Maybe him not recognizing the reader in his stupor and insisting that he's taken and not letting the reader near him even though they're the lover...

Thank you!

Too much wine? Or too much you?

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Word count: 1.2k

Summary: After finding the Prince of Ithaca drunkenly draped across a courtyard bench, wine-soaked and tragic like a hero from the wrong part of an epic. He doesn’t recognize you—his very real, very tired lover and goes on about describing you to yourself. But with just a kiss, you prove him wrong with that, and slowly, tenderly, the truth settles in.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Telemachus

A/N: hii! :) been a while ehe, yes, i'm still alive, yes i'm still writing! school started for me a week or two ago, and i honestly have been locking ?? IDK EITHER OKAY. ANYWAY TRUST I'LL HAVE MY OTHER FICS READY EHEHE

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You find him draped dramatically across a stone bench in the palace courtyard, one arm flung over his face like some tragic hero of epic poetry. The moonlight washes him in silver, turning his tousled curls pale and angelic despite the absolute disaster he currently is. One sandal lies discarded on the path several feet away, the other dangles precariously from his toes, and his robe is haphazardly bunched around his hips like he’d tried to wrestle it off and then gave up halfway.

The scent of spiced wine clings to him like a second tunic, that sweet, heady, and unmistakable. It rises off his skin in waves, mingling with salt and sun-warmed linen, the sour tang of a long night tangled in revelry. He smells like fermented pomegranates and poor decisions—like the kind of mistakes made under moonlight with a crown askew and music still echoing in the blood.

You find him draped inelegantly across a marble bench in the palace courtyard, one sandal missing, the other stubbornly clinging to his toes like it, too, has had too much. A toppled goblet lies nearby, glittering darkly in the moonlight. You step over it gingerly, skirts brushing the stone.

“‘Machus,” you murmur, voice pitched low with fond exasperation. “Gods, how much did you drink?”

At the sound of your voice, he jolts upright with all the grace of a startled cat. If the cat were drunk, disoriented, and draped in linen. Or at least, he tries to. His body surges upward in a heroic attempt at dignity, but his head forgets to follow, lolling behind like it’s tethered to another reality. The motion throws him off-balance, and for a breathless moment, he teeters on the edge of the bench like a ship about to capsize.

“Stay.. back!” he declares, slurring the words like they’re part of some sacred incantation. His arm swings out wildly, hand flailing in your general direction as if he’s trying to cast a protective spell—or maybe just swat away his own embarrassment. “I-I have a lover,” he says with drunken dignity, chin lifting despite the wobble in his neck. “A very serious one... Beautiful. Brilliant. Smells like honey and olives. You’d like them. Everyone does.”

You blink, deadpan. “You do have a lover,” you say, stepping closer, voice gentle but edged with disbelief. “It’s me.” Your words hang in the air between you, suspended like the silence before a storm. He stares, uncomprehending, as if you’ve just introduced yourself as a minor deity he’s forgotten to worship.

He peers at you through narrowed, suspicious eyes, tilting his head like he’s studying a particularly convincing mirage. There’s a long, squinting pause where you can see him trying to match your face to the memory of someone he swears is taller, glowier, somehow more mythical. Clearly, he thinks you might be some particularly clever imposter sent to tempt him off the path of righteousness.

“No,” he says finally, with the firm conviction of a man who is very wrong. He shakes his head—slowly, deliberately, like it might rattle the truth loose. “No, no. They’re… mmm. Taller.. Than you.”

You sigh. Long-suffering. Measured. The kind of sigh born from love, frustration, and the urge to throw a sandal at his head.

“They have a.. a presence!” he insists, swaying as he gestures grandly, nearly smacking himself in the face with the back of his own hand. “Like light through a tapestry. And they kiss me on the nose. You haven’t kissed me on the nose.. So you're NO—”

You step in, slow and deliberate, the silk of your robes whispering against the stone. Cutting off to whatever he was rambling about. He doesn’t move—just watches you with wide, glassy eyes, like he’s unsure whether to flinch or fall into you. You lean down, close enough to see the faint flush high on his cheeks, the way his lashes stick together from sleep or sweat or too much wine. The scent of him wraps around you—spiced wine and warm skin, smoke from torches long gone out, the salt-sweetness of a day spent in the sun. And then, with the gentlest touch, you press a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“There,” you murmur, barely above a breath.

He stares at you, going very still. Blinks once. Then twice. “…You’ve done your research,” he says cautiously, voice grave with wine-soaked doubt. “But I’m not convinced.”

You bite back a laugh and crouch beside him, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Telemachus. It’s me. Your very serious, beautiful, smart partner who smells like honey and olives and has to deal with your entire drunk ass right now.” He scowls like you’ve asked him to solve a riddle in Linear B. His brows knit together, lips twitching as if deep in thought—except his eyes are glassy and unfocused, and he’s clearly doing mental math with two brain cells and half a grape.

