✮🌀𝓔𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓮🌀✮

-Currently playing 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶...

・I'm a writer!

・I only write for Telemachus, Hermes (EPIC VERSION. BECAUSE I AM INDEED HELPOL) and Antinous!!!!(For now..) GUESS WHAT BYLER GOT ADDED

・Keep in mind that English is not my first language so my writing might not be the best!!

・Requests: OPEN (only byler)

・𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘋𝘋 𝘚𝘔𝘜𝘵𝘵𝘵😈😈

・𝘐 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩

・My fics might take time to upload because Im either burnt out or have full on assignments!

・This is a blog made to have fun and I literally have nothing else to do in my life! Don't be shy to ask requests I will GLADLY take them.

RULES!

~~~🌀𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘔𝘊 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵! 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵.

~~~🌀 𝘐 𝘞𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘤. 𝘐 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘤 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.

~~~🌀 𝘕𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦.

~~~🌀 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵/𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘈𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦

~~~🌀 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘱/𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘢/𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

~~~🌀 𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘉𝘜𝘛 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 🌀 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ABOUT ME

✮🌀 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘳

✮🌀 𝘏𝘺𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭

✮🌀 𝘐 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘦, 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘌𝘱𝘪𝘤, 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘏𝘢𝘻𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘭, 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘷𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘴𝘴, 𝘈𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘏𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘰𝘯, 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘰𝘯, 𝘦𝘵𝘤... 𝘉𝘠𝘓𝘌𝘙 𝘉𝘠𝘓𝘌𝘙 𝘉𝘠𝘓𝘌𝘙

★

Suffocation

A/n: HIII LUNBLEUUUU OMSGHSHSH I MISSED YOUUU😭😭😭 I'M SO HAPPY TO BE BACK!

