❝ ALL MY WORKS FOR BRAD PITT'S CHARACTERS :: other links of interest may be ⸻ main masterlist. intro post. requesting rules.
ᥲᥴhเᥣᥣꫀ᥉ ( troy, 2003 )
favoured human! achilles x godess! reader hcs.
“ ripe grapes ” favoured human! achilles x godess! reader fluff.
“ brought down ” favoured human! achilles x godess! reader smut.
ᖯเᥣᥣᥡ ᥴᥲᥒtꪮᥒ ( too young to die? 1990 )
“ greedy ” billy canton x reader suggestive.
ᥴᥣเƒƒ ᖯꪮꪮth ( ouatah, 2019 )
“ stay down ” cliff booth x reader smut + age gap.
jꫀƒƒɾꫀᥡ gꪮเᥒꫀ᥉ ( 12 monkeys, 1995 )
puppy boyfriend! jeffrey goines x reader hcs.
“ red kisses ” puppy boyfriend! jeffrey goines x reader fluff.
“ sleepiest girl in town ” jeffrey goines x reader x tyler durden fluff.
jꪮhᥒ ᥉ꪑเth ( mr and mrs smith, 2005 )
“ bad boys and good girls ” john smith x reader x jane smith smut.
ᥣᥲdᥡᖯᥙg ( bullet train, 2022 )
“ life saving ” ladybug x reader fluff.
ᥣꪮᥙเ᥉ dꫀ ρꪮเᥒtꫀ dᥙ ᥣᥲᥴ ( iwtv, 1994 )
“ companion ” louis de pointe du lac & reader platonic fluff. (p.i)
“ doll ” louis de pointe du lac & reader platonic fluff. (p.ii)
“ needy ” louis de pointe du lac x reader smut.
“ daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird ” louis de pointe du lac & reader platonic fluff.
“ daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird ” louis de pointe du lac & reader platonic fluff.
ɾᥙ᥉tᥡ ɾᥡᥲᥒ ( ocean's 11, 2001 )
“ the best way to win a man over is.. ” rusty ryan x reader fluff.
“ surveillance duty ” rusty ryan x reader x danny ocean smut.
“ the best hands there are ” rusty ryan x reader suggestive.
“ drunk ” rusty ryan x reader fluff + a lil suggestive.
᥉ꪮᥒᥒᥡ hᥲᥡꫀ᥉ ( f1, 2025 )
“ fast and furious ” sonny hayes x reader smut + age gap.
tᥡᥣꫀɾ dᥙɾdꫀᥒ ( fight club, 1999 )
“ punch drunk kiss ” tyler durden x reader suggestive.
“ fuck it out ” tyler durden x reader smut.
“ that fucking dress ” tyler durden x reader smut.
“ check up ” tyler durden x reader smut.
“ the other (wo)man ” tyler durden x reader x jack the narrator hurt comfort.
“ the favourite ” tyler durden x reader x angel face fluff.
“ handsome stranger ” tyler durden & reader platonic angst hurt comfort.
“ sleepiest girl in town ” tyler durden x reader x jeffrey goines fluff.
“ strays ” wolf hybrid! tyler durden x reader x cat hybrid! jack the narrator fluff.
“ fake cock ” tyler durden x reader smut.
“ rings ” tyler durden x punk! reader x jack the narrator suggestive.
“ don't hold back ” tyler durden x boxer! reader smut.
“ pegame y decime shirley ” masochist! tyler durden x sadist! reader smut.
“ pegame y decime shirley ” masochist! tyler durden x sadist! reader smut.
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ sempiternal (adj.) everlasting and unchanging; enduring through all of time.
in which a promise is made during a rare, tender moment
𝐚/𝐧: ive been wanting to write an achilles fic for a while and now i've finally done it. i actually love this sm teehee xx
w/c: 1k
⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆
The bedroom is luxurious in a way that makes you feel at home, like most of the places you’ve frequented in your time, with tall windows with the shutters half closed, the night barely spilling in, and the dim glow of the moon bleeding through the cracks.
It’s these rays that slice across the bed, striped across the tangled linen sheets, soft as the feathers on a swan’s back and just as dainty, wrapped around your frame, your shoulders bare in the cool air that shrouds the space.
