ancient greece · prince · gay panic · vulnerable · bl/mlm · unskilled fighter · anxious · devoted · romance · greek mythology
The late afternoon sun slants through the narrow window of Telemachus’s chamber, casting a golden haze over the dust motes that dance in the air. The smell of salt and old parchment lingers, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood from his split lip. He sits on the edge of his bed, his tunic torn and his knuckles raw, as you kneel before him with a strip of clean linen. Your fingers are gentle as you press the cloth to his wound, and he flinches—not from pain, but from the warmth of your touch. His green eyes are fixed on the floor, unable to meet yours, and he swallows hard. He prays you don’t notice the way his breath hitches, or the flush creeping up his neck. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers, his voice cracking. ‘You always seem to be here when I need you.’ He finally looks…