Warnings!: angry making out???

~~~~🌀~~~~

The room was far too small for this.

You realized that approximately three seconds after the door slammed shut behind you.

The sound echoed through the stone storage chamber, followed by the distinct click of a lock settling into place.

You stared at the door.

Telemachus stared at the door.

Then both of you looked at each other and immediately looked away.

Wonderful.

Of all the places in Ithaca. Of all the people.

The gods, apparently, had decided your day was going too well.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't the comfortable kind. It wasn't even the awkward kind strangers shared. It was something worse—something heavier. The kind of silence that could only exist between two people who had once known each other too intimately.

You hadn't spoken properly in months.

Not since the breakup.

Not since the argument that wasn't really an argument.

The one that still made your chest ache when you thought about it.

You crossed your arms and leaned against the nearest wall. Across from you, Telemachus rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed determinedly on anything except you.

He looked different.

Or maybe he looked exactly the same.

That was the problem.

His hair was a little longer than you remembered. His shoulders a little broader. But the nervous habit of shifting his weight from foot to foot whenever he was uncomfortable was still there.

You hated that you noticed.

You hated that you noticed immediately.

"Well," he said finally.

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

That voice.

Gods.

"Insightful observation," you replied.

He winced.

"Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I don't know."

That, unfortunately, made perfect sense.

Because Telemachus had always been like this. Quiet around strangers. Polite. Careful.

And then once he became comfortable around someone?

Completely impossible.

The boy could ramble for an hour about the construction of fishing boats if given the opportunity.

You knew because you'd once listened to him do exactly that.

The memory slipped into your mind before you could stop it.

Apparently his did too.

A strange expression crossed his face.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he laughed softly.

"I miss talking to you."

The words hit harder than they should have.

You looked away immediately.

"Telemachus."

"I know."

"No, you don't."

His jaw tightened.

For the first time since getting trapped in the room, he actually looked directly at you.

The look in his eyes nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

Because he looked tired.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The sort of exhaustion that settled deep into a person's bones.

"You think I don't?" he asked quietly.

Something about the question made your stomach twist.

Months ago, when everything had fallen apart, you had convinced yourself he didn't care as much as you did.

It had been easier that way.

Easier to believe he was relieved.

Easier to believe he had moved on.

Easier to survive.

Now you weren't so sure.

"You were the one who ended it," you said.

The words came out sharper than intended. Telemachus flinched. The guilt was immediate.But then something flashed across his face.

Hurt. Raw, unguarded hurt.

"You asked if maybe we'd be happier apart."

Your mouth snapped shut.

"I remember."

"You said you felt like everything was becoming too much."

"I remember."

"You cried."

His voice cracked.

The sound stunned you into silence.

Telemachus laughed once, but there wasn't any humor in it.

"I thought letting you go was the right thing."

Your throat tightened.

The room suddenly felt too warm.

Too small.

Too close.

"I didn't want you to let me go."

The confession slipped out before you could stop it.

Telemachus froze.

Completely.

Like he had forgotten how to move.

"What?"

You swallowed. Your pride was already dead. There was no point saving it now.

"I wanted you to fight for us."

The words sounded pathetic once spoken aloud.

But they were true.

Gods help you, they were true.

The silence stretched.

Then Telemachus laughed. A disbelieving, slightly hysterical laugh.

"You wanted me to fight for us?"

You frowned.

"What's so funny?"

"Because I spent months wishing you'd asked me to stay."

The world stopped.

For one awful second all you could do was stare.

Months.

Months of misery, months of missing him, months of pretending.

All because both of you had been too stupid to say what you actually wanted.

"You idiot."

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Telemachus barked out another laugh.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"You literally just admitted—"

"Don't."

"I'm just saying—"

"Telemachus."

He grinned, actually grinned.

And suddenly there he was. The boy you fell in love with.

The ridiculous, energetic, impossible boy who talked too much once he felt safe enough to be himself.

The realization hurt.

Because you'd missed him.

Gods.

You'd missed him so much.

Something must have shown on your face because his smile faded.

Not entirely.

Just softened.

His eyes searched yours. You hated that look. Because you knew exactly what it meant.You were looking at him the same way.

The distance between you felt unbearable.

A few feet.

Nothing but honestly? Everything.

Telemachus took a step forward. You didn't move away. Another step—Still nothing.

The room seemed impossibly quiet. Your pulse thundered in your ears.

"I never stopped loving you."His voice was barely above a whisper.

The words shattered whatever remained of your self-control.

You crossed the distance first.

His breath caught sharply.

Then your hands were in his hair and his hands were on your waist and suddenly months of longing crashed into both of you at once.

The kiss wasn't gentle.

It wasn't elegant.

It was angry.

Frustrated.

Desperate.

Every missed conversation and sleepless night poured into it.

Telemachus made a broken sound against your mouth.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard.

His forehead rested against yours.

You felt something wet hit your cheek.

For a second you thought it was you.

Then you realized Telemachus was crying.

Again.

The idiot. The absolute idiot.

You laughed despite yourself. His eyes squeezed shut. "I missed you."

The words came out broken.

You kissed him again, softer this time.

"I know."

"I really missed you."

"I know."

Another tear slipped free.

You brushed it away with your thumb.

"You're crying."

"I am aware."

That made you laugh harder. Telemachus groaned. Then, inevitably, he started laughing too.

The sound filled the tiny room.

Warm.

Familiar.

Home.

By the time someone finally managed to force the door open nearly an hour later, you were sitting together on the floor with your hand tangled in his and his head resting on your shoulder.

Neither of you noticed the door opening immediately.

Neither of you particularly cared.

After all, you'd already found what you'd been trapped with.

Shoot!

A/n: This concept is so cute!!!

No warnings!

~~~~🌀~~~~

If you ask Telemachus something right now, he'd probably not answer or shush you away.

Because he's so focused on teaching you the basics of using a bow and arrow properly that he doesn't realize he's accidentally standing close enough to make coherent thought impossible.

Meanwhile you're fighting for your life.

The first thing you learn is that stringing a bow is significantly harder than Telemachus makes it look.

The second thing you learn is that Telemachus standing directly behind you is apparently a problem.

A very serious problem.

"Okay," he says, taking the bow from your hands. "Watch carefully."

You try.

You really do.

But Telemachus gets excited when he's explaining things, and once he starts talking, he tends to forget the rest of the world exists.