All is quiet, save for the hum of life beyond the locked door and waves breaking against the cliffs outside. You’re draped over Achilles like a queen, loose-limbed and drowsy, your hair a messy fan across the pillows.
To his credit, he doesn’t look at all perturbed by the position, eyes half-lidded, expression entirely slack, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm beneath your hand as you trace each line of muscle with the pad of your finger. His arm is wrapped around you, thumb tracing languid patterns against your hip with such delicacy you’d think he believed you were friable.
Each touch is claiming, without specifically saying so, a grounding action that shows you’re both here to stay; every huff of air that leaves you both and each brush of the hand is a succinct reminder of who you belong to.
You can feel his eyes on, shamelessly brazen as he searches your expression for the tiniest limina of emotion. He finds nothing as you meet his gaze, brows raised. “You’re staring.” You point out. “Why?”
Achilles lets out a breathy laugh, his knuckles grazing the length of your spine, a touch so delicate you find yourself leaning into it, seeking any form of comfort he has to offer, deprived of touch. “I wasn’t aware I was.”
You frown, lips turning in a slight pout; he won’t make a fool of you, you know his attempts, and you can tell from the teasing lilt behind the words. “Liar.”
He doesn’t reply, simply leaning down and silencing your words with a simple kiss, one you can’t complain about, melting into it easily. “Comfortable?” He mumbles against your lips, and you give a slow hum, lashes fluttering as you peer up at him.
His hand smoothes over your back once more, and you shift closer, not missing the way he catches you like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if you jostle so much as an inch more. You scoff, hands flat on his chest as you sit up, linen spilling around you like silken waterfalls.
“You’re very… gentle for someone who everyone is frightened of.” Your tone is light, and Achilles watches your face like you’re the only thing on earth deserving of his attention; the lamplight casts an aureate glow over your skin, shadows kissing your complexion, your figure carved from rare marble and wasted on a mortal bed.
“They aren’t.”
You fix him with a look, one that speaks a thousand words that are better left unsaid in moments like these, where he’s understanding of the power he holds but not quite the impact. “They fear you and we both know it, Achilles.”
He pulls you back down to lie beside him and you go easily, head resting against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heartbeat, steady and sure. Your fingers resume tracing each chiselled ripple of muscle, tracking each and every scar, retelling each story as you do so, the words so familiar to you you know them better than any other myth ever told.
You hear him swallow, each breath slow and even, giving nothing away, yet speaking volumes of his acceptance of the truth; his silence is tacit, orphic in a way that makes him all the more intriguing.
“That doesn’t bother you?” You enquire, and he shrugs, the sheets rustling with the movement.
“They’re allowed their own opinions. Doesn’t make them right.”
You pause, your tracing subsiding as you pause on a scar just below his ribs. “And what about me?”
He finally meets your gaze, unreadable yet carrying a weight that speaks volumes, painting you in a light that sets you apart from the rest of the mortals. “You’re not them. They fear what I do. Not who I am.”
“What’s the difference?” You demand, with no malice behind it, just pure curiosity, the desire to understand him, to psychoanalyse everything that makes up his mind no matter how irrational some thoughts may be.
He takes your hand in his, lifting it so that your fingers cup his jaw, your thumb absently tracing the sharp line. “Don’t do this now.”
Reluctantly, you obey his word, falling into a simple lull of silence, allowing the crash of the waves to fill the space between you both, the drone of voices outside, and the inevitable hush that settles over the palace as it always does when the moon takes post from the sun.
You allow your eyes to drift to the window, gazing beyond the sliver of the evening showing through the crack in the shutters into what it holds. Battle, his absence, a bed where you lie alone with a mattress too big and covers fit enough to drown you.
“Achilles.” You don’t call it as you normally would; there’s a selcouth hush to his name as it rolls off your lips.
He hums.
“Promise you’ll wake me if you’re called upon.”
His hand stutters on its trail up your spine, a frown marring his features. “I’ll be here.”
It’s not an empty promise, not the kind you say just to appease a worried mind. It’s one said with conviction, a promise that you know he will keep no matter what.
And with that reassurance washing over you, you let your body relax, your muscles loosening, all the tension thawing from deep within, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion that you finally allow to take over, your eyes fluttering shut.
