I AM MADE OF MEMORIES.

[de-natura-deorum-deactivated201]

This is your daily reminder

Achilles and Patroclus were in love and not cousins

[elenamorelli]

[diesfirst-blog]

praycd  :

          HE DOESN’T REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM COLD OAK, at the end. after the dream, the yellow-eyed demon, ava and jake talley .  .  . sam has a scar down the end of his spine, but no recollection of any of the pain. he thinks dying feels like falling asleep. maybe the still of the morning, the time where you may not even notice that you’re asleep at all. he might just be optimistic. ‘ what is it like ? ’ // @diesfirst

‘     cold.     ’     the word has a dry,   chalky taste,   coating his tongue like ash.    it’s the first adjective that drifts into his mind,   and hardly comforting  ;  but neither,   he thinks,   are any others.    the young man’s shoulders are bowed with the weight of a burden he cannot possibly hope to lift,   no matter what he might say.     ‘     i suppose dying is the easy part.    the emptiness that comes after   —   i would not wish it on anyone.     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

trojanbled  :

HE SPENDS EACH MOMENT COMFORTED     between the soft,  warm clutch of his lover’s thighs,  pressing close enough to feel the  quickening  of his pulse as achilles reaches to cup him in his hand.     the accompanying shift provided just enough room to maneuver,  if patroclus  allowed  it.     his head bows to leave an open - mouthed kiss at the boy’s shoulder,  to taste the  salt  on his skin and leave his mark.     but then he lifts his head,  and his expression is creased with confusion.     the language resonates with him,  but he does not understand how.     startled,  he begins to draw away.          ❛          suis - moi ?          ❜

he allowed it,    with a breathless ease so ingrained it feels like muscle memory.    he arches a little,   as if to shuck himself from the sheets,   but there is a quiet urgency to the voice that chides him in silence.    not yet.    these are signs he recognizes,   precursors to remembrance   —   the dreams,   the sleeplessness,   the startle of familiarity like flint in achilles’ eyes each time he speaks their language.    the flood is close,   pressing against the dam’s cracking walls like unspoken words behind clenched teeth.    their gazes lock when he draws back and he moves to a half - sit,   to cup achilles’ face tenderly between his palms.     ‘     αχιλλέας.    stay with me.    rest.     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

theftcut  :

          “   kindness  always  comes  at  a  price.   “      prudence  has  a  way  of  looking  wild  in  the  eyes  of  someone  who’s  lost  everything.  at  one  point  it  loses  the  careful  touch  of  simple  wariness  and  coils  up  like  a  snake  set  on  surviving.   “   name   it  and  i’ll  make  my  decision.   “   and  even  so  he  wants  it  -  needs  it  to  be  real.  maybe  knowing  there  are  good  people  out  there  would  change  his  view.  maybe.   he  shifts  on  his  feet  and  discomfort  is  evident  in  the  way  he  carries  himself.   his  body  is  telling  him  to  give  in.  his  mind  keeps  him  grounded  to  the  mat  outside  the  door.   “   i’ll  know  if  you’re  lying.   “

when peleus had taken him in    to be fostered,   the price for that particular kindness had been his weight in gold  :  five engraved goblets,   a heavy scepter,   a necklace,   two ornamental birds.    his mother’s glorious lyre was not true gold,   only painted to look it,   with gilded tips and polished to a gleam,   beautiful enough that the king would not argue.    the rest,   his father had sent ahead to phthia’s treasury.    but he would ask for no toll to be paid here,   material or otherwise.     ‘     i have nothing to gain by  lying,   and no use for any currency you could conceive to offer.     ’     the smallest,   most infinitesimal smile curls at the corner of his mouth.     ‘     but if you do decide to stay,   don’t finish the milk and then put back an empty carton.    i would like to think us more civilized than that.     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

trojanbled  :