His hands move animatedly as he demonstrates.

"The trick is that most people try to force it," he explains. "But if you're fighting the bow, you're already losing. You have to work with it."

You blink.

"That sounded strangely philosophical."

"It wasn't supposed to."

"It absolutely was."

Telemachus pauses.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Huh."

He looks genuinely surprised by this revelation. You bite back a smile. A few minutes later, he's handed the bow back to you.

"Your turn."

You stare at it.

The bow stares back.

You are not optimistic.

Telemachus, unfortunately, is.

"You've got this."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You do."

You sigh dramatically.

"Fine."

Several failed attempts later, Telemachus is trying very hard not to laugh.

"You're laughing."

"I'm not."

"You are."

His shoulders shake suspiciously.

"I would never."

"Telemachus."

At that, he finally breaks and laughs outright.

You narrow your eyes.

Traitor.

"Okay, okay," he says, still grinning. "Here."

He steps closer.

Much closer.

You immediately regret every decision you've ever made.

"You're holding it wrong."

"I gathered that."

"No, I mean—"

His hands gently close around your wrists.

The rest of his sentence evaporates.

At least for you.

Because suddenly Telemachus is standing directly behind you.

One hand adjusting your grip.

The other reaching around you to reposition the bow.

And apparently nobody warned him that he's attractive.

Or that normal people require oxygen.

"There."

His voice is right beside your ear.

Your soul leaves your body.

"Now keep your shoulders relaxed."

You attempt to obey.

You fail instantly.

"No, not like that."

His hand settles lightly against your shoulder.

Warm.

Steady.

Completely innocent.

You stop understanding language.

"You're tense."

I wonder why.

"Try again."

You do.

The bow nearly slips.

Telemachus catches it immediately.

"Oh."

His chest brushes your back for half a second.

Your heart stops.

"You okay?"

His voice is full of genuine concern.

The fool.

The absolute fool.

"Perfectly."

You are not perfectly.

You are experiencing every emotion simultaneously.

Telemachus frowns.

"Your breathing sounds strange."

Oh no.

"What?"

"Your breathing."

His expression is thoughtful.

Concerned.

Completely oblivious.

Then he says the worst possible thing.

"Breathe quieter."

You nearly drop the bow.

"What?"

"Breathe quieter."

He nods.

Like this is reasonable.

Like he's helping.

"You keep taking these really sharp breaths."

Gods give you strength.

"Telemachus."

"Yes?"

"You're standing very close."

"Oh."

He glances down.

Then at your stance.

Then back at the bow.

"Well yes."

You stare.

"That's how instruction works."

You close your eyes.

He genuinely doesn't get it.

Somehow that's worse.

For the next ten minutes, Telemachus continues correcting your form completely unaware of the war being fought inside your head.

Every adjustment is casual.

Every touch entirely practical.

Every word focused on the lesson.

Meanwhile you're concentrating harder on not combusting than on the actual bow.

Eventually, somehow, you manage it.

The string settles properly.

The bow is ready.

Telemachus immediately lights up.

"There!"

The grin that spreads across his face is bright enough to rival Apollo.

"You did it!"

You can't help smiling back.

"With significant assistance."

"Still counts."

"It does not."

"It absolutely does."

Before you can argue further, he throws an arm around your shoulders.

Pure instinct.

Pure excitement.

And then he freezes.

For the first time all afternoon.

Because now he notices.

The proximity.

Your expression.

The fact that you've been avoiding looking directly at him for the last twenty minutes.

The fact that maybe—

Just maybe—

"Oh."

You slowly turn your head.

Telemachus has gone completely red.

"OH."

There it is.

The realization. You watch it happen in real time. The memory of every correction.

Every touch.

Every moment spent standing behind you.

Every single instruction.

"Telemachus?"

His entire face is crimson now.

"I told you to breathe quieter."

You immediately start laughing.

His expression somehow becomes even more horrified.

"Oh gods."

"You did."

"Oh gods."

"You really did."

"I DID."

You laugh harder.