You fall asleep with the knowledge that tomorrow, when the sun rises and fills the space with an aureate glow, you won’t wake up alone.
heyyy, i recently watched troy and i couldn’t get enough of achilles 😭 and i was so pissed that he was on the verge of dying when he finally reunited with briseis, so i was thinking for an alternative ending to that, but like, very angsty-ish? tyyy
°˖➴ 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬
𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ༄
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐱 : light born of darkness. in which achilles' final battle is with death itself and you are there to drag him back to the light.
𝐚/𝐧: i love achilles with my whole soul if you couldn't tell from this. I genuinely love this fic. tysm for the req angel!
𝐰.𝐜. 1.3k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. minor injury detail.
The temple lies forgotten, abandoned in favour of the chaos the end of the war brings, men fleeing, leaving everything they ever fought for in favour of returning to their homes alive, claiming victory and titles that people will sing about for centuries to come.
Nobody thinks to look for Greece’s best warrior, for the man people will whisper about and tell great stories about to their children. The one who they will glorify despite all of his flaws, who they say died in victory and in bravery.
Yet, here he lies, propped up against the stone wall of the temple, forgotten just as the structure is, the cold that radiates off of the concrete seeping into weary bones. Blood soaks him, and for once, the crimson is his own, weeping from his own body rather than that of a Trojan soldier. His eyes remain fixated on you, on a face he’s spent many nights gazing at in silent awe, his affection so selcouth that men began to question whether it was genuine. Your expression is drawn, your skin pallid with fear, and as he blinks heavily, the action taking far more energy than necessary, he feels something akin to guilt.
“You are crying.”
His voice lacks conviction, sounding almost hollow in the empty space, lost to the sound of fire crackling in the distance, Troy burning, crumbling, falling. It causes a persistent ache in your chest, as though something inside you has been torn, and the exhaustion written across his features is indelible.
“My tears are nothing compared to the blood you shed.”
Crimson glitters beneath bronze armour, making the metal slippery, staining it like a declaration of fate. Two arrows lie discarded at his side, shot by Paris, striking areas that were not fatal upon impact but have the potential to be so.
“I have had worse.”
Yet his stolidity gives him away, and you struggle to find even a limina of genuineness behind the words. He offers you a smile, though it comes out as more of a tight grimace as he shifts, hand reaching out to seek your face, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that is rare for such a warrior.
“You were struck by an arrow.” You state brazenly, panic lacing your tone no matter how hard you try to diminish it. “Two at that. You are lucky, Achilles, that the Gods appear on your side.”
A faint exhale leaves him, perhaps an attempt at laughter, though it’s weak and lacks true conviction. His hand hesitates at your cheek for a moment longer, thumb wiping away a stray tear that falls, before he withdraws his touch entirely, hand falling to his side.
“The Gods do not concern themselves with me.”
“Do not speak so foolishly.” You warn, shifting so that you kneel beside him, hands hovering over the bronze fastening at his shoulder. Blood had begun to dry along the edges, almost black in the firelight, a stark contrast to his sun-kissed skin. “I need to see it.”
Achilles hesitates, eyes fixed solely on yours, searching for something other than the tristful glassiness that hazes your pupils. “No.”
“Achilles.” You warn, fingers dancing along the cool metal of the clasp now. Blood stains the pads of your fingers, sticky warmth coating your skin, and you swallow heavily against the rising nausea. “You will bleed through if I do not. Paris may not have killed you with arrows, but the loss of blood surely will.”
You take his silence for resignation as he drops his guard, shoulders slumping in defeat. His eyes remain on yours as you strip him of his armour piece by piece, setting each piece aside with great care. The fabric comes next, soaked through and stained, peeling away at such an agonising pace it seems to drag on endlessly.
His skin is marred with jagged wounds, both old and new, some now pale and healed poorly, given little time before being strained once more by the demands of the war. Others are fresh, still dripping blood, with purple mottling the skin surrounding them.
“Oh.” The word leaves your lips in a mere whisper, spoken with such hollow contempt that Achilles himself looks defeated—that in itself frightens you. How a man so invisible to the whole of Greece, who could withstand any army and fight back with equal amounts of strength, could bleed so easily beneath the press of your palms and could easily fall when such pain is inflicted upon them.