“If you’re really them,” he says, swaying dramatically in your direction, “then tell me what I said last night. In bed. Before sleep.”

You cross your arms. Sighing almost in defeat. “You said— and I quote, ‘If you ever leave me, I’ll throw myself into the sea and let the fish raise me. They’ll teach me how to swim with my feelings.’”

He gasps. Dramatically loud. “That is what I said..!”

And then, without grace, warning, or any coordination whatsoever—he launches forward like a wave breaking from nowhere. His arms wrap around you in a heavy, clumsy hug that nearly takes your feet out from under you. You stagger, just barely catching your balance as his full weight slumps into you, warm and breathless and entirely unrepentant.

His cheek smushes against your shoulder, the curve of his nose pressing into your collar. You feel the heat of him—sun-warmed skin, wine-flushed and slightly sweaty—like a fevered anchor pulling you into the moment. His breath ghosts along your neck, uneven and sighing, tinged with wine and something softer, something like relief.

“You smell right,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “S’not a trick.. You’re warm. And you smell right.”

His grip tightens slightly and lets out a satisfied hum, the kind a cat might make curling up in a sunbeam. “Your prince,” he mumbles, nuzzling into you as you half-carry, half-drag him toward the palace.

By the time you wrestle him through the threshold of his chambers, he’s halfway asleep, snoring softly, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. You ease him onto the bed, managing to undo the knot of his tunic without waking him.

He mumbles something into your shoulder—garbled and thick with sleep and wine. You catch the words fish and love and possibly moonlight in the same breath, though it’s entirely unclear how they’re meant to connect. Whatever point he was trying to make is lost to the ether. And then, as suddenly as he clung to you, he lets go—slumping sideways with all the grace of a felled tree. He flops onto the bench like it’s a mattress built for kings, one arm dangling off the side, tunic rucked up around his ribs. His cheek presses to the cool stone as he exhales a deep, satisfied sigh.

You lean in again, slower this time, watching his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks, his lips parted in that faint, dreamy way he gets when he’s somewhere between sleep and sweetness. And then—gently, reverently—you press another kiss to the tip of his nose. Soft and lingering. Like sealing a promise. Like reminding him who he belongs to without needing to say a word.

“My love..?” he whispers, while you brush a hand through his curls. You hum in response.

“I love you.”

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eeerrr this is also to make up for my angst LASOUHJDUISA)

NSFW TELEMACHUS HEADCANONS

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freakycanons first because i've been locking in so much these past few days and i needed a break,, ALSOO, DON'T BE SCARED TO REQUEST <3 i don't bite, unless you want me to jk, i'm loyal to my wifey

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶ - Telemachus, at first, has not even a drop of experience. He only learned, or in this case, overheard from women in the palace. From the courtesans and attendants who whispered behind their hands and giggled over what men never understood. - He pays attention to everything. If you gasp when his thumb circles a certain way, he never forgets. If your thighs tense when he goes slower with his tongue, he lingers. He gets drunk on your pleasure, murmuring, “There, again? You want it like this?” - Oral fixation, especially giving. Bro will spend the entire night between your thighs if you let him. - Holding your hips down while his mouth works in slow, reverent circles. Moans your name into your skin like a prayer between licks. - BEGS SHAMELESSY !! If you so much as tease him, kiss down his chest then stop, trail your fingers along his waistband but walk away, he falls apart. "Please. N-No.. don’t teasee.. I—gods, I’ll do anything. Just—touch me. Let me feel you. Please." - He’s possessive in private, he’ll mark your skin with kisses, bites—soft ones on your neck, sharper ones on your inner thighs. He doesn’t show it to others, but when you’re alone? Ohoho, better find a way to make foundation and concealer in ancient greece. - When he loses control, it's rare. Usually careful, gentle. But push him, tug his curls, scratch his back, moan like you’ll die without him—and he snaps. Voice rough. Grip possessive. He’ll bend you over the nearest surface, breath ragged, teeth scraping skin: “Is this what you wanted? Gods—you drive me mad—” - If he’s been holding back, maybe after a long absence or built-up tension… He gets needy. Rough at first, but it unravels fast. He’ll pant against your shoulder, murmuring your name over and over like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He doesn’t just want to fuck he wants to feel you everywhere. Let him fall apart under your touch. - He loves it when you ride him, like seeing you in control? Above him, flushed, moaning his name?? He stares up like you’re the goddess of desire. Hands on your thighs, mouth parted, eyes dazed. And lets you take everything from him. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect, look at you—" - Very much handsy. Hands on your thighs, wrists, neck, arms, chest, honestly? just any way possible he can get his hands on you. - Morning sex enthusiast. Sleepy and warm, hair tousled, voice raspy. He pulls you closer under the furs and just grinds. It’s slow, sensual, full of low groans and lazy kisses. He doesn’t rush, he wants to wake you with the feel of him, not just the act.

