Wounds Kept
Achilles x Trojan!nurse!reader - Troy (2004)
Summary: After you're captured during a raid, you expect slavery, brutality, perhaps death. Instead, your knowledge of healing earns you a place among the Myrmidons. Achilles is only supposed to be another patient. Unfortunately, Achilles rarely wants something only once.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, prisoner/captor dynamics, slow burn af, possessiveness, eventual unprotected p in v, power imbalance, war, violence, injury and blood, medical treatment/wound stitching, coercive undertones, Achilles being emotionally repressed and deeply unsubtle, local warlord develops attachment issues
A/N: ily Brad Pitt achilles pls manhandle me <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 5.8k
Smoke hangs low over the outskirts of Troy long after the fighting ends.
It rolls through the ruined streets in thick grey waves, stinging your eyes, settling into your throat with every breath. Somewhere behind you, something collapses with a splintering crash, followed by another burst of screaming. The sound barely turns heads anymore.
You keep your gaze lowered as you’re dragged downhill toward the shore.
The soldier gripping your arm is young, flushed with the ugly exhilaration of surviving battle. His fingers are locked so tightly around your wrist they’ve long since gone numb, but that seems to be the least of your problems.
You stumble once over broken stone and he jerks you upright hard enough to wrench your shoulder. “Keep moving.”
You nod quickly before he can do any worse.
Around you, other captives are being herded toward the ships in frightened clusters. Some cry openly. Others call desperately for husbands or brothers who will never answer them again.
The beach comes into view slowly through the smoke.
Ships line the shore in impossible numbers, dark against the water, their hulls towering over the sand. Greek soldiers move constantly between them carrying armour, weapons, sacks of grain and other supplies. They are nowhere near done fighting this war.
A wounded Greek soldier collapses several paces ahead of you with a rough cry of pain. The men around him curse in annoyance more than concern.
“He’s bleeding everywhere,” one snaps.
“Well, pick him up then.”
“I’m not carrying him back to camp like that.”
The injured man tries to push himself upright and fails immediately. Blood pours steadily through his fingers where he’s clutching his thigh.
Without thinking, you slow. The soldier holding you notices at once. “Don’t.”
But you’re already staring at the wound. Deep, but clean-edged. Dangerous mainly because no one is stopping the bleeding properly.
“He needs pressure,” you say quietly.
The soldier gives a short incredulous laugh. “He needs a priest.”
“He’ll die before he gets one.”
That earns a few glances. Nothing more at first. Just irritation from exhausted men who want the day finished. Before caution can stop you, you add, “I can help him.”
The soldier beside you snorts. “And why would we trust a Trojan?”
You swallow. “I know how.”
For a moment no one answers. The wounded man groans again, weaker this time, and one of the older soldiers finally looks properly at you. His gaze flicks over your clothes, your posture, your face, as if he's trying to place you.
“You’ve done it before?”
You nod once. He considers it, then must decide he's got nothing to lose and shrugs. “Let her try. If she kills him, we throw her in the sea.”
Your grip tightens briefly around your own shaking hands before you kneel beside the injured soldier. Up close, he can’t be much older than you. Sweat streaks through the dirt on his face and his breathing has gone shallow with pain.
When you press down on the wound, he sucks in a sharp breath and curses.
“Sorry,” you murmur automatically.
You tear a strip from the already ruined edge of your sleeve and bind it tightly around his thigh, trying to ignore the blood soaking warm across your palms. The soldier watches you with visible suspicion the entire time, as though expecting you to suddenly drive a knife into his throat.
Once your hands start moving, the rest becomes easier.
Your father used to complain that you asked too many questions when the physicians came to the house. You had followed them endlessly as a child, more interested in bandages and herbs than weaving or music. At the time it had seemed useless knowledge.
“He needs the wound cleaned properly,” you say, sitting back slightly. “And stitched, eventually. But he’ll live.”
The man guarding you lets out a low whistle. “Well. Look at that.”
“You sound surprised,” another voice says nearby.
The soldiers straighten almost immediately.
The man approaching is older than most of the warriors around him, though not old exactly. His armour is finely made but worn from years of use, and there’s something measured in the way he moves through the chaos of the beach.
Recognition lands slowly and unpleasantly in your stomach.
This is Odysseus.
His gaze settles first on the wounded soldier, then on the blood covering your hands. “You did this?”