“You do not always need to look at me like that.” He remains completely stoic, not giving anything away aside from the slight crease in his brow and the way he flinches beneath your touch.
“I am looking at you as I should.” Your eyes scan the cramped space surrounding you both; there isn’t much left, the roof crumbling and caving in from years of destruction and neglect. There are heavy, silk drapes hanging from an alcove, shielding one room from the other, and you stumble towards it on unsteady legs, tugging at it until the bronze rings gave way and the fabric pooled at your feet.
Water isn’t hard to find; ceremonial storage is kept in clay jars somewhere by the altar, and soon you find yourself kneeling before him once more, clutching a shredded square of curtain dampened with water.
“I am sorry.” You mumble, bringing the cloth to the first wound, pressing it against the solid plane of his chest, guilt flooding you at the hiss of pain it evokes. His muscles tense and ripple beneath your touch, and the fabric soon stains crimson, the water doing very little to stop the ebb and flow.
His eyes remain on your face, a deep cerulean in the dim lighting, akin to the deep green of the ocean at night, the pale light of the moon slicing across waves in golden flecks. Concern lies behind them, hidden barely by a recalcitrant front.
“For what?”
You blink back the sting of tears as you toss aside the ruined square, tearing off a new piece. Your hands work deftly in removing the worst of the dirt and blood. “For hurting you.”
Achilles huffs a gentle laugh, the sound so weak and breathy that it only causes your tears to slip past the dam holding back the river. He catches them easily with his thumb. “You were not the one who shot me.”
“I still don’t enjoy the aftermath.”
Silence settles between the two of you after that, suspended in the air, whether caused by your weariness or Achilles' growing efforts at keeping his eyes open. Occasionally, he mumbles something reassuring, something degrading towards his own wounds that you dismiss with a glare.
You don’t give any verbal response until the flow of blood has slowed and, in some cases, even ceased, his torso wrapped tightly with torn linen found among the temple’s forgotten inventory.
Your hands fall into your lap, still twisting the cloth nervously, hovering with the craving to attend to something that no longer exists. Achilles watches with mild amusement, his eyes half-lidded now, shielded by dark lashes.
“You are panicking.”
You shake your head once, a futile attempt at composure; however, it simply crumbles as the tears spring to your eyes once more, throat lined with knotted thorns.
“We are trapped here.” The words are barely audible even to you, yet Achilles hears them anyway, straining for each noise that leaves your lips. “You cannot just leave—”
“Then we stay.” The simplicity of the response leaves you stunned. His arm reaches out, pulling you into his side, and you find yourself melting into him the same way ice melts beside fire.
“For how long?” Your fingers intertwine with his, the weight of everything finally washing over you; the city outside is mourning the losses of men they never truly knew, smoke rising from the temple. Hector. Agamemnon. Achilles did not care for either of them—a deep-rooted hatred for both that would never be resolved even in their deaths. Patroclus. That loss had not yet sunk in, but when it does, you know the grief will weigh heavy upon his shoulders, that he will lose himself in grief and drown in the guilt of his own survival.
Achilles does not shift beneath you, lips pressing to your hair. “For as long as it takes.”
────۶ৎ favoured human! Achilles x Godess! reader headcanons!!<3
ᝰ.ᐟ you're the Mother of All, the goddess of life. you've carefully crafted each soul roaming earth, but in all of your immortal lifetime there is one that stands out. Achilles. you painted his eyes with the colour of sky at dawn, and threaded the gold of the sunrise into his hair. ever since then, you've been watching over his mortal soul, and protected his heart from any enemy spear.
( 🏷 @callme-holly , @johnnycadesmuse )
⮞ His soul was not one you merely assigned; you crafted it.
⮞ You spent ages in your celestial workshop, weaving strands of sunlight into his hair, the fury of a summer storm into his eyes, the pride of a lion into his heart, and the fragile beauty of a morning glory into a single, radiant soul.
⮞ It was your masterpiece.
⮞ He was your masterpiece.
⮞ While weaving the essence of other mortals was a calm and steady process. With Achilles, it was like trying to capture lightning in a bottle.
⮞ You knew he would be extraordinary from the moment of his conception.