- Aftercare King, and I said so. He’s suddenly all gentle hands and forehead kisses, wrapping you in linen sheets, cradling your face like you’re porcelain. He brushes your hair away, whispering praise and gratitude.

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i'll probably have another fic within 3 days, maybe if i'm free and not asleep lol

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Word count: 1.5k

Summary: A princess betrothed for duty travels to Ithaca to marry Prince Telemachus. Maybe what begins as a political alliance.. can turn into something more.

Pairing: Royal!Reader x Telemachus

Warnings: none!:3

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You had always been told you’d marry for your kingdom, not for love.

Born a princess of a quiet but prosperous isle just east of Pylos, you knew the weight of crowns before you could even carry one. Your earliest memories were of polished throne rooms, the rustle of silk over marble, and the endless litany of courtly instruction whispered like lullabies. By the time you were ten, you could name the ruling houses of every isle in the Ionian Sea—and list the alliances each one might bring.

Still, when your father summoned you one pale morning with a letter sealed in dark blue wax—heavier than it should’ve been, bearing the curling insignia of a bow and waves—you hadn’t expected your life to shift so quickly.

“Prince Telemachus,” your father said, voice measured as he placed the scroll into your hands. “Son of Odysseus. He needs allies. And you… you need a husband.”

You held the letter tightly, the wax seal cold and ancient against your palm. The room seemed too still. Outside, gulls cried over the sea, unaware that your fate had just bent in an entirely new direction.

Ithaca was smaller than you’d imagined.

Your homeland was carved of white marble and song, its palaces echoing with the lilting voices of poets and musicians, fragrant with myrrh and blooming jasmine. But Ithaca… Ithaca was stone and storm, carved from wind and wave, raw and green and alive. Cliffs rose steeply from dark waters, battered by salt and spray, and forests clung to the hillsides like secrets. It wasn’t unwelcoming. Just—honest. A kingdom still bruised, still healing from ten long years of absence and war.

They greeted you with banners stitched in sea-blue and silver thread. Courtiers bowed, hands over hearts. Children threw petals beneath your sandals. But Telemachus was not among those waiting on the windblown dock.

You met him the next morning.

You had wandered into the olive grove behind the palace—drawn by the quiet rustling of leaves and the scent of earth after rain. The trees there were old, their roots knotted and wide, their bark silver-gray and smooth as driftwood. You stepped carefully over roots and fallen fruit until you saw him.

He was pacing.

Tall, broader than you'd expected, his shoulders tense beneath a loose cream tunic, the sleeves pushed up haphazardly as if he’d tried to roll away the formality. His hair was sunlit brown, tousled from wind and sleeplessness, and his skin was kissed gold from days spent outdoors. He moved like someone used to action, but unfamiliar with peace.

You stepped into the grove fully, the hem of your gown whispering through the grass.

“You look like you’d rather face a cyclops than meet me,” you said, voice soft but amused.

He stopped mid-step. Turned sharply.

“That obvious?”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Just a little.”

His expression shifted—surprise giving way to reluctant humor. A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “I didn’t expect you to be… not terrifying.”

You raised a brow. “You thought I’d arrive in a chariot of fire?”

“Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Silence unfurled between you like an uncertain thread.

Then, he spoke again—more gently this time. “I didn’t ask for this.”

You met his gaze. Brown, not gray like the legends. Sharp, but not unkind.

“Neither did I,” you said.

And somehow, in that moment beneath the olive trees, it was enough.

The weeks that followed were meant for ceremony. Feasts, formal visits, council meetings, long hours in stiff chairs beside a prince you barely knew. But instead, you found yourselves in unexpected places.

He showed you the cliffs where he used to keep watch for his father’s ship, night after night, long after the candles in the palace had gone out. You told him about the caves beneath your island—how your mother had hidden the crown jewels there during the Siege of Oras, and how you’d once fallen asleep beside them with a storybook in your lap.

You caught glimpses of him in quiet moments—when he thought no one was looking. Reading in the old library with his feet propped carelessly on the table, sleeves rolled up, a strand of hair falling into his eyes. You leaned against the doorframe, watching.

“You’re reading poetry?” you teased, arms folded. “I expected war strategy. Or political treatises.”

He glanced up, not startled, just amused. “Or perhaps something on how to survive an arranged marriage?”

You laughed. “Yes, that.”

He held up the book, its corners softened by years of use. “Sappho. Don’t tell the suitors... They’ll call me soft.”

“Let them,” you said, walking in. “I think it suits you.”

The garden became your shared sanctuary. A wild, half-forgotten place where the roses grew too freely and vines wound around the old marble columns like lovers unwilling to let go.