You hesitate. “I treated him, yes.”
“And where did you learn?”
“My father employed physicians.”
He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “A noble family, then.”
You say nothing to that.
Around you, the surf crashes softly against the shore. Somewhere further down the beach, men are arguing over spoils loud enough for everyone to hear.
Finally Odysseus says, “Who was your father?”
You almost answer automatically before stopping yourself.
His expression shifts faintly, noticing the hesitation “You don’t have to look so alarmed,” he says, not unkindly. “I asked for your name, not for your loyalty.”
A few of the nearby soldiers chuckle under their breath.
Heat rises embarrassingly into your face. You lower your eyes for a moment before telling him.
Odysseus stays silent for a moment, then looks back at the wounded soldier. “She’s useful,” he says simply. “Send her to the Myrmidons.”
The soldier beside you blinks. “Achilles’ men?”
“Yes.”
Even before the war, stories about Achilles spread across Greece and Troy alike like something mythic. You’d seen what he did to Troy’s outer defences three days ago, and you know enough to understand men do not survive that kind of violence unchanged.
Odysseus notices your expression and smiles slightly, though there’s something tired in it.
“He's not as bad as everyone seems to think.”
Before you can think of any response to that, he turns away, already calling orders to someone else further down the beach.
The closer you get to the camp, the more unbearable the noise becomes.
The Greeks move with the exhausted confidence of victors. Some are still laughing. Others look half-dead where they walk, streaked with soot and blood, too tired even to speak. One soldier sits directly in the sand while another pours wine over a cut on his arm, both of them grinning at some joke you can’t hear.
It feels unreal suddenly, how ordinary they make it seem.
You wonder vaguely if your father is dead. The thought arrives strangely flat, too large for your mind to fully grasp yet.
The soldier leading you gives your arm another tug when you slow.
“Keep up.”
The Myrmidon encampment resembles a small city built entirely for war. Shields stacked in careful rows, spears planted upright in the ground, fires already burning despite the lingering heat of the day.
The soldier finally releases your arm near one of the larger tents. “Stay here,” he says. “Don’t wander.”
As though you could.
Then he disappears back toward the shore without another glance.
A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly buckles your knees.
You steady yourself against the rough wooden support beside the tent, closing your eyes briefly. Your entire body feels heavy now that the fear has nowhere immediate to go. Smoke still clings to your hair and clothes while dried blood tightens across your fingers.
“Here.”
You start violently. One of the Myrmidons is standing nearby holding out a waterskin. He’s younger than the others, his nose visibly crooked from an old break.
You hesitate before taking it carefully. “Thank you.”
He shrugs. “You stopped Nikos from bleeding out. Figured that earned you water.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple kindness of it. You drink too quickly and immediately cough.
The soldier grins faintly. “Easy. It’s water, not treasure.”
Another voice cuts in from somewhere behind him. “Depends who you ask.”
You look up as a man steps around the tent entrance, and his gaze lands on you immediately.
“This her?”
“The healer,” the younger soldier confirms.
The man studies you for a long moment, eyes flicking briefly to the blood on your clothes. “You know how to stitch wounds?”
“Yes.”
“Set bones?”
“I’ve helped before.”
“You faint at blood?”
You blink. “No, of course not.”
“Good.” Then he jerks his head toward the inside of the tent. “Come on, then. Someone split his arm open an hour ago and he’s been complaining ever since.”
By the third day, you stop flinching every time someone shouts.
The Myrmidons work you relentlessly from sunrise to well past dark. Most injuries are minor, like deep cuts, split knuckles and bruised ribs, sometimes burns from overturned cooking fires. But there are enough serious wounds scattered between them to keep your hands constantly occupied.
You clean blood from skin until your fingers wrinkle from seawater and wine. You stitch flesh by firelight while men grit their teeth and pretend not to groan.
No one is cruel to you.
That surprises you most.
Some barely speak at all beyond telling you where it hurts. Others thank you awkwardly after, as though uncertain whether they’re supposed to. A few still look at you with open distrust, but even that has faded since the soldier you saved survived the night.
Nikos, the man in question, now grins whenever he sees you, which would almost be charming if he weren’t missing half a tooth.