⮞ You were a constant, unseen presence in his nursery. When Thetis, his mortal mother, held him besides his father, you were watching in the form of an invisible presence.
⮞ He knew. Somehow, someway, the favoured souls always know when their god is watching over them.
⮞ Even at such a young age, barely months old, Achilles would stare into empty corners, cooing at something only he could see.
⮞ As a toddler, he was even more perceptive. He would stare into empty corners of the room and giggle, reaching out for a presence only he could feel.
⮞ His mother and father thought he had an imaginary friend; but he was sensing the gentle, loving orbit of your spirit.
⮞ When he fell and scraped his knee at age five, howling not from pain but from indignity, you were right there.
⮞ You couldn't, wouldn't, interfere with fate, but you sent a gentle breeze that carried the scent of chamomile and lavender to soothe his shame. He knew he hadn't been the only spectator to his fall.
⮞ You let him feel a the pain of it, however—a lesson that even your favorites are not exempt from the experiences of life.
⮞ During his training with the centaur Chiron, your influence was subtler.
⮞ You would guide prey towards him during hunting lessons, ensuring his success built his confidence. You softened the ground beneath his feet during strenuous runs and ensured the herbs Chiron used for his poultices were always potent and fresh.
⮞ You would often manifest as a white wolf to observe his training from afar, filling the clearing with an aura of peace that allowed the young Achilles to focus and learn with preternatural speed.
⮞ Chiron himself knew you were there and would often bow his head slightly in respect.
⮞ It wasn't until he reached age 7 that he was claimed by you. Achilles was playing around in the grass when he came across a shiny, circular, plate that barely fit in the palm of his young hand: fine silver, with your symbol engraved in it. A mother wolf.
⮞ From that day on, he became more aware that you were a constant, subtle presence. A wolf would be seen watching him from the tree line during his lessons, its fur white as snow. His favorite flowers would bloom out of season outside his window. He never felt alone.
⮞ His first real battle was a minor skirmish against a Thessalian tribe, not Troy, when he was barely 17. He was fearless, but there was a tremor of anticipation in his hands. You could feel his mortal excitement and fear like a hummingbird's heartbeat against your own divine consciousness.
⮞ He was separated from the group, facing three seasoned warriors. Decades older than him. For a split second, he was overwhelmed, outnumbered, outsmarted.
⮞ A spear was thrust at his side, destined to find a gap in his armor, but the blow was unexplicably deflected inches to the right and away from his young, mortal, flesh. The hit proved harmless, and that's when Achilles confidence slowly started to build (starting the path to the complex of invincibility he showed at his mid-twenties).
⮞ For years after the first revelation, your interactions were mostly silent. He would feel a warm presence at his back in battle, a sudden clarity of thought when making a strategic decision, or an unnatural stamina during long marches.
⮞ He knew you were a godess, watching over him. And he knew exactly which one you were thanks to the claiming he wore proudly on his chest —as if to show off who was watching over him to any enemy that came close enough within strike distance.
⮞ With every battle won, and every little hint of your presence in it each time, his pride grew and grew. He came to the realization that he wasn't only one of your favoured souls, but that he was your favourite son.
⮞ He never prayed to you, nor built you an altar, because he knew that was not what you expected from him.
⮞ Achilles then settled, for making an altar out of all of his battles. Each killed enemy in your honor, each won battle in your name.
⮞ The rumors sparked from there, his mother was an immortal. But they were not necessarily speaking about the biological woman, but the woman that protected his body from any fatal hit. That kept the gods from ever daring to touch him because, after all, any god that had come after you had been created by you. You had the power.
⮞ Eventually, as he was granted his 18th mortal years, you began to appear to him more frequently outside of battle.
⮞ At first, just as a silent presence watching him train. Then, you would sit under a tree while he practiced, offering a slight frown of critique or a smile of approval.
⮞ You started giving advice, not on war, but on leadership, on how to care for his men's morale, on the beauty of a sunset he was too busy to notice.
⮞ He began to tell you everything. His frustrations with Agamemnon, his deep love for Patroclus, his fears of obscurity, his philosophical musings on mortality.
⮞ And you listened, and praised, and adviced, and loved.