Some days you sat in silence, sharing olives and shade. Other days, you argued spiritedly—about philosophy, about law, about whether olives or figs deserved the title of the finest fruit in the isles.

“Figs are clearly better,” you insisted, lying back on a patch of sun-drenched grass.

He plucked an olive from the bowl between you and popped it in his mouth with exaggerated defiance. “This is the royal hill I will die on.”

You tossed a fig at his chest. He let it bounce off with a theatrical groan.

He pretended not to watch you stretch your arms above your head, not to notice the way the sunlight turned your hair to fire. You pretended not to feel your pulse shift every time his gaze lingered.

The change came softly, like a tide turning.

One morning, your fingers brushed when you reached for the same piece of bread. Neither of you pulled away. One night, as dusk poured lavender across the sea, you leaned your head against his shoulder. He didn’t move—just let out a slow breath, as if something inside him had settled.

He told you of the moment he realized his father might never return: the silence that had followed, the weight of a crown too large for a boy’s head. You told him of dreams you’d never dared speak aloud—of being seen, not just betrothed; of being chosen, not offered.

You started smiling before he even spoke. He started speaking just to make you smile.

And you began to believe—truly, quietly—that maybe you were meant to meet like this.

The eve of your wedding fell quiet and golden.

The palace hummed with preparations. Candles flickered in every window. Musicians rehearsed in corners. Servants whispered behind tapestries. And yet, you slipped away, feet bare beneath your gown, petals clinging to your skirt like memory.

He found you in the olive grove—just as he had the first time.

You sat beneath the same tree, knees drawn to your chest, hair loosened from its pins. He paused before approaching, drinking in the sight of you bathed in moonlight and memory.

“You’re not nervous?” he asked, voice low.

You looked up, the breeze lifting the edge of your sleeve. “Not anymore.”

He sank down beside you, the fabric of his cloak brushing yours. For a moment, you both just sat there—listening to the wind through the leaves, the distant crash of waves.

“I thought I’d hate this,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought I’d resent you,” you replied, leaning your shoulder gently against his.

He turned his hand over, slowly, in the grass between you. You took it.

“Now?” he asked.

You met his eyes, soft and open. “Now I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else.”

His breath caught. He looked down at your joined hands, as though they were some fragile gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “But I want to learn—with you.”

You smiled, small and radiant. “You’re not your father, Telemachus. And you don’t have to be. You’re enough.”

He leaned in. Cautiously. Tenderly.

You didn’t move away.

The kiss was gentle, tasting of salt and new beginnings. It was not a blaze, but a warmth—quiet and real. A promise planted in soil deep enough to grow. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, “I get to call you mine.”

You touched his cheek. “And I get to call you home.”

The wedding was golden. The people cheered until their voices gave out. The sea gleamed like hammered bronze beneath the sun. Garlands hung from every archway. Dancers twirled on the hilltops. Laughter and lyres filled the air until moonrise.

But your favorite moment came hours later.

In your shared room, before the fire. The world outside had gone quiet, wrapped in celebration’s hush. You stood barefoot, your gown falling around you in soft waves, your crown resting on a nearby table. Telemachus reached for your hand. Twined your fingers with his.

“I like you best when it’s just us,” you whispered.

He drew you close, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed. “Then we’ll always find time for just us.”

That night, he dreamed not of his father, nor of warships or duties unmet—but of gardens, and fig-olive arguments, and your laughter carried by the wind through olive trees.

He dreamed of you. And for the first time, the future felt not like a duty… but a home.

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IM WORKING ON FICS TRUST ! finally finished with anon's 3 requests hehehe!

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yipee, first post !! let's see how this one goes ~

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- Stammers around you a lot. He’s usually well-spoken, but the moment you walk in, he forgets half his vocabulary.

“I— uh— hi. I mean hello! I mean—sunlight looks good on you today. WAIT.”

- Practices conversations with you in his head or with Athena (if she ever decides to help) before actually talking to you. Still messes them up.

- Starts using big poetic metaphors to describe you..

“like a lighthouse in a storm”

—and then internally cringes because he thinks he sounds dumb.

- Always pulls out a chair for you or offers to carry things EVEN if it's just a piece of paper—

“I can take that, no problem!”

- Gets super defensive if anyone tries to talk bad about you, especially when it's from the suitors. Even if he’s shy, he’ll stand up for you without hesitation.

- If you’re sad, he doesn’t always know what to say, but he’ll sit with you quietly until you’re ready to talk.

- Sneaks glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking—and gets caught every time. But sometimes, you pretend that you don't see it.

- Whenever he blushes, his ears turn red. Not even his whole face, just the tips of his ears.

- Starts showing off when you’re nearby. Lifting something heavy? Sword training? Suddenly he’s way more into it when you’re watching.

“Man, Athena, this is too easy!”

But inside, he felt like his arms were about to fall off.

