First off I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH ❤️❤️❤️ Second here me out on basically really clingy, like REALLY clingy, soft and sweet Telemachus (so basically biblically accurate Epic Telemachus lol), and Antinous’s little sister reader, but she is like the polar opposite of Antinous. She’s just like a total sweetheart, patching up the suitors (though Telemachus disagrees they’re worth her help and affection), walking the gardens with Argos, etc. type person. And she just happily obliges Telemachus’s clingy and darling tendencies in every way shape and form. Smut?? Fluff?? Up to you, THANK YOU FOR READING (if you don’t want to, don’t like it, etc. ITS TOTALLY FINE) LOVE YOU BABES💙💙
A/n: TELEMACHUS IS THE CUTEST PERSON EVA
Warnings!: Too much fluff...
Everyone in Ithaca knows who your brother is.
They know Antinous as loud laughter and sharp teeth, as wine spilled too freely and cruelty disguised as humor. They know his temper, his entitlement, the way he loomed over the palace like a storm that never quite broke.
You move through the palace like a quiet apology the world never asked for.
You kneel beside injured suitors with clean cloths and steady hands, even when they don’t deserve it. You hum softly while you work, voice low and soothing, as if kindness itself might stitch flesh back together. You bring water to servants before they think to ask. You walk the gardens with Argos every evening, slow and patient, letting the old dog stop whenever he needs to rest.
Telemachus notices you long before he speaks to you.
He notices the way the air seems gentler around you.
The way people lower their voices when you pass.
The way even Argos—who barely lifts his head for anyone anymore—wags his tail when you approach.
Because you are Antinous’s sister.
And nothing like him at all.
The first time you speak to Telemachus, it’s because he’s bleeding.
It isn’t dramatic—just a shallow cut along his forearm, earned while helping clear debris from the palace after the suitors’ fall. He barely notices it until you’re already in front of him, eyes wide with concern.
“Oh—hold still,” you say softly.
Just fingers, just light pressure as you guide his arm up, but it might as well be lightning. Telemachus goes rigid, breath caught halfway in his chest.
“You’re hurt,” you murmur, already reaching for a clean cloth. “It’s not bad, but it should be cleaned.”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you reply, gentle but firm.
You clean the cut carefully, brow furrowed in concentration. You smell like crushed herbs and clean linen. Your hands are warm. Steady.
Telemachus watches you like you might vanish if he looks away.
“There,” you say at last, tying the bandage with a neat little knot. “All done.”
It feels like being forgiven for something he never confessed.
“T-thank you,” he manages.
You tilt your head. “You’re Odysseus’s son, aren’t you?”
He nods, suddenly shy. “Yes.”
“I’m glad you’re alright,” you say, like that fact matters deeply to you.
Telemachus does not move for a full minute afterward.
After that, he starts hovering.
Not on purpose. He just… ends up near you.
In the gardens.
By the fountains.
In the corridors where the light turns gold in the afternoon.
He doesn’t always speak. Sometimes he just stands close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm. Sometimes he sits beside you while you tend plants, knees drawn up, listening to you talk to Argos like he understands every word.
You never tell him to leave.
That alone feels like a miracle.
“You don’t have to help them,” Telemachus mutters one day, watching you wrap a suitor’s bruised wrist. His tone is tight, protective in a way he doesn’t know how to soften. “They’d never do the same for you.”
You glance up at him, surprised—not offended, just thoughtful.
“Maybe not,” you say. “But I can.”
You smile, small and sincere. “Because someone should.”
Something in his chest aches.
After that, he starts sticking closer.
Your shoulder becomes his favorite place to lean.
Your sleeve becomes something he grips without thinking.
When voices rise nearby, he drifts closer, like a child finding shelter.
When Antinous laughs too loudly, Telemachus tenses. You reach for his hand under the table—just a gentle squeeze. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” you whisper.
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
You don’t argue. You just stay.
The clinginess sneaks up on both of you.
One day he’s just sitting beside you.
The next, he’s following you everywhere.
“Telemachus?” you say softly one afternoon, amused rather than annoyed. “You know you don’t have to escort me to the gardens every time.”
He flushes. “I—sorry. I can leave.”
“No,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Hope flickers across his face, fragile and bright.
He sits close, knees brushing yours. When Argos curls at your feet, Telemachus reaches down absently to stroke the dog’s fur, comforted by the steady rhythm of it—and by you, right there, warm and real.
Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he just listens.
Sometimes he rests his head against your shoulder and goes very, very quiet.
“You’re awfully close to the prince these days,” your brother remarks one evening, eyes sharp.
Telemachus stiffens immediately.
“He’s kind,” you reply simply. “And he’s been through enough.”
Antinous scoffs. “Careful. People might talk.”
You smile at him, calm and unafraid. “Let them.”
Telemachus looks at you like you’ve just slain a monster barehanded.
Later that night, when the palace is quiet, he finds you in the gardens.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “If my being around you causes trouble—”
You step closer, interrupting him gently. “Does it?”