❛          OH ?          ❜          he smiles,  baring white teeth and nipping the meat of his palm.     it brings him  joy  to hear this   ––   and in those few moments,  he seems to have  forgotten  the minutes prior.     the  stiffness  of shoulders begins to ease and he finds himself lulled into idyll comfort.     achilles traces the outline of his lover’s thigh with his fingertip.          ❛          distracting how ?          ❜

‘     just like this.     ’     he remembers that same hand drawing across the pulse of his throat,   over his chest,   his hip,   the line of his thigh as it does now,   and he had warmed beneath his touch like a flower opening its face to the sun.    there is this,   too.    i know i have told you of this.    eyes close a moment,   and he sees that cat’s smile  ;  he pulls achilles close,   mouth pressed to the curve of his jaw.    tell me again.     ‘     i know what you’re trying to do.    δεν θα λειτουργήσει.     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

@theftcut   /   x.

doubt is a seed that often flourishes    too easily,   its roots buried too deep.    it tangles amongst the bones of a rib cage,   snakes between to wrap around lungs and choke off breath.    he had never been one to trust readily,   and had silently rebuked others for doing so  ;  but he had benefited from what little compassion he was shown,   and is  grateful  for it,   even now.    there is no pity in the slant of his gaze,   level and bright with understanding.     ‘     you need a place to stay and i can offer that,   if you’ll let me.    do i need to know more  ?     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

trojanbled  :

HE DOES NOT FEEL FEVERISH,     although he leans into patroclus’ touch as if to be comforted like a child that has fallen ill.     after a moment of this,  fingers find the boy’s hand.     his mouth presses a kiss to the palm,  then the underside of his wrist,  just above his precious pulse.          ❛          why ?     is this boring you ?          ❜          he wears a grin,  an accessory of his  mischief.

‘     you could never bore me.     ’    he tries his best to sound stern,   to set his resolve,   for he knows this game well  ;  but it proves an impossible feat.    achilles’ mouth is soft as petals,   and the gold flecks in eyes of spring green look even more vibrant than usual.    he cannot help the fondness of his smile,   warm and content.     ‘     you are  distracting,   maybe.    but never boring.     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

AESTHETIC  :  ACHILLES  &  PATROCLUS.

for  @trojanbled ♡

[ancient-mystery]

[diesfirst-blog]

theftcut  :

          hearing  him  talk      he  couldn’t  help  but  try  to  picture  what  his  own  last  moments  would  be  like.  had  the  fates  written  down  a  tragic  death  for  him ?  a  slow  wash  of  pain  and  regret  until  his  eyes  closed  -  or  had  they  perhaps  cursed  him  like  they  had  so  many  of  his  brothers  before  him,  condemning  him  to  roam  the  gardens  of  the  underworld,  always  walking  but  never  close  enough  to  Mors  to  make  it  past  the  gates.  would  they  curse  his  family,  too?  his  mother,  his  sister   -    his  eyes  flickered  downwards  as  he  sighed  slowly.   “   the  underworld  is  grim.  not  the  best  place  for  a  tan.   not  the  best  place  to  get  help,  either.   fates  are  sealed  once  a  soul  crosses  the  river  Styx  and  only  the  fates  themselves  can  change  what  has  been  written.   but  they  hold  little  sympathy  for  the  threads  they  weave.  mortal  or  not  in  origin,  we’re  just  another  one  to  add  to  their  millennia  of  stories.  that’s  why  i’m  curious  as  to  how.  who  intervened  if  it  wasn’t  you,  and  how  is  it  possible.    “   his  words  came  in  quick  succession,  rolling  off  his  tongue  in  a  low  murmur.   “   i  need  to  know.   “