The camp itself settles into rhythms quicker than you expect. Men training near the shore at dawn, armour repairs are done in the afternoon, and loud arguments over food are always held in the evening. At night, the sea wind carries the smell of salt and smoke through the tents while exhausted soldiers collapse wherever they can find space.
And through all of it, Achilles remains strangely absent.
You see him sometimes from a distanc, crossing the beach or training shirtless in the surf at sunrise, his bronze skin gleaming with seawater while younger soldiers watch him. Once, you see him returning from battle still streaked in blood that clearly does not belong to him.
No one speaks to him casually.
Even the other commanders seem to orbit rather than approach.
The first time he walks through camp near enough for you to hear his voice, conversation dies almost instantly around him.
You understand why before he even reaches you.
It is not simply that he is beautiful, though he is. The stories had not exaggerated that part. Achilles moves with the unbearable confidence of someone who has never doubted his own importance for even a moment in his life. Men look at him expecting greatness and he accepts it as naturally as breathing.
He doesn't glance at you once, which should not bother you.
It does anyway.
Later that evening, you are crouched beside one of the fires grinding dried herbs into powder with the flat end of a knife when familiar voices drift through the camp nearby.
“You should let her look at it.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“It’s bleeding through the bandage.”
“That sounds like a problem for the bandage.”
A few nearby Myrmidons snort laughter and you glance up before you can stop yourself.
Odysseus stands near the centre of camp with his arms folded loosely across his chest, looking profoundly unimpressed. Across from him, Achilles is in the process of removing one bracer with visible irritation.
Even from several paces away, you can see the blood darkening his forearm.
“It’s a scratch,” Achilles says.
Odysseus raises an eyebrow. “That's wonderful news. Then surviving treatment should be well within your abilities.”
“I don’t need treatment.”
“No,” Odysseus agrees mildly. “You need humility, but we work with what we have.”
More laughter this time, quickly stifled when Achilles shoots the surrounding men a look. You immediately lower your eyes back to the herbs, hoping neither of them noticed you watching.
Then, “You.”
Your stomach drops. Achilles is staring directly at you now.
The firelight catches against sharp cheekbones and sun-browned skin still damp from sweat and seawater. There’s dried blood streaked along one shoulder beneath the edge of his armour, and his hair curls loosely around his face from the humidity off the sea.
For one horrifying moment, you think he’s speaking to someone else.
Then Odysseus glances toward you too.
“The healer,” he says helpfully.
“Yes,” Achilles says, still looking at you. “I gathered that.”
Heat creeps instantly into your face. You rise to your feet, trying not to make your awe and nerves too obvious.
Several Myrmidons grin openly.
Then, after a beat, he holds out his injured arm toward you with the vague impatience of a man indulging something unnecessary.
“Well?” he says. “Apparently I’m dying.”
Your feet carry you forward before your mind fully catches up.
Every eye in the camp seems fixed on you as you cross the space between the fire and Achilles. You can feel the curiosity, the amusement, the expectation that this will go poorly somehow.
Your pulse pounds hard enough to make your hands feel unsteady.
Up close, the cut looks worse. Much worse.
The bleeding had seemed manageable from across the camp, but now that he’s holding his arm nearer the firelight, you can see how deep the blade went. The skin along the inside of his forearm is split open almost cleanly, blood still sliding steadily down toward his wrist despite the rough bandage tied around it.
You frown before you can stop yourself. Achilles notices immediately.
“What?” he asks.
You don’t answer right away. Nervousness slips strangely to the background as you lean closer, carefully taking hold of his wrist to turn the arm slightly toward the light.
“What happened?”
“Someone got lucky.”
Odysseus makes a quiet noise from nearby. “That’s one interpretation.”
Achilles ignores him.
You barely hear either of them now. Your focus narrows entirely onto the wound beneath your hands. The bleeding isn’t pulsing heavily anymore, which means whatever vessel was hit has likely slowed on its own. You look up sharply.
“Can you move your fingers?”
His brow furrows faintly. “What?”
“Move them.”
For the first time since you approached him, Achilles looks mildly uncertain instead of irritated. He flexes his hand experimentally.
His fingers move.
“Again,” you say, reaching for his hand before thinking too hard about it. “Grip mine.”
A few nearby soldiers go suspiciously quiet. Achilles stares at you for half a second, then curls his blood-slick fingers around your hand.
Gods, he's strong.
