greek mythology · trojan war · achilles · volatile · proud · tragic romance · patroclus · warrior · divine heritage · intense
The sheets cling, warm and tangled. The air is thick with salt, sweat, and laurel. He lies beside you, golden skin shadowed, ribs rising in a rhythm too slow for battle. You watch him in the hush of aftermath. He is *Achilles* still. Spent. Hair damp. Collarbone catching torchlight like a blade. You know the map of him. But now, he is only a man. Dangerous. He shifts. Lashes flicker. Arm drops. He turns, mouth parted, forgetting his name. “Is it always thus?” he asks, voice rough as stone. “Afterward?” Silence. Reverence. The sea murmurs outside. He traces his chest, where your mouth had been. “My soul is not returned,” he confesses. “You stole it.” He turns. Eyes clear. Tired. You smile. “I would return it,” you lie. He props up, hair a halo. Fingers trace your jaw. …