- Brags about your skills and talents to others, and talks about you so so much to his mom—“Did you see what they did today? That was incredible!”

- If someone mentions you even casually, he perks up like a golden retriever hearing a treat bag rustle. He'd literally cross seas for you without thinking twice—just like his dad, but 100x softer.

- He has a secret stash of unsent letters or poems he’s written for you. Which range from thoughtful to “I like your hair today” and “you laughed at my joke. highlight of my year.”

- One day he accidentally leaves one somewhere you’ll find it… and you’ll definitely notice the tiny heart he doodled in the corner.

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telemachus is adorable. I LOVE HIMM RAHH !! telemachus art by gigi 💗

Betrothal

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Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Bound by duty to a political marriage, Telemachus braces himself for a life with a spoiled, arrogant stranger. But when his betrothed arrives, every rumor unravels. Kindness where he expected cruelty, warmth where he expected disdain—each quiet act of care cracks the armor around his heart. What began as obligation slowly becomes something else: a bond that might hold not just peace for Ithaca, but hope for Telemachus himself.

Pairing: GN!Royalty!Reader x Telemachus

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while,, SOO here you go telemachus fans !!

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Telemachus had NOT asked for this.

The herald’s voice still rang in his ears, clear and sharp as the clang of bronze: “A union between Ithaca and Cephalonia, sealed through marriage.” The words had spilled into the hall with the weight of prophecy, undeniable, inescapable. Telemachus had sat tall upon his father’s seat, shoulders squared, jaw set, as though the news were no heavier than another day’s petition. He nodded once, deliberate and measured, but inside his chest his stomach coiled into knots.

Marriage? The word tasted foreign, a binding heavier than armor, and not one he had chosen.

He knew of you. Everyone did. Or rather, everyone believed they did. Your name drifted across the wine-dark sea long before your face ever would—wrapped in whispers that clung like burrs to a traveler’s cloak. They said you were spoiled, born into silk and gold and never letting the world forget it. They said you sneered at those beneath you, that servants walked on eggshells in your halls, that you laughed at misfortune and demanded the impossible.

Telemachus had heard these stories a dozen different ways. Sailors shared them over jugs of sour wine, claiming to have glimpsed your arrogance with their own eyes. Traders muttered the tales in the agora, their voices dripping with bitterness, as if your haughtiness had cost them dearly in coin. The rumors grew as rumors do, changing with each telling, yet always circling the same cruel image. And so, long before he ever saw you, Telemachus prepared himself for a burden.

He had imagined the days to come with another who would sneer at Ithaca’s simplicity, who would demand luxury where there was none, who would look upon his people: the shepherds, the fishers, the weary mothers who carried water jars up the cliffs with disdain. He pictured endless arguments behind closed doors, your sharp tongue clashing with his quiet endurance. He pictured duty stretched into chains, binding him to a stranger he could never admire, let alone love.

And yet, what choice did he have?

For Ithaca was no longer just his father’s realm, and alliances could mean the difference between peace and ruin. Telemachus, son of Odysseus, knew better than most that duty was often sharper than desire. Still, as he sat beneath the flickering lamplight of the hall, the herald’s words echoing through stone, a thought flickered bitterly across his mind: A king may command ships, but not his own heart.

You arrived in a fine chariot, bronze wheels gleaming, attendants trailing in neat rows behind. The courtyard swelled with bodies as Ithaca’s people gathered, their curiosity too sharp to be contained within stone walls. Whispers darted like minnows through the crowd—measuring your jewels, your robe, the way you held yourself. Telemachus stood at the gates to receive you, tall and rigid, crown catching the afternoon light. His face was carved into neutrality, polite but distant, a shield against whatever storm you might bring.

You descended with grace, not the haughty, practiced sort he had braced himself for, but something quieter. Grounded. Each movement was deliberate, assured without being boastful. The first words from your lips were not directed toward the prince awaiting you, nor to the murmuring court.

“Thank you for your journey,” You said warmly to the guards who had ridden with you across the straits. You bowed your head slightly, offering a smile that softened the sharpness of rumor. One of the men blinked, startled, before stammering out his gratitude. Telemachus felt something in his chest jolt, but he smothered it quickly. He told himself not to be swayed. Courtesy was easy when eyes watched your every step. Masks could gleam as brightly as gold.

That night at the feast, the palace glowed with firelight, music threading through the air like fine silk. Platters of fish, olives, and roasted lamb lined the tables, yet you scarcely touched them. You spoke little of yourself, offering no boasts, no indulgent stories. Instead, you listened. You leaned close when fishermen spoke of the year’s catch, as if the salt still clung to their words. You nodded earnestly at farmers’ tales of thin soil and fickle rain, and when you laughed—full and sudden. It rang bright and unforced.