You test each finger carefully, watching the movement of the tendons beneath the skin of his wrist. “Can you feel?” you ask, pressing lightly near the edge of the wound.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes.”
“And this?” You lightly trace the inside of his palm.
“...Less.”
You release his hand abruptly and turn toward the supplies near the fire.
“I need clean water,” you say. Someone passes it over immediately.
You kneel beside Achilles on the packed sand, soaking a cloth before carefully washing blood away from the wound. The water turns pink almost instantly beneath your hands.
Achilles hisses quietly when you clean deeper into the cut.
“That bad?” Odysseus asks from somewhere behind you.
“Yes.”
The camp stills slightly at that. You glance up briefly. “Not fatal,” you add quickly. “It's only his arm after all, he'll be fine.”
Achilles leans back against a wooden post with his injured arm braced on one knee, watching you work. You rinse the wound again, and the deeper you clean it, the less you like it.
“Gods,” you murmur under your breath.
“What?” Achilles asks immediately.
You hesitate, then reach for the small clay bottle tucked among the medical supplies. Strong distilled alcohol. You’ve only used it twice since arriving in camp because most soldiers would rather bite through leather than endure it.
When Achilles sees what you’ve picked up, one corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “That seems dramatic.”
“It’ll hurt.”
“I’ve been stabbed before.”
“Yes,” you say distractedly, uncorking the bottle. “And apparently learned nothing from it.”
A few nearby Myrmidons laugh outright. Achilles exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh himself, but then you pour the alcohol directly into the wound. His entire body goes rigid instantly.
You continue cleaning the cut carefully while the alcohol evaporates sharp and bitter into the night air. Achilles doesn’t complain, though his breathing stays slightly uneven beneath the silence.
Once the wound is finally clean enough to examine properly, you thread the needle with steadier hands than you feel.
“You’re lucky,” you murmur.
“Odysseus said I was dying.”
Odysseus immediately protests from behind you. “I implied no such thing.”
“You implied it with enthusiasm.”
You shake your head slightly, concentrating on the stitching. “No. You weren’t dying.” Achilles hums softly, smug already.
Then you add, “But you were very close to losing full use of your sword hand.”
The smugness disappears.
Around you, several Myrmidons straighten visibly and Achilles goes still beneath your hands.
You tie off one stitch before continuing carefully. “The blade nearly cut through the tendon. Another inch and you may never have held a sword properly again.”
For the first time all evening, he says nothing.
The next morning passes much the same as every other morning in camp. Wounded soldiers line up outside the medical tent before sunrise. Someone arrives with a split lip from a drunken fight. Another with a shoulder dislocated during training
You work steadily through all of it.
Still, by midday, you realise people are looking at you differently.
Achilles spoke to you.
Which apparently means something here.
You notice it most among the younger Myrmidons first. Men who barely acknowledged your existence three days ago now step aside to let you pass through camp. One even offers you the better seat beside the fire before seeming embarrassed by his own politeness afterwards.
Later, you’re carrying fresh bandages toward the larger supply tent when two soldiers pass nearby speaking in low voices.
“…nearly took the tendon clean through, I heard.”
“He let her stitch it herself?”
“Well obviously someone stitched it, you idiot.”
“That’s not what I mean...”
Inside the supply tent, the air smells thickly of oil, linen, and dried herbs. You crouch near one of the storage chests, sorting through bundles of clean cloth by lantern light while outside the camp slowly settles into night around you.
The distant sound of waves rolls steadily against the shore. You exhale slowly and rub tired fingers against your eyes.
“You look exhausted.”
You nearly drop the bandages. Odysseus stands near the tent entrance, half-shadowed by the lantern hanging outside. He looks mildly amused by your reaction.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“So I gathered.” Odysseus steps fully into the tent, glancing briefly over the organised piles of supplies surrounding you.
“You’ve made improvements.”
You blink. “What?”
“The medical tent.” He gestures vaguely. “It was chaos before you arrived. Men digging through bandages with bloody hands. Wine spilled over half the supplies. One fool used boiled seawater for cleaning wounds.”
You grimace instinctively.
“Exactly,” Odysseus says.
Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you.
His expression softens faintly at the sound, though only for a moment. “How is Achilles’ arm?”
The question catches you off guard. “He shouldn’t be training with it yet,” you say automatically. “If the stitches tear, it’ll reopen.”