Telemachus drops his face into his hands.

"I thought you were having trouble with the bow."

That somehow makes it worse.

Because he's so sincere.

So genuinely embarrassed.

So painfully Telemachus.

Still laughing, you gently tug one of his wrists away from his face.

His eyes peek out.

"You know," you say, smiling, "for someone who's supposed to be teaching, you're not very observant."

Telemachus groans.

Then, after a moment, he smiles too.

"To be fair," he says quietly, "I was a little distracted."

"Oh?"

His gaze flicks to yours.

Soft.

Warm.

Fond.

"Yeah."

And suddenly you don't care about the bow anymore.

The Prince's Chamber

A/n: THIS ONE IS SOOOO😍😍😍 anyways let's all goon together☺️

Warnings!: smut, guys it's just normal sex also—Still continuing with Telemachus obsession with boobs.

~~~~🌀~~~~

The torches flickered against the stone walls of Prince Telemachus's chambers as he led you inside, his hand warm against yours. The door closed with a heavy thud, sealing you both in privacy.

"I've been wanting this moment since I first saw you at the feast," he admitted, his voice low and sincere. His light eyes searched yours, filled with desire but also a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

You reached up to cup his cheek, feeling the smooth skin. "I've wanted it too, Telemachus."

He leaned into your touch, pressing a soft kiss to your palm before closing the distance between you. His lips met yours in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, his tongue exploring your mouth with growing urgency.

His hands slid down your back to pull you closer, and you could feel his arousal pressing against you through the layers of clothing.

When you parted for air, his eyes were dark with need. "Can I undress you?" he asked, his voice nervous.

You nodded, your breath catching as his fingers worked at the laces of your dress. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as if unwrapping a precious gift. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you in only your thin linen undergarment.

Telemachus stepped back to admire you, his gaze appreciative but not objectifying. "You're more beautiful than I imagined," he said softly. "And I imagined a great deal."

He removed his own tunic, revealing a lean, muscular torso that spoke of his training with the sword. Your eyes traced the lines of his chest and abdomen, and you reached out to touch him, your fingers trailing through the dark hair that tapered down from his navel.

His breath hitched at your touch, and he captured your hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss before leading you to the large bed covered in soft furs. He lay you down gently, positioning himself beside you rather than immediately covering you with his body.

"I want to learn every inch of you," he murmured, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip. "To know what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you call out my name."

His words sent a thrill through you, and you arched toward him as his hand moved to cup your breast through the thin fabric. His thumb brushed against your nipple, and it hardened instantly under his touch.

"Telemachus," you whispered, and he smiled at the sound of his name on your lips.

He leaned down to capture your mouth again as his hand continued its exploration, sliding down your stomach to the hem of your undergarment. His fingers dipped beneath the fabric, finding you already wet and ready for him.

"So responsive," he murmured against your lips. "I've barely touched you."

His fingers circled your clit, and you bucked against his hand, needing more. He obliged, sliding one finger inside you, then another, his thumb still working that sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hands clutched at the furs beneath you as pleasure built within you.

"Please," you gasped, "I need you inside me."

"Not yet," he whispered, his voice gentle but firm. "I want to taste you first."

Before you could protest, he shifted position, settling between your thighs. He looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes dark with desire but also with affection. Then he lowered his head, and his tongue replaced his fingers.

The sensation was overwhelming—hot, wet, and impossibly intimate. His tongue explored every fold and crevice, finding all your most sensitive spots. When he focused on your clit, sucking gently, you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

"That's it," he murmured against you. "Let go for me."

His words, combined with his skilled mouth, sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, leaving you trembling and breathless.

Telemachus kissed his way back up your body, pausing to lavish attention on your breasts before reaching your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue as he kissed you deeply.

"Are you ready for me now?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.

You nodded, pulling him closer. "Please, Telemachus. I need you."

He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locked with yours as he slowly pushed inside. You gasped at the stretch, the feeling of fullness almost overwhelming. He paused, giving you time to adjust, his expression concerned.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

You nodded, pulling him down for a kiss. "More than alright. Don't stop."

He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing confidence as your hips rose to meet his. The rhythm between you grew more urgent, more desperate, as you both chased the pleasure building between you.

"Harder," you gasped, and he obliged, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and his harsh breathing.

His hand found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles as he continued to pound into you. The dual stimulation was almost too much, and you felt yourself spiraling toward another orgasm.

"Come with me," he gasped, his rhythm becoming erratic. "Please, come with me."

His words sent you over the edge, and you cried out his name as your inner muscles clenched around him. With a final thrust, he followed you, his body shuddering as he filled you with his release.

He collapsed against you, his weight a welcome pressure as you both struggled to catch your breath. After a moment, he rolled to the side, pulling you into his arms.

"Are you alright?" he asked again, his fingers stroking your hair.

You snuggled closer, pressing a kiss to his chest. "More than alright. That was…"

"Incredible," he finished for you. "For me too."

You lay in comfortable silence for a while, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. Then he tilted your chin up, his expression serious.

"This isn't just a one-time thing for me," he said softly. "I hope you know that."

You smiled, your heart swelling with emotion. "I was hoping it wasn't."

He kissed you then, a slow, tender kiss that spoke of promises to come. "Stay with me tonight," he murmured against your lips. "And every night after, if you'll have me."

"I will," you whispered, knowing that this was just the beginning of something wonderful.

Stay here

A/n: Oh gosh! This is literally months ago I'm so sorry 😭😭😭 I hope I made it up to you after this!

Warnings! Nothing!