⮞ The shift was gradual but inevitable. He began to look at you not just with reverence, but with longing. He would notice the way your light gown draped over your form, the gentle curve of your smile, the impossible blue of your eyes.
⮞ He started becoming fiercely, possessively jealous of any moment you spent comforting another soldier, even Patroclus.
⮞ His possessiveness stems from a primal place. You are not just his lover, or mother, or patron; you are the source of his being, his first and most fundamental connection to existence itself.
⮞ The thought of sharing that is existentially terrifying.
⮞ That's when he started developing the "Mine" Complex: He began referring to things connected to you as mine, which was thought by every realigious devotee to be an extremely arrogant and rude act that would be punished.
⮞ Being Achilles, it was not a surprise when he still kept referencing you as "My godess".
⮞ Even before he accepted his feelings, he was fiercely possesive and jealous of your attention.
⮞ His jealousy was as legendary as his mightyness and greatness in combat.
⮞ If he saw you comforting another soldier or laughing at another man's joke, he would become sullen and withdrawn, pettyly so, refusing to come to you and leaving you to be the one seek him out.
⮞ He is nothing but a big sharp-fanged puppy whining for attention, and you find it both endearing and occasionally exasperating.
⮞ While he understands you are the Godess of life, he craves to be the only object of your romantic affection.
⮞ He needs constant reassurance that he is not just a favorite, but the favorite in every conceivable way.
⮞ When he is feeling particularly jealous or neglected (often irrationally so), his way of "punishing" you is to become excessively attentive to others, especially women in the camp. He'll laugh a little too loudly at their jokes or compliment their weaving.
⮞ It's a transparent, childish ploy to make you jealous, to force you to reaffirm your desire for him.
⮞ You always see right through it, but often play along to indulge him.
⮞ Still, he boasts openly of being your most favoured soul. He mocks his enemies when he is threathened with the wrath of the god protecting their nation, because he knows you stand high above any of the other deities and being under your protection means no god or godess would ever lay a finger on him.
⮞ Every morning before donning his armor, he takes a moment to press a kiss to the silver wolf badge he wears. That same very one from years ago.
⮞ For him it is not just a symbol; it is a direct line to you.
⮞ He closes his eyes and feels a wave of your warmth in return, your silent blessing for the day.
⮞ You are the only one allowed to touch him without consequence. You can smooth the tension from his shoulders, stroke his hair, and trace the scars on his skin without him flinching. For a Spartan warrior who is always on alert, this level of relaxation is a gift only you can give.
⮞ He loves to lay his head in your lap and listen to you tell stories of the dawn of time, of the creation of the stars and the first animals. He is particularly fascinated by stories of his own soul's creation, demanding you tell him over and over again what his 'threads' looked like.
⮞ You smell of everything he associates with life: rich soil after rain, blooming jasmine, the crisp air of a spring morning, and the sweet scent of a lover's skin.
⮞ It is his favorite scent in all the world, and he often buries his face in your hair or the spot where your neck meets your shoulder just to breathe it in.
⮞ Being with a goddess is an overwhelming experience for a mortal. The first time you kissed him, truly kissed him, he saw supernovas behind his eyes and forgot his own name for a full hour.
⮞ The sensation of your divine energy merging with his mortal soul is ecstatic and terrifyingly intense.
⮞ In private, his love language is physical possession. He is constantly touching you—an arm around your waist, a hand on your knee, his fingers tangled in your hair. When you sit together, he must have some part of his body touching yours. It’s a silent, constant reassurance that you are there and you are his.
⮞ He has zero tolerance for being interrupted during his time with you. If a soldier or even Patroclus approaches with news while he is speaking with you, his response is famously and frostily short.
⮞ His time with you is sacred and non-negotiable.
⮞ He is the mightiest warrior alive, protected by the most powerful being in existence. Yet, he has a fierce, irrational need to protect you.
⮞ He will always position himself between you and any perceived threat despite your immortality, even just a sudden loud noise. It's an instinct he can't control, the creation feeling a primordial drive to shield his creator.
⮞ His greatest, most secret terror is not death, but what comes after.
⮞ The thought of his soul passing into the Underworld, into the care of Hades, away from you, is a torment worse than any mortal wound.
⮞ He often makes you promise, in your most solemn voice, that you will find a way to keep him with you, always.