Telemachus sat across from you, the cup in his hand long forgotten, watching in silence. Every moment, he waited for the mask to slip. For the curl of disdain, the lash of arrogance, the sharp edge of cruelty that rumor had promised.

..But it did not..?

And that unsettled him more than any sharp tongue could have. The weeks crawled by, and each day left him more unsettled. At first, it was nothing more than chance glimpses, moments small enough to ignore, yet stubborn enough to linger.

One morning, passing by the kitchens, he paused at the sound of laughter. Not the brittle, practiced trill of courtly amusement, but something softer, fuller. He looked in to find you with your sleeves rolled up, hands buried deep in a mound of dough. Flour streaked your cheek and the bridge of your nose, and the cook beside you scolded playfully as you pressed too eagerly into the mass. When a young boy dropped a clay bowl with a clatter, Telemachus waited for the sharp rebuke he had braced himself to hear. Instead, you only grinned at the child’s mortified face and brushed flour onto his nose with a conspiratorial wink. His fear dissolved into giggles. Telemachus lingered in the doorway longer than he intended, the knot in his chest tightening, before turning away with heavy steps.

Another day, he crossed the courtyard, intent on some small duty, when the sound of children’s voices pulled his attention. There you were, kneeling in the dust, skirts spread around you like a halo as you wove daisy stems into delicate crowns. The children crowded at your sides, eyes bright with the self-importance of kings and queens, directing your handiwork with squeaky commands. You obeyed each one with mock solemnity, your brow furrowed as though the matter were of state, and when a crown broke in your hands, you let out an exaggerated gasp that set them shrieking with laughter. The sound rang off the stone walls, carrying through the palace like sunlight in a place long starved of warmth. Telemachus slowed his stride, caught between the pull of his duty and the unfamiliar weight of watching you. He told himself he did not understand the feeling.

Later still, he came upon the stables. A mare, wild-eyed and restless, lashed out at the grooms who struggled to calm her. Hooves struck the packed earth, the air thick with the animal’s panic. Yet you stepped forward without hesitation, ignoring the men’s protests. With one hand, you steadied the mare’s flank; with the other, you brushed her coat in long, careful strokes. Your voice—low, steady, almost a hum- seemed to ripple through the air. Slowly, impossibly, the animal eased, muscles loosening beneath your touch until she stood quiet as a shadow. From the dimness of the doorway, Telemachus froze, his breath shallow, as though he had stumbled into something sacred.

None of it aligned with the picture he had been given.

He had been told to expect pride sharpened into cruelty, vanity dressed in silk, disdain dripping from every glance. Instead, he found himself cataloging these small mercies: flour on your cheek, flowers in your hair, dust on your knees, patience in your voice.

Telemachus tried, at first, to dismiss it. Anyone can play at humility for a time, he reminded himself. Masks are worn most tightly under watchful eyes. But the words began to ring hollow. Each quiet act of kindness pried a little deeper at the armor he had built around his expectations. Each time he looked at you, the iron certainty of rumor bent, stretched, and cracked. And slowly, steadily, doubt began to chip away at stone.

One evening, Telemachus returned late from the harbor. The air still clung damp with sea spray, and his clothes smelled of brine and sweat, the rough wool scratching at salt-stung skin. His shoulders ached from hauling ropes, his hands red and raw, nails rimmed with grit. The path up from the docks was long and steep, and though the torches along the walls flickered faintly in the distance, he expected the palace to be silent by the time he arrived—its servants dismissed, its hearths cooling, its corridors hollow with sleep.

But when he stepped into the courtyard, his pace faltered.

You were there.

Perched on the low stone wall, a lantern balanced between your hands, the flame painting your features in amber light. Shadows flickered across your cheeks, softening the sharpness of the night air. You did not look startled to see him; on the contrary, your eyes lifted to his as though you had known precisely when he would appear.

“You’re late,” You said. Not an accusation, not a question. Just the simple statement of a fact, softened at the edges by your tone. Before Telemachus could find words, you rose. The lantern tilted as you stepped forward, and then you placed it in his hands. Your fingers brushed his, light and brief, but the contact caught him off guard, grounding him more firmly than any anchor.

“Come,” you said gently, turning toward the hall. “You haven’t eaten.”

He followed—though later, he would not be able to say why. The kitchens were hushed at that hour, their earlier bustle faded into embers and faint warmth. The smell of smoke and roasted herbs still lingered, clinging to the stones. You moved through the space with quiet familiarity, setting the lantern on the counter, pulling bread from a basket, cutting cheese with a steady hand. No servant stirred to assist you. No courtier lingered to remark on the impropriety of a royal heir preparing food with their own hands. It was just you, moving with the ease of one who thought nothing of the task. You set the plate before him, simple and unadorned. “You didn’t eat at supper,” You said matter-of-factly, not meeting his eyes, as though this required no explanation at all. Telemachus stared. At the bread. At your hands retreating from the plate. At the small but undeniable truth of what this meant. He thought of how many nights he had returned from the sea to find the hall dark, the food cleared, his absence unnoticed. He thought of the weariness coiled in his bones, the ache he carried wordlessly because who else would think to ease it?