~~~~🌀~~~~

The first thing Telemachus notices about you is that you don't smell alive.

Not dead, either.

Just... different.

Every creature in Ithaca has a scent. Wolves know this instinctively. Humans smell warm and sunlit. Salt from the sea clings to fishermen. Olive oil lingers on merchants. Woodsmoke follows shepherds.

You smell like moonlight on water.

Cool.

Ancient.

Impossible.

The scent catches his attention immediately.

Unfortunately, once something catches Telemachus' attention, it tends to stay there.

For a very long time.

The second thing he notices is your eyes.

Not because they're red—despite what stories claim, vampires don't walk around announcing themselves to the world.

No.

It's the age in them.

You look young.

You always will.

Yet sometimes he'll catch you staring at something ordinary—a tree, a building, the ocean—and there will be a brief moment where your expression changes.

Like you're remembering a version of it that's been gone for centuries.

Telemachus notices those moments.

He notices everything about you.

You meet properly when he trips over a tree root.

It's not a particularly heroic introduction.

One moment you're sitting beneath an oak tree reading. The next there's a loud yelp, a crash, and a blur of limbs tumbling down a small slope.

You lower your book.

A young werewolf stares back at you from where he's landed face-first in the grass.

His ears immediately flatten.

"Oh gods."

You blink.

He looks genuinely mortified.

"Oh gods, that was embarrassing."

His tail twitches miserably behind him.

For some reason, you laugh.

The sound surprises both of you.

His ears perk up instantly.

And just like that, everything changes.

Most people assume werewolves are intimidating.

Telemachus is proof that this is false.

The first few times you speak, he's shy. Polite. Careful with every word.

Then he gets comfortable.

That turns out to be a mistake.

Because once Telemachus feels safe around someone, he becomes incapable of shutting up.

-

One afternoon you make the mistake of asking how wolf packs function.

Three hours later, he is still talking.

"And technically, packs aren't actually organized the way most people think they are because—"

You glance up from your book.

"Telemachus."

He pauses.

"Yes?"

"You've been explaining this for an hour."

His ears droop.

"Oh."

A pause.

Then—

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

His entire face brightens.

And suddenly you're trapped for another hour.

The problem with vampires is that people fear them.

The problem with Telemachus is that he doesn't.

The first time he sees your fangs, you expect him to react badly.

You've spent centuries watching humans recoil.

Even supernatural creatures can be wary.

You don't bother hiding them around him anymore. It gets tiring.

One evening you're sitting together near the cliffs when you smile at something ridiculous he's said.