Odysseus hums, unsurprised. “And will he listen to that advice?”
“…No.”
He's watching you carefully. “You frightened him,” he says.
You stare at him in disbelief. “Achilles?”
“Yes.”
“That seems unlikely.”
A smile pulls faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Not for his life. Achilles values that less than he should.” He pauses. “But his sword hand? That’s another matter.”
Outside, voices drift through camp accompanied by bursts of laughter and the crackle of firewood. Somewhere further off, metal rings sharply against metal from men still training in the dark.
Odysseus leans one shoulder against the tent post. “He’s called for you twice today.”
Your head lifts sharply. “What?”
“You were with other injured soldiers both times.” Mild amusement flickers across his face. “He seemed irritated by this inconvenience.”
“Why would he call for me?”
Odysseus gives you a look that suggests he already knows the answer and finds it entertaining. “You stitched his arm,” he says simply.
Before you can press further, footsteps approach outside the tent. Heavy and familiar. Odysseus hears them too.
Then Achilles ducks through the entrance.
He’s changed out of his armour, though the sight of him somehow remains equally distracting. Loose dark fabric hangs open slightly over his chest, exposing sun-browned skin still damp from seawater. His hair is wet, strands plastered to his neck and forehead.
And despite your instructions, there’s a fresh split in one of the stitches across his forearm. “I tore it,” he says simply.
“Of course you did.”
Odysseus makes a quiet sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
Achilles ignores him completely, his gaze fixed on you. “So... it started bleeding again.”
You can only stare at him, then at the sword hanging comfortably at his side, and then back at him. “You trained with it.”
A beat of silence.
“I got bored.”
Over the next several days, Achilles acquires an astonishing number of injuries.
At first, they are legitimate.
A reopened stitch after training too soon. A bruise spreading dark beneath his ribs from a sparring match that apparently became too enthusiastic. A shallow cut across his shoulder from battle that still bleeds enough to justify attention.
Achilles fights constantly. Of course he gets hurt, so there's nothing strange about it. Still, certain patterns begin to emerge.
For one thing, he never sends anyone else for you. The summons always come directly from him, usually delivered by some deeply unenthusiastic Myrmidon appearing at the entrance of the medical tent.
“Achilles wants you.”
The first few times you go immediately, but by the sixth, irritation begins creeping in. Especially because Achilles himself never appears particularly concerned.
You arrive at his tent one afternoon expecting something serious from the urgency of the message, only to find him sitting shirtless beside the table inside, sharpening a dagger while a thin scrape crosses one knuckle.
You stop in the entrance. “…That’s it?”
Achilles glances up. “It’s bleeding.”
“It’s barely skin-deep.”
“It could become infected.”
You walk forward slowly. “You interrupted the stitching of an actual wound for this.”
“You finished eventually.”
You clean the scrape anyway. His gaze never leaves your face the entire time. Afterwards, as you’re packing away the supplies, Achilles says casually, “Your hands are steadier now.”
You look up.
“When you arrived, you shook every time someone spoke to you.”
Heat rises instantly into your face. “I did not.”
“You did. But you’re less frightened now,” he says. The words should sound mocking, and yet somehow they don’t.
You focus aggressively on tying off the bandages. “Maybe I’m simply getting used to arrogant Greeks demanding treatment for papercuts.”
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Then, from outside the tent, “Is the arm being amputated or are you two finished?”
Achilles’ entire face hardens instantly back into annoyance.
You bite the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself smiling.
The injuries continue.
A split lip after training. A shallow burn across his palm from grabbing overheated bronze. A cut on his jaw that looks suspiciously like someone else barely managed to touch him during sparring and he’s still offended about it.
Each time, he sends for you. Each time, the injury grows less convincing.
This cut on Achilles’ shoulder is three days old and healing perfectly, which makes it deeply irritating that he insists on having it redressed again.
“You do realise,” you say, trying not to sound annoyed as you unwind the linen from around his upper arm, “that wounds cannot improve out of spite alone.”
Achilles lounges beside the fire like a man with absolutely no intention of taking you seriously. One knee bent, forearm resting lazily across it, bronze skin flickering gold in the firelight. Around him, half a dozen Myrmidons sit scattered through the tent cleaning weapons, drinking watered wine, or arguing over some training dispute.
“It reopened this morning,” Achilles says.
“You trained with it again.”
“Yes.”