And now, here you were. It was a small gesture: bread and cheese on a plate, lantern light against the walls, but to him it struck with the weight of something far larger. Not pity. Not show. Just care.

For the first time, he realized: you had been watching him too. Thinking of him, in ways he had not thought himself worth noticing. Later, lying awake with the murmur of the sea spilling in through the window, Telemachus found the image returning, unbidden. The curve of your hand steadying the lantern. The warmth of your voice in the stillness. Bread torn from your own grasp to place in his. He turned these fragments over in his mind, unwilling yet unable to set them aside.

And there, in the dark, he admitted reluctantly, quietly, as though confessing to the night itself.. that perhaps, just perhaps, he had misjudged you.

After that night, something shifted. Subtly at first, so subtly that Telemachus told himself it was nothing.. And yet, he began to seek you out. At first, he cloaked it in excuses. A polite duty to escort you through the markets, to ensure the people greeted their future queen with respect. A convenient reason to show you the olive groves on the western slope, where the trees bent low with fruit. A courtesy to guide you along the cliffs, warning of loose stones as though you had not already walked with surer steps than most born to the island.

But once his duty was fulfilled, he lingered. He found himself walking half a step slower so your stride matched his. He asked questions he did not need to ask, and when you answered, he listened. Not with the distant patience of a prince humoring formality, but with a growing hunger for every detail. And you, patient, steady—never pressed. You did not demand his time or his attention. You simply let him circle, cautious and restless as a wild stag, until by degrees he came to stand at your side of his own accord.

It was there, in those unhurried hours, that your voice unfolded itself to him. You spoke of Cephalonia’s mountains, their peaks often veiled in cloud, and the way the air grew sharp and clean the higher you climbed. You spoke of long nights spent at the hearth, listening to gray-haired storytellers weave sagas of gods and ghosts until the embers burned low. You spoke.. hesitant at first, then freer, of your longing not to be shut away in marble halls, gilded and admired yet untouched by the world’s rough edges.

Telemachus listened.

And in your words, he found none of the vanity he had braced himself against, none of the shallow pride rumor had wrapped around your name. What he found instead was yearning—raw, human, familiar. A mirror of something that lived in himself: the desire to be more than the shape duty had carved for him.

Each time you spoke, he felt it again.. that quiet cracking of the stone he had built around his heart. It was on one such walk, when the cliffs glowed in the last light of day, that the words finally broke from him.

The sea roared below, endless and untamed, spray leaping high where waves shattered against the rocks. Above, the sky burned gold and crimson, the sun’s descent painting everything in hues of fire. You walked a little ahead of him, your cloak snapping in the wind, hair pulled free from its pins, wild and untamed as the sea itself.

And Telemachus, son of Odysseus, who had faced storms and shadows, who had carried the weight of duty across years of absence and war.. felt his throat tighten with a fear entirely different from any he had known.

“I feared this,” He said at last, his voice roughened by the wind, by the truth itself. You slowed, turning to him with quiet curiosity.

“This engagement,” he continued, forcing the words past the knot in his chest. “I thought you would be… cruel. Vain. A burden I would carry for the rest of my life.”

There it was, laid bare between you, sharp and unadorned. The confession he had never meant to voice. And you.. you did not flinch. You did not harden with anger or wound him with reproach. You only tilted your head, eyes gentle, the wind tugging strands of hair across your face as you asked softly, “And what do you think now?”

For a long moment, he could not answer. He could only look at you—truly look, without the haze of rumor or the shield of his own expectation. And what he saw was not a mask. Not artifice. But warmth. Steadiness. The quiet strength of someone who carried kindness as naturally as breath. “Now,” Telemachus said, his voice breaking low in his throat, “I know I was wrong. And I am glad to be wrong.”

Your laughter rose above the waves, bright and unguarded, carried on the wind like music. It was not mocking. It was joy, pure and startled, as if his honesty had given you some freedom as well. And in that sound, Telemachus felt the last of his resistance fall away. It was not sudden. It was not overwhelming. It was a steady fire, kindled slowly, each moment another spark: flour-dusted laughter, daisies in your hair, steady hands on a restless mare, bread and cheese laid out in a quiet kitchen. And now this.. your laughter breaking like sunlight over the dark sea.

Where once he had seen only obligation, he now saw possibility. Where once he had dreaded the path laid before him, he now looked ahead with something startling, something fierce—hope. And though neither of you had chosen this bond, Telemachus found himself wishing, with growing certainty, that you both would.