Your fangs catch the moonlight.

Telemachus pauses.

You brace yourself.

Instead, he tilts his head.

"Huh."

You stare.

"Huh?"

"They're kind of pretty."

You nearly choke. "What?"

"The fangs." He shrugs. "I think they're nice."

The words are delivered with complete sincerity.

No fear.

No suspicion.

No hesitation.

Just simple honesty.

You don't know what to do with that.

As the months pass, you find yourself spending more time together.

You tell yourself it's accidental.

It isn't.

Telemachus starts seeking you out whenever he can.

You start letting him.

Sometimes you'll sit together for hours without speaking.

Other times he'll talk enough for both of you.

You pretend his rambling annoys you.

It doesn't.

Not really.

You've lived a very long time.

Most conversations become predictable after a century or two.

Telemachus is one of the few people you've met who consistently surprises you.

His thoughts jump unpredictably from subject to subject.

His excitement is infectious.

His curiosity seems limitless.

Being around him feels like standing in sunlight.

One evening you're walking through the forest together when a branch snaps somewhere nearby.

Immediately, Telemachus steps in front of you.

The movement is so automatic he doesn't even seem aware of it.

His ears stand upright.

His posture changes.

Alert.

Protective.

Wolf.

The sound turns out to be nothing more threatening than a deer.

The tension leaves his body instantly.

You stare at him.

"What?"

"You stood in front of me."

"Well, yes."

"Why?"

He blinks.

Like the answer is obvious.

"Because something might've been dangerous."

You laugh softly.

"Telemachus."

His ears twitch.

"You do realize I'm a vampire."

"I know."

"I can throw a grown man across a room."

"I know."

"I've survived longer than your entire family line has existed."

"I know."

You narrow your eyes.

"Then why were you trying to protect me?"

Telemachus looks genuinely confused.

The answer comes naturally.

"Because I care about you."

The forest suddenly feels very quiet.

His ears slowly lower.

Because now he realizes what he said.

"Oh."

You stare at him.

He stares back.

"Oh no."

His tail wraps around his leg.

His ears flatten.

The panic begins.

You learn something important about werewolves shortly afterward.

Their tails are traitors.

Telemachus cannot hide a single emotion.

Not one.

When he's happy, the tail wags.

When he's embarrassed, it twitches.

When he's nervous, it curls around him.

When he's excited, it becomes a weapon of mass destruction.

The thing never stops moving.

Which brings you to your current problem.

The ears.

You shouldn't be thinking about the ears.

You certainly shouldn't be staring at them.

Yet here you are.

Staring.

Again.

They're soft-looking.

Incredibly soft-looking.

And unfortunately, your curiosity eventually wins.

"Can I touch them?"

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Telemachus freezes.

Completely.

His ears stand upright.

His tail stops moving.

For a full three seconds, the entire world seems to stop.

Then he makes a choking noise.

"My what?"

"Your ears."

You point.

Helpful.

Very helpful.

His face immediately turns red.

Which is unfair.

Because werewolves are not supposed to look cute when flustered.

And yet.

Several minutes later, after what appears to be the internal battle of a lifetime, Telemachus carefully sits beside you.

Close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

His ears remain upright.

Waiting.

You slowly reach out.

The fur is softer than expected.

Warm. Your fingers brush one ear. Telemachus immediately makes a sound. Not quite a whine. Not quite a sigh.

Something distinctly wolf-shaped.

You blink.

His face disappears into his hands.

"Oh gods."

You laugh.

The ear twitches beneath your fingers. The tail starts wagging.

You laugh harder, and suddenly Telemachus is laughing too.

Bright and warm and completely helpless. The sound echoes across the cliffs. For a moment, neither vampire nor werewolf matters.

Not the centuries behind you.

Not the instincts inside him.

Not the things that make you different.

Only this.

The moon overhead.

The ocean below.

His shoulder pressed lightly against yours.

Your hand buried in impossibly soft fur.

And the realization that after centuries of loneliness, you think you may have finally found someone who makes eternity feel a little less long.

