himself deeper onto Lysander’s hand. "More," he gritted out, voice thick with want. Lysander added a second finger, twisting and stretching, scissoring him open until Demetrios gasped, forehead pressed hard against the wool-draped cot. The scent of pine resin mingled with the salt-tang of sweat as Lysander’s fingers slid in deeper, curling, seeking the tender spot inside that made Demetrios’ thighs tremble.
When his fingertips brushed it, Demetrios cried out — a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the clay walls. Lysander withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving Demetrios clenching around emptiness. He pressed the broad, slicked head of his cock against the loosened entrance, grinding deliberately against the sensitive rim. Demetrios pushed back, impatience vibrating through his tensed muscles. "Now, damn you!"
Lysander drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Demetrios roared, knuckles whitening against the wool as he took the full invasion, the stretch a white-hot agony-pleasure that stole his breath. Lysander held deep, unmoving, savoring the clench of muscle around his cock — impossibly tight, furnace-hot, slick with salve yet resisting him.
Demetrios shuddered beneath him, sweat dripping down the valley of his spine. "Move," he choked out, hips straining backward. Lysander obeyed, pulling back until only the swollen crown remained lodged inside, then slammed forward again, hips crashing against Demetrios' asscheeks with a wet smack. The rhythm seized them — retreat, thrust, retreat, thrust — each drive deeper, harder, Demetrios’ groans deepening to ragged growls. Salve dripped down Lysander’s balls, slicking their thighs.
The tight heat was suffocating, clenching around Lysander’s cock with involuntary pulses as he hammered into Demetrios’ core. He gripped his lover’s hips, fingers digging into the dense muscle, thumbs pressing into the dimples above his ass. Demetrios’ knuckles tore at the wool beneath him, his back arched, head thrown back as Lysander angled upward, grinding against that hidden bundle of nerves. A guttural cry tore from Demetrios’ throat. “There! Gods, Lysander, there!” His hips jerked wildly, driving back onto Lysander’s cock, taking him deeper still.
Sweat streamed down Lysander’s temples, stinging his eyes. The smell of pine resin mixed with the musk of straining bodies — cedar oil, salt, the earthy scent of Demetrios’ skin. Lysander leaned forward, pressing his chest flush against Demetrios’ slick back, beard scraping the scarred shoulder blade. “Fuck yourself on me,” he rasped into Demetrios’ ear, biting the lobe. “Use my cock.” Demetrios obeyed, rocking backward with desperate, grinding thrusts, each motion forcing Lysander deeper, stretching him impossibly wide. Lysander’s fingers slid around Demetrios’ waist, finding his swollen cock straining downward. He fisted it, pumping in rough counterpoint to his own thrusts.
Salve dripped from their thighs. Demetrios groaned with each withdrawal, the drag of Lysander’s cockhead scraping his inner walls, sensitive and raw. Then came the brutal plunge — Lysander driving upward, hips slamming against Demetrios’ asscheeks with wet, rhythmic smacks. Demetrios shuddered, spine arching violently. “Harder!” he snarled, his knuckles tearing holes in the wool cot cover. Lysander obliged, abandoning finesse, pistoning into that clenching heat with savage, jackhammer thrusts. Each penetration jarred Demetrios forward, his slickened cock scraping harsh linen. Lysander’s grip tightened, thumb circling the weeping slit, smearing pre-cum over the swollen head as he fucked Demetrios like a weapon.
Demetrios’ thighs trembled. He braced one foot wide on the packed-earth floor, grinding back onto Lysander’s cock — deep, deeper, seeking that blinding friction against his prostate. Lysander shifted his angle, spearing upward. Demetrios screamed, the sound ripped from his gut. Lysander hammered that spot relentlessly, balls slapping wet skin. He watched Demetrios’ cock pulse in his fist — thick veins straining, foreskin taut — and twisted his wrist on the upstroke, scraping calluses over the frenulum. Demetrios bucked, incoherent curses spilling from his lips. Sweat stung Lysander’s eyes as he leaned close. Salty skin filled his mouth. “Come,” Lysander rasped against his neck, teeth digging in. “Spill for me. Now.”