He shakes his head, helpless. “No. I just—don’t want you to get hurt. Because of me.”
You reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve.
“I choose this,” you say. “I choose you.”
“Can I—” he hesitates, cheeks pink. “Can I stay with you a little longer?”
You smile, warm as sunlight through leaves. “As long as you like.”
And for the first time since the world broke and mended itself again, Telemachus feels safe enough to rest his heart somewhere soft.
It doesn’t start with a confession.
It starts with Telemachus falling asleep on you.
You’re sitting beneath the old olive tree near the edge of the gardens, the one whose branches bend low enough to catch the moonlight like silver thread. Argos is sprawled at your feet, breathing slow and content, while you absently comb your fingers through Telemachus’s hair.
He had leaned against you at first—just his shoulder, tentative, asking permission without words.
Then his head tipped forward.
Until his forehead rested against your collarbone and his breath evened out like he hadn’t slept properly in years.
Then very carefully, you wrap an arm around him.
He makes a small sound—barely audible—but he shifts closer, tucking himself against you like he belongs there.
And something in your chest clicks into place.
After that, it’s as if a door opens inside him.
A door he didn’t know existed.
A door labeled I am allowed to want this.
The next morning, he finds you in the gardens before you find him.
You turn, surprised, and there he is—hair still a little messy, cloak thrown on hastily, eyes bright in that soft, earnest way that makes your heart ache.
“You’re here early,” you say.
“I woke up,” he replies, then flushes. “And you weren’t.”
He beams like he’s been rewarded for good behavior.
From then on, he’s everywhere.
Not looming. Not possessive in a sharp way.
You sit? He sits beside you.
You stand? He stands too.
You walk? He follows, one step behind or right at your side, sleeve always just within reach.
He holds your hand like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
In public, it’s careful—fingers hooked together, thumb brushing your knuckles, a constant, grounding pressure.
“You don’t have to come with me,” you tell him one afternoon, amused as he trails you into the storage corridor. “I’m just grabbing fresh linens.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I want to.”
“I don’t hate folding,” he lies badly.
You laugh, and he looks so pleased by the sound that he nearly trips over a basket.
Inside, as you sort linens, he sits far too close, knees brushing yours, watching you with quiet reverence.
“You’re staring,” you tease gently.
“You don’t have to apologize for looking at me.”
He shakes his head quickly. “No. I just—I like seeing you. It makes my chest feel… less tight.”
You reach out and cup his cheek without thinking.
He melts into your hand immediately.
Like he’s been waiting for permission his whole life.
When you finally say the words, it’s simple.
No dramatics. No declarations in the moonlight.
You’re walking the gardens again, Argos trotting ahead, when Telemachus suddenly stops.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks quietly.
“That I—” He swallows. “That I’m like this. Always near you.”
You turn to face him fully.
“I’d be upset if you weren’t,” you admit.
He stares at you, breath caught.
“So,” you continue, heart pounding, “if you want to—if you’d like—maybe we could call this what it is.”
“You mean,” he says slowly, “we’re—”
He lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and pulls you into his arms before you can blink.
Not tight.
Not rough.
Just desperate.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair, voice shaking, “I’ll be good. I’ll take care of you. I won’t ever—”
You hush him, arms wrapping around his waist.
“You already are,” you whisper.
He holds your hand everywhere.
He sits pressed against your side at meals.
He walks you to your door every night and lingers like leaving physically pains him.
When you sit, he leans into you.
When you stand, he adjusts to stay close.
When you’re upset, he folds around you like a shield made of warmth and sincerity.
“Telemachus,” you laugh one evening as he curls up beside you on a bench, head on your shoulder, arms wrapped firmly around your middle. “You’re going to fuse with me at this rate.”
He hums contentedly. “That’s the goal.”
You snort. “You’re joking.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, completely serious.
You kiss his temple before he can overthink it.
He goes red and clings harder.
Antinous reacts exactly how you expect.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he snaps one night. “Hanging off him like that.”
Telemachus stiffens—but before he can shrink, you squeeze his hand reassuringly.
“He’s kind to me,” you say calmly. “That’s all that matters.”
Antinous scoffs. “He’s weak.”
You step forward, eyes cool. “If gentleness is weakness, then I’m proud of him.”
Telemachus looks at you like you’ve just given him a crown.
Later, alone, he presses his forehead to yours.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For choosing me,” he says. “Every time.”
You smile. “There was never a question.”
He exhales shakily and hugs you again, long and tight, like he’s storing the feeling away for later.
You sit together beneath the stars, his cloak wrapped around both of you even when it’s not cold.
He traces idle patterns on your sleeve.
Plays with your fingers.
Rests his chin on your shoulder and sighs like he’s finally home.
“Promise me something?” he asks softly.
“If I ever start pulling away—” His voice wavers. “Please remind me I’m allowed to stay.”
You turn, pressing your forehead to his.
“I promise,” you say. “And you remind me that kindness is strength.”
He smiles—small, radiant, utterly devoted—and kisses your knuckles like it’s sacred.
Telemachus, Prince of Ithaca.
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