‘     i have told you what i know,    and suspect.    but you have answered your own question.    only the fates can change what has been written.     ’     they had thought themselves clever back then,   giddy with the foolishness of youth,   and had conspired to steal time already borrowed.    the prophecy had said achilles would die at troy,   and that hector’s death would precede his.    none but he possessed the skill,   and his disinterest in the task had given patroclus hope.    what has hector ever done to me  ?    but then came the dam’s breaking,   the great flood of his grief - stricken rage that would make troy fall before its time,   and the gods had stepped in.    apollo helped to guide the arrow,   shot from paris’ bow and into achilles’ heart.     ‘     we tried to cheat them,   as i said.    i can’t imagine they liked that very much.    perhaps they aim to show us how powerless we are against them,   or simply to watch our suffering until they deem it a lesson learned.     ’     a question tugs at him,   weighs heavily on his tongue.     ‘     why do you wish for answers so badly  ?     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

theftcut  :

          “   no  deities  owe  us  kindness,   “     bitterness  coated  his  tongue  as  he  thought  about  his  father,  about  every  deity  he’d  ever  had  the  misfortune  to  meet.  the  space  between  earth  and  olympus  was  not  a  safe  place  to  be.   he  sighed  and  regarded  him  with  a  long  look.   there  was  no  lies  among  his  words,  but  that  didn’t  make  his  response  any  less  frustrating  to  the  son  of  mercury.   “   you  have  to  know  something,  you  must  have  -  i  know  the  underworld,  you  can’t  just  leave  the  gardens  without  help.   “   he  was  too  young  to  know  the  facts  first  hand,  but  the  old  souls  that  told  stories  while  he  worked  spoke  of  the  impossible  feat.   “   and  how  -  does  it  hurt?  dying.   “

‘     it hurts at first,   and is often slow for me.    i don’t think it would hurt so much if we were permitted to rest.     ’     but the boy is right,   in that they are owed nothing by such divinities  ;  he has never expected to be less than abhorred and reproached,   although their  indifference   is more difficult to bear.     ‘     i know that the gods hold no sway over the fates   —   they are as powerless as i,   and have so far been unwilling or unable to share any knowledge with me.    for three millennia,   i have asked.    but i am mortal,   a human only,   and my affairs are of little concern to them.     ’     he speaks with humility and without bitterness.     ‘     what of the underworld,   then  ?    you know it well.    what kind of help,   if not from the hands of fate  ?     ’

[greelin]

why do greek gods have to fuck up so much shit god damn just stay on your mountain and eat your fucking ambrosia and leave people alone

[diesfirst-blog]

trojanbled  :

❛          I DIDN’T MEAN TO WAKE YOU.          ❜          his only peace had been to watch him dream.     the night had not been kind to achilles,  but when had it ever ?     he shakes his head,  and that is the only answer he gives.     his spine bows forward,  hand bracing against the mattress;  his mouth is claimed in a kiss that almost makes him  forget  about the terrors that still plague him. 

before unease can fully settle,    shifting in his stomach like ash,   he props his weight on an elbow to better meet the kiss.    but he is the first to draw back,   dark eyes alight with concern.    a hand lifts to achilles’ brow as if to check for fever,   and sweeps a stray curl from his eyes.     ‘     will you not try to rest more  ?     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

trojanbled  :

THERE IS SOMETHING DIFFERENT     about him.     it’s in his movements,  the terrible stiffness of his limbs.     he would have  basked  in the afterglow all morning if he could,  content  to soak in the sunlight that spilled from the open window,  but the fates had a different plan.          ❛          breakfast.     you can still  sleep,  if you like.          ❜

‘     i would like to    have not woken up at all.     ’     his voice is thick and muddied with sleep,   its remnants clinging to him like morning dew.    yet something between them does not feel right.     ‘     you sound strange.    do you want me to leave   —   ?     ’

[diesfirst-blog]

the cool air against his back    stirs him,   rouses him to waking by the bed’s sudden emptiness.    but there is a lingering warmth,   a musk - sweet scent,   that tells him achilles is still close.     ‘     ...   where are you going  ?     ’

@trojanbled.

[heart----palpitations-blog]