Demetrios shuddered violently. His hips snapped back, impaling himself fully as he roared — a raw, animal sound that shook the clay walls. Thick ropes of sperm splattered the wool beneath them, pearlescent against faded dye. Lysander felt Demetrios clench around him, rhythmic spasms milking his cock. He kept thrusting, slower now, deep rolls of his hips prolonging the pulses until Demetrios sagged, trembling. The air reeked of pine resin and spent seed.
Lysander withdrew slowly, slick sliding from Demetrios' loosened entrance. He guided Demetrios down onto the cot’s damp wool, kneeling behind him. Callused fingers traced the raised ridge of Sparta’s scar — silver against sweat-sheened skin. Salve glistened where Lysander’s cock had stretched him. Demetrios groaned, pushing his hips back into Lysander’s touch.
“Enough,” Demetrios rasped, rolling onto his back. His thighs fell open — an invitation scored with bruising fingerprints. Lysander straddled him, the rough wool scraping their thighs. He bent, claiming Demetrios’ mouth — salt, pine, the iron tang of bitten lips. Demetrios arched upward, grinding their hardened lengths together in a slow, slick slide. Heat gathered low in Lysander’s belly, sharpening with every drag of skin on skin.
Demetrios wrapped a hand around both cocks, calluses scraping. He squeezed, thumb circling weeping heads. Lysander gasped into Demetrios’ mouth, hips thrusting helplessly. The rhythm stuttered — frantic, uncontrolled. Sweat rolled between them, oiling the glide. Lysander felt it building: a coil tightening behind his balls, Demetrios’ thumb pressing the frenulum, the rough pump of fist against straining shaft. “Look at me,” Demetrios commanded, voice wrecked. Lysander obeyed, meeting hazel eyes gone black with need.
The climax ripped through Lysander without warning. A strangled cry tore from his throat as his spine arched violently. Thick ropes of sperm splattered Demetrios’ sternum — pearlescent against sweat-slicked muscle. More pulsed out, streaking his lower abdomen, pooling hot and sticky in the coarse hair above his groin. Lysander shuddered, hips jerking through each pulse as Demetrios milked him dry, thumb rubbing seed into his skin like sacred oil.
They collapsed, tangled and slick — Lysander half-sprawled across Demetrios’ chest, legs intertwined. Salve, sweat, and drying cum glued their bodies together. Dust motes swirled in the single shaft of light above them. Demetrios’ breath rasped against Lysander’s temple, his arms locking around him in crushing possessiveness.
Exhaustion hit them like a sandbag dropped from the Acropolis. Muscles trembled, breaths rasped ragged, flesh throbbing against flesh. They settled deeper into the wool’s scratchy embrace, limbs tangled — Lysander’s knee hooked over Demetrios’ hip, Demetrios’ forearm an iron band across Lysander’s back. Drying semen glued their skin where chest met chest, belly met thigh. The room breathed: leather, herbs, the metallic ghost of athlete's oil, and beneath it all, the fertile tang of sex.
"Stay," Demetrios murmured into the sweat-damp hollow of Lysander’s throat. A plea, rough and unguarded. Not the Olympian's command, but the boy from the Athenian alleys, suddenly laid bare. His fingers flexed against Lysander’s spine, pressing him closer still. "Please."
Lysander felt the tremor run through Demetrios’ chest — rare vulnerability beneath the stone-carved muscle. He nodded, unable to speak, his own limbs leaden weights. His cheek pressed against the cooling sweat on Demetrios’ collarbone, inhaling the layered scent: sharp pine resin, fading cedar oil, and the fertile musk of their bodies spent. It was a baptism. An anchor. He breathed it deep.
Outside, Athens stirred — distant cries of fishmongers, the clatter of a donkey cart, the rhythmic clang of a bronze-smith's hammer. None of it pierced the thick stillness settling over Demetrios' chamber. Lysander felt Demetrios' heartbeat beneath his ear, a slow, heavy drum against the fragile cage of his ribs. Each beat echoed the pulse still throbbing low in Lysander’s own belly. Demetrios’ plea hung between them, raw as a fresh wound. Stay.
Lysander twisted his fingers in the coarse hair dusting Demetrios’ chest, sticky with drying seed. He pressed closer, inhaling the fading scent of pine salve and sweat, the deeper musk of exhaustion and contentment. Demetrios’ arm tightened, a wordless confirmation. Soon, the Olympic Games in Corinth loomed. Now, tangled in wool and sweat and spent desire, they were simply two lovers holding the world at bay.
They slept.
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