And if Telemachus spends the rest of the evening pretending he isn't leaning into your touch every chance he gets, well.

My favorite so far has to be morden Telemachus x FEM reader and I am here to BEG you for part two pretty pretty please with a cherry on top!!!

*insert puppy dog eyes*

i’m looking forward to your little gift

Stay tuned...something very SPECIAL is arriving soon.

My favorite so far has to be morden Telemachus x FEM reader and I am here to BEG you for part two pretty pretty please with a cherry on top!!!

*insert puppy dog eyes*

(Insert th pride month meme)

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH TO ALLLLL

i love your fics chef!! please keep feeding us. 💋💋💋💋💋

YESSSS

thank you for the food parent

Of course of course. I'm gonna be active again❤️😊

What you don't need.

A/n: fuck I genuinely love these boys so much this breaks me in pieces.

Warnings!: hurt/no comfort

~~~~🌀~~~~

The thing nobody understood about Mike Wheeler was that loving him had never been the hard part.

Will had loved him for so long that sometimes it felt less like an emotion and more like a condition. Like breathing. Like gravity. Something woven so deeply into him that he couldn't remember what life had looked like before it existed.

The difficult part had always been surviving it.

Because Mike was easy to love.

Painfully easy.

He smiled at people like they mattered. He cared too much. He worried too much. He would drive across town at three in the morning if somebody needed him. He carried other people's pain around like it belonged to him.

And for years, Will had watched him do all of those things while quietly, desperately wishing Mike would look at him the way Will looked at him.

The tragedy was that Mike did look at him.

Just differently.

By the spring after everything ended, Hawkins had developed a strange sort of normalcy.

The scars remained.

You could see them everywhere.

In the roads that still hadn't been fully repaired.

In the empty houses.

In the way conversations occasionally died when somebody accidentally mentioned a name that wasn't around anymore.

The town was healing.

Slowly.

Unevenly.

Like a wound that still hurt when rain was coming.

Most days Will thought he was healing too.

Then Mike would show up at his front door.

And suddenly he was sixteen again.

Then fourteen.

Then twelve.

Then kindergarten.

Every version of himself that had ever loved Mike Wheeler collapsing into one person all at once.

Mike had a habit of making himself at home.

He'd kick off his shoes by the door without asking, steal food directly from Joyce's kitchen, throw himself across Will's bed like he owned it.

The first few times it happened after everything with Vecna, Will thought his heart might actually stop.

Because for months he'd convinced himself things were different now.

That he was different.

That maybe he'd finally gotten over it.

Then Mike would sprawl across his mattress and start talking about absolutely nothing.

A movie he'd watched.

Something Dustin said.

A weird dream he'd had.

And Will would find himself watching the movement of his hands while he talked.

Watching the way sunlight caught in his hair.

Watching the familiar curve of his smile.

And every ounce of progress he'd made would crumble into dust.

Hope was a terrible thing.

People always talked about hope like it was beautiful.

Like it saved people.

Like it was noble.

Will thought hope was cruel.

Hope was what convinced you to stay.

Hope was what made you keep waiting.

Hope was what whispered maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year.

Hope was sitting on a couch beside Mike while his knee bumped yours and pretending that it didn't mean everything.

Hope was convincing yourself that if somebody loved you enough, eventually they would love you correctly.

The worst moments were always the small ones.

Not the dramatic ones.

Not the moments that looked heartbreaking from the outside.

The truly devastating moments were the ones nobody else would understand.

Mike falling asleep halfway through a movie and unconsciously leaning against him.

Mike reaching for his wrist to stop him from walking away too quickly during an argument.

Mike looking for him first in crowded rooms.

Mike remembering things.

Little things.

Favorite snacks.

Favorite colors.

The names of childhood drawings Will had forgotten years ago.

Every time Mike remembered something insignificant, something tiny and deeply personal, Will felt another piece of himself break.

Because that was the problem.

Mike loved him.

God.

Mike loved him so much.

Just never in the way Will needed.

-

The realization finally came one evening at Hopper's cabin.

Everybody else had left hours ago.