“Then it did not reopen mysteriously.”
A few of the men nearby laugh.
Achilles glances toward them briefly, unimpressed. “I liked you better when you were frightened of me.”
You laugh softly before you can stop yourself and the tent goes quiet for exactly one second, because you laughed at Achilles. You realise your error immediately and freeze with the fresh bandage halfway around his arm.
Then, thankfully, Achilles laughs.
The tension breaks instantly around the fire. “Well,” one of the older Myrmidons mutters. “That’s new.”
Heat crawls up your neck as you focus aggressively on tying off the bandage.
Achilles, unfortunately, continues watching you.
“You’re staring again,” Odysseus remarks mildly.
Achilles doesn’t even glance at him. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she’s pleasant to look at.”
Someone makes a strangled sound into their wine cup and you nearly stab yourself with a needle. Odysseus watches the entire exchange with the expression of a man observing a slow-moving disaster he predicted long ago.
“You could attempt subtlety,” he suggests.
Achilles finally looks over at him then, visibly puzzled by the idea.
“Why?”
The simplicity of the answer sends another ripple of laughter around the fire. You keep your eyes firmly on the bandages in your lap, willing your face to cool.
Achilles, meanwhile, appears completely untroubled.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, like this is an obvious fact no one intelligent would dispute. “I’m not sure what subtlety has to do with it.”
Someone near the back mutters, “Gods help the poor girl.”
You stand quickly, gathering the used cloth before anyone can say anything worse. Achilles' gaze lifts immediately, following you with the same steady focus that’s begun to make your stomach feel strange at unpredictable moments.
“I’ll bring fresh supplies tomorrow,” you say, mostly to the room in general.
“You won’t need to.”
You pause.
“You'll stay,” he says, reaching for his wine, calm as ever.
The words settle over the tent without immediate reaction, almost too casual at first to register.
Then several heads lift at once.
You stare at him. “What?”
“With me, in my tent,” Achilles clarifies, as though you’re the one being slow. “You spend half your time there already.”
A few of the Myrmidons exchange looks but no one seems particularly surprised. Your pulse begins beating unevenly.
“I still work in the medical tent.”
“Someone else can handle scraped knees and drunken knife accidents.”
“That is not all I handle.”
“No,” Achilles agrees easily. “You handle me.”
Odysseus closes his eyes briefly like a man asking the gods for strength.
Achilles barely seems aware of the reaction around him. His attention remains fixed entirely on you.
“You’ll have more space here,” he continues. “And I prefer having my healer where I can find her.”
There’s something underneath the words now. Not hidden particularly well. The implication hangs thickly in the air.
You become suddenly, horribly aware that every man in the tent understands exactly what Achilles wants. And because he is Achilles, no one thinks it strange that he should simply… decide.
Your mouth goes dry.
“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
Achilles only tilts his head slightly, studying you.
“No,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t.”
That evening you're in his tent, and he's told you of one last injury he wants you to look at before he retires. The fire near the centre has burned low, filling the tent with soft gold light and long shadows that shift across the walls whenever the sea wind stirs outside.
Achilles sits on the edge of the cot while you kneel in front of him with fresh linen draped across your lap.
The cut along his ribs is, like always, very shallow.
“Hold still,” you murmur as you clean away the blood around it.
“I am holding still.”
"Then you're not doing it well enough."
It's bizarre. A few weeks ago you could barely look at him without feeling afraid. Now the fear has changed shape into something far more dangerous. You notice too much; the warmth radiating from his skin this close, the scrape of his breathing every time your fingers brush near his ribs.
You focus harder on the bandage.
“Does that hurt?” you ask quietly, pressing near the edge of the cut.
“A little.”
You pause.
“A little?”
“For most men, perhaps more.”
You snort softly despite yourself. “Of course.” Achilles’ mouth curves faintly at one corner.
Trying to ignore it, you reach for the clean linen and begin wrapping it carefully around his torso. The position forces you closer, one hand braced lightly against his side while the other pulls the bandage tight.
His skin is warm beneath your palm.
When you finish tying it off, you start pulling back immediately, suddenly desperate for distance before he notices how flustered you’ve become.
But Achilles moves first.
One large hand closes around your wrist, and your breath catches.
"Are you done?" His voice rumbles low.
