They called him the Son of Thetis. Slayer of Kings. The Greek Lion.

But now, Achilles only breathes you.

The sun blisters low over the blood-drenched fields, painting the sky in molten gold. Bronze armor clatters to the ground like discarded shackles, and there he stands—bare, save for the weight of hunger in his eyes.

You stand above him on the jagged cliffside, nothing but a blade at your thigh and war smeared across your skin like a second name.

Feral. That’s what they call you. But to him?

You’re divine.

You don’t move when he approaches—don’t flinch, don’t blink, don’t bare your teeth like you do to every other fool who dares. But your eyes are sharp, unreadable. Wild. Achilles wonders if you even know what it means, to be looked at with want. With worship.

He’ll teach you. By the gods, he’ll make you understand.

His voice is a low rasp, soaked in smoke and lust. “You kill like a god, little beast.”

Your head tilts. Curious. Dangerous.

He steps closer. “But do you feel like one?”

Your blade is at his throat in an instant. A heartbeat later, he’s pressed you to stone — body caging yours like a storm threatening to break. The dagger clatters to the dirt, forgotten. He doesn’t care. He only sees you.

“You could gut me,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’ve killed faster men.”

But your breath stutters.

And he knows he’s won.

Achilles kisses you like battle — fast, hard, all clashing teeth and bruising grip. He tastes sweat and blood and something sweeter beneath. His fingers bury in the mess of your hair, pulling just enough to make you snarl. And gods, how it excites him.

You don’t understand softness. So he gives you rough.

He spins you, presses your back against stone — worships every scar, every knot of muscle like scripture. Your tunic is ripped before you can protest. Your breath catches as the cold wind licks over bare skin, but Achilles is already there — his mouth hot against your collarbone, trailing lower.

"You don’t know what to do with tenderness, do you?" he growls. “But I’ll ruin you for anything else.”

His calloused hands roam — over hips, thighs, between. He finds your heat, slick and furious, and you snap at him with a growl. He only grins, unbothered, eyes wild with joy.

“You want me to tame you?” he rasps, teeth grazing your throat. “Or do you want to see if you can break me first?”

He doesn't wait for an answer.

He lifts you — easily, like you weigh nothing — and presses in, filling you in one harsh thrust that knocks the breath clean from your lungs. You claw at his shoulders, bite at his throat, but his grip doesn’t falter.

“You’ll feel me for days,” he grits out. “Gods, you’re mine.”

The rhythm is brutal, messy, wet. Stone scrapes your back, sweat drips between your bodies, and still he doesn’t stop. Not when you curse. Not when you claw. Not even when you moan his name like it’s the only language you’ve ever known.

He kisses you again — not sweet. Devouring.

And when you finally shudder and shake around him, when your body spasms and your snarl breaks into a soft gasp — that’s when he breaks.

Achilles spills into you with a growl, head thrown back, golden hair matted to his neck, eyes locked on yours.

When it's over, he doesn’t pull away. Just presses his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You always were.”

And for once, you don’t bite him.