The sun had disappeared behind the trees, leaving the windows dark mirrors reflecting the room back at itself.

A fire burned quietly in the stone fireplace.The air smelled faintly of smoke and pine.

Mike sat on the floor with his back against the couch while Will occupied one corner, sketchbook forgotten in his lap.Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

At least it wouldn't have been for anybody else.

Will had spent years becoming fluent in Mike's silences.

He knew which ones meant anger.

Which ones meant exhaustion. Which ones meant Mike was thinking too hard about something.

This silence belonged to the last category.

When Mike finally spoke, his voice sounded oddly distant.

"I think everybody's moving on."

Will glanced up.

Mike was staring into the fire.

The flames painted shifting gold across his face.

"I mean," Mike continued, rubbing his hands together, "look at everybody."

A small laugh escaped him.

"Lucas is planning college."

"Max is finally starting to smile again."

"Dustin practically lives in a science lab."

His smile faded slightly.

"And I feel like I'm standing still."

Something twisted painfully in Will's chest.

Because he understood that feeling.

God, he understood it. He'd spent years standing still. Standing in the same place, looking at the same person, waiting for something that wasn't coming.

Mike finally looked at him.

And there it was.

That familiar expression.

Open.

Trusting.

The expression Mike only ever wore around the people he loved most.The expression that had ruined Will's life.

"What?" Mike asked softly.

Will realized he'd been staring.

Again.

His chest felt tight... Too tight.

Like there wasn't enough air in the room.

Like there hadn't been enough air in years.

"What are we doing?"

The question escaped before he could stop it.

Mike blinked.

The confusion arrived first.

Then concern.

Then something else.

Something that looked dangerously close to understanding.

The room became impossibly quiet. Will could hear the fire crackling.

Could hear the old cabin settling around them.

Could hear his own heartbeat hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt.

"What do you mean?"

Mike's voice was careful now.

Fragile.

Like he was approaching a wounded animal.

Will laughed. A small sound, a sound that was broken around the edges.

The kind of laugh that happens when crying is only a few seconds away.

Because how was he supposed to explain it?

How was he supposed to explain years?

How was he supposed to explain every look, every touch, every hopeful little moment he'd collected and hidden away like treasures?

How was he supposed to explain that he'd spent so long loving Mike Wheeler that he couldn't imagine where the feeling ended and he began?

His eyes burned.

He looked away before Mike could see it.

"We keep acting like this isn't something."

The words felt raw leaving him.

Like pulling glass from a wound.

"We keep acting like we're just..." His throat tightened. He couldn't finish the sentence. It felt like the all of his feelings from the past weeks couldn't stop showing and tumbling out of his mouth.

Across the room, Mike had gone completely still.

And suddenly Will knew.

Before Mike spoke.

Before he looked up.

Before a single word left his mouth.

Will knew.

Because he'd imagined this moment a thousand times.

A thousand different endings.

A thousand different versions of Mike finally understanding.

Finally choosing him.

Finally saying the thing Will had spent years wanting to hear. The real thing was so much quieter.

When Mike spoke, his voice cracked immediately. "Will..."

And somehow that hurt more than if he'd sounded certain.

Because Mike looked devastated.

Like somebody had handed him a weapon and asked him to use it.

"I love you."

The words came out quickly.

Desperately.

As though Mike needed Will to understand them before anything else.

"I do."

Will closed his eyes because that was never the problem.

That had never been the problem.

Mike loved him. Of course he did.

That was what made it unbearable.

That was what made it impossible to walk away.

That was what made every small kindness feel like a knife.

When Will finally looked back at him, Mike was crying.

Not much.

Just enough.

Enough to make his voice shake.

Enough to make his eyes shine in the firelight.

And for the first time, Will realized Mike's heart was breaking too. Not in the same way, never in the same way.

But breaking nonetheless.

Sometimes there isn't a villain.

Sometimes nobody betrays anybody.

Sometimes nobody chooses wrong.

Sometimes two people love each other with everything they have and still end up standing on opposite sides of an impossible distance.