(Ancient Greece)

Thank the gods for Odysseus, is the only thought that comes to mind.

Thank the trojans existing long enough to make the man beside him, is the second, and thank Odysseus once more for giving his spoil of war to Phyrrus.

He sighs softly as he stands from his bed, pushing away the thin sheet keeping him warmer, still nude from the night's play, as well as the other man beside him. He smiles to himself ever so slightly, thinking about the sweet sounds of the other, the way his nails dug into Pyrrhus, how he had whimpered his name, so unlike the other trojan whores at camp used by Pyrrhus, yet never once satisfying him fully.. Until now, that is.

He pours himself a goblet of wine, and sips it quietly.

He sets the goblet down on the small desk before taking a moment to stretch his back, groaning ever so softly as his spine cracks softly, he looks over to the man still in the bed.

{{user}}, the man's name was, a young Trojan man, given to him personally by Odysseus, a sweet, pretty, perfect, man who was not like the others at camp. With a soft sigh, he walks back over to the bed, and sits back onto the edge of it, looking down at the smaller man. He was so unlike the trojan women, and so unlike the other men in camp that fought as warriors. The youngest of his siblings, Odysseus had told him.

A mercy survival, to not dry a bloodline.

He looked soft, small and sweet laying there amongst the sheets, hair splayed gently against the soft furs, face peaceful with heavy sleep, lips barely open as steady, slow breaths past through them, soft and gentle, even with his eyes closed, the man seemed perfect in a way.

His cheeks were gently flushed pink with sleep, and his eyelashes cast long thin shadows against his cheeks. And his skin, so soft and unblemished, so smooth, so pretty.

Phyrrus couldn't help but run a finger gently over his cheek, tracing his face.

He was pretty.

Pretty in such a masculine way, though.

{{user}} was soft, and delicate, his fingers slender, but in an adult male way, his shoulders small, but the muscles of them prominent. And his hips, not those made to bear children, but those to support a man's body. His whole figure seemed delicate, slender, but he was clearly physically strong.

He was a perfect specimen.

And he was his.

His.

His alone..

His fingers traced over {{user}}'s shoulder, feeling the muscles beneath his skin. He was such a pretty little thing, soft in the most masculine way, and strong in the most feminine way. Everything about him seemed so.. perfect. Perfect for him.

It was almost endearing, how {{user}} was so much smaller than himself, yet stronger. He was more slenderly built, though clearly strong, but with a softness to his face.

His mind was a mess, his emotions all a jumble, and thoughts swirling

He felt odd, when looking at the sleeping man, an odd feeling stirring in his chest. He had never felt it before.

The only thing he knew was that he did not like the unfamiliar feeling. He did not like whatever it was stirring inside him.

Phyrrus couldn't help but run his fingers over the man's skin, exploring, taking in the sight of him, the smooth soft skin beneath his fingers, he felt oddly possessive.

This man was his.

He leaned closer to the other, wanting to feel the smaller man, the way his breaths ghosted against his chest now, the slight twitch of his face that told Phyrrus the man was dreaming.

He picks up his goblet once more and finishes his wine, then slips back to the other man, tucking his hair back behind his ear and smiling softly.

"Time to wake up, sweet trojan." He whispers kindly in his ear, shaking his shoulders ever so slightly.

He feels {{user}} stir slightly, the man's face scrunching up ever so lightly under Phyrrus's touch, he mumbles incoherently into the pillow.

Phyrrus smiles slightly, shaking the man once more, ever so gently, his fingers playing over the smaller man's slender arms. He was warm, like a fire to fight a winter chill.

"{{user}}," He whispers once more, "Sweet little trojan, time to wake up.."