You nod, not daring to meet his gaze fully, and his grip turns to iron, completely unyielding. He tugs you closer, effortlessly lifting you onto the edge of the cot as if you weigh nothing.
"Achilles-" you start, but you stop short when you feel his free hand trace the line of your jaw, rough calluses scraping gently over skin.
"I meant it. That I want you here. That you're beautiful."
His voice has dropped an octave, more of a whisper than his usual commanding cadence.
You try to pull back, instinct screaming caution, but he doesn't let go.
Instead, he manoeuvres you with ease, positioning you astride his lap, your knees sinking into the furs beside his hips. You're enveloped by him. His arms encircle your waist, hands splaying across your back, holding you in place.
"Stay here," he orders, and it's not a request.
Your breath catches as his lips brush your neck, a deliberate graze that sends sparks racing down your spine.
You know you should protest, should remind him of your role, your boundaries, but the words dissolve on your tongue when he nips at the sensitive skin there, just hard enough to mark.
His hands roam now, bold and possessive, sliding under the hem of your tunic to grip your hips. He lifts you slightly, adjusting you against the hard planes of his body, and you gasp at the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you.
He manhandles you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion, the furs cushioning your fall as his weight looms over you. Not crushing, but enveloping, his thighs bracketing yours, keeping you pinned without effort.
You stare up at him, breath shallow, as he peels away the last barriers between you. His fingers hook into the ties of your clothing, pulling with a rip that echoes in the tent.
Cool air kisses your exposed skin, but his touch is fire, trailing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, thumb circling a peak until it hardens under his attention, drawing a whimper from your lips.
"Don't act so surprised", he growls, voice thick with need, "You knew this would happen."
Before you can process, his mouth descends, claiming yours in a kiss that's all teeth and hunger.
The world narrows to sensations.
The scrape of his stubble, the salt of his skin, the way his huge frame dwarfs yours completely. He moves you again, rolling you to your side, one arm hooked under your knees to draw them up, opening and exposing you to him as he slots his body behind yours.
There is no gentleness in his conquest, only raw, unfiltered desire that mirrors the warlord he is.
In the midst of it, you risk a glance over your shoulder, and his eyes lock on yours, showing a flicker of something deeper. There's possession, yes, but it's laced with a fierce protectiveness.
"Are you scared of me, little healer?" He asks; you can feel his breath stir your hair. You shake your head quickly, then slow, deciding to nod instead.
His grip gentles a bit.
"You need not be. I like you too much to break you, I'll be gentle," he murmurs in response.
You hear the rustle of clothing, faintly registering his own clothes being ripped off. Then his skin meets yours, a shock of heat and muscle.
His hand leaves your body to position himself at your entrance. You feel the rub of his cock through your folds, silken smooth against your gathering wetness.
When he finally enters you, it's unhurried, letting your body accommodate the difference. The stretch itself is overwhelming, a burn that blooms slowly into pleasure.
His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he sets a rhythm that increases steadily in pace, unrelenting. You cling to his arms, nails digging into hard muscle, head thrown back against his shoulder.
The tent fades, the war outside ceases to exist. There's only Achilles, taking you, binding you to him in this most primal way.
The only kind of claim that matters in times of war.
When he's confident you've grown accustomed to him, he speeds up his pace, cock hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars.
The sound of skin against skin echoes around the tent. His arms draw you further into the cradle of his body, lifting your leg higher so he can hit a spot inside you that you didn't know existed.
You feel his body start to tense, as does your own, the knot in you tightening and tightening with every thrust. His breathing becomes more laboured, the drags of air becoming harsher against the nape of your neck when he leans further into you.
When release crashes over him, it's with a groan so deep it could be considered a roar.
Yet, even as his body shudders against yours, he keeps grinding his hips into you, chasing your pleasure as much as his own. His arm snakes its way around your waist, finding the bundle of nerves that sends lightning rushing through your body.
That, in combination with the deep rolling sensation of him still inside you, finally pushes you over the edge.
You go slack, sagging against his body, whimpering as the aftershocks course through you.
He doesn't withdraw; instead gathers you closer, if that's even possible. His massive arms caging you in and pulling you so you're sprawled over his chest.
"You'll stay right here," he whispers into your hair, the words a vow sealed in sweat and sighs.
And as exhaustion claims you, nestled against Achilles' chest, you accept you've been utterly conquered.
hes so hot bro