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yes i'm writing "just maybe" right now, soo enjoy my drafts

Blush of the Laurel

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶ Word count: 1.6k Summary: A young servant shares a tender morning with Prince Telemachus, offering him a laurel crown and quiet companionship. Queen Penelope later notices and gently approves, asking only that the servant be kind to his heart. Pairing: Maid!Fem!Reader x Telemachus Warnings: none!:3 Extra: AAAA, THANK U SO MUCH FOR THE REQ ANON !! you ask and i shall deliver.. mwehehe-- I PROMISE i'll finish the other two soon. In the meantime, I suggest listening to Despair by leo. while reading this <3 ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

The palace of Ithaca stirred awake with the soft rustle of linens and the scent of baked barley drifting from the kitchens. Light filtered through the lattice windows in long golden stripes, pooling on the white marble floors like spilled honey. The stone beneath your sandals was cool, each step a gentle tap echoing down the corridor like a whispered rhythm.

You carried a bundle of fresh laurel branches pressed against your chest, their green scent clinging to your tunic. Each step toward the queen’s courtyard felt purposeful. The air was still, kissed only by the breath of the sea beyond the cliffs. It was a sacred kind of quiet—the sort that wrapped around you like a shawl. You loved the early hours. They belonged to no one yet.

Most of the palace still slumbered in half-wakefulness, save for the distant shuffle of other servants starting their day. But not you. You walked the familiar path through sunlit halls dappled with shadow, heading for the courtyard where the altar waited. As you passed beneath a tall stone arch fringed with ivy, a quiet voice cracked the silence.

“Y-You’re up early…”

You stopped mid-step, the laurel stems rustling softly in your arms. There—just off the colonnade, near a vine-draped pillar—stood Prince Telemachus. The light caught on his dark curls, mussed wildly as if he’d just left his bed. A scroll hung awkwardly from one hand, the corner bent where he’d clearly been gripping it too tightly. His robe sat uneven on his shoulder, slightly askew, as though he’d thrown it on in haste.

He looked startled, like a deer caught in the orchard. You dipped your head in a quick, awkward bow, clutching the laurel a little tighter. “Good morning, my prince.”

Telemachus shifted on his feet, glancing down at the scroll as if just realizing he still held it.

“I… I was just reading. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

You tilted your head, trying to read his expression. “You didn’t. It’s your palace.”

“I mean—yes, but, you were—um—carrying things.”

You blinked slowly. “…Laurel?”

He nodded—far too seriously for the topic. “Yes. Laurel. Important. Very.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. You adjusted your grip on the bundle and glanced at him from beneath your lashes. “Would you like to carry some?”

“What? N-No! I mean—I wouldn’t want to drop it. Not that I’m bad at carrying things, but—um—”

He was unraveling. You could see the faint pink spreading across his cheeks like a spilled blush of dawn. You let out a breath of laughter, soft and surprised. “It’s just leaves.”

He looked like he was about to defend the honor of laurel trees themselves but fell silent instead. His gaze dropped to your hands again, uncertain.

Then, almost too quickly, he blurted, “Do you—do you come here often?”

You blinked. “To the altar?”

“I meant the courtyard. I mean, the altar too. Or—wherever you want, really.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing aloud. Not unkindly. It was just rare to see a prince unravel like ribbon in the breeze.

“I don’t mind sharing the courtyard, you know,” you offered gently.

He stared at you, like you’d spoken an incantation. “You don’t?”

You shook your head. “It’s nice when someone else appreciates the quiet.”

He smiled then—hesitant and crooked, boyish in the way sunlight is when it catches on something golden. “I do. I mean—I appreciate it. Very much.”

You crossed to a low stone bench by the altar and slowly lowered the laurel bundle onto its smooth surface. The leaves shifted with a crisp whisper. Without thinking, your fingers found a few slender sprigs and began to weave them into a circle, your motions practiced from years of working with herbs and garlands.

Telemachus stepped closer, but kept a careful distance—like a bird testing if it was safe to perch.

“What are you… making?”

You glanced up. “A laurel crown.”

“Oh.” He leaned ever so slightly, curious. The scroll dangled forgotten in his hand. “For… the gods?”

“Not this one.” Your smile was quiet. “This one’s for someone who visits the courtyard early and likes quiet.”

You lifted the unfinished crown, its edges still wild and unshaped. The middle was crooked—your hands had started trembling somewhere along the way.

His eyes widened. “You’re giving it… to me?”

You gave a tiny nod, pulse fluttering. “If you want it.”

“I do,” he said too quickly, then looked flustered again. “I mean— I.. uh— if that’s alright. I’d like it very much.”

You stepped toward him, one careful pace at a time, heart pounding. You reached up slowly.

“May I?”

He ducked his head, curls falling into his eyes, and nodded. You placed the laurel crown gently on his head. Your fingers brushed his temple—warm skin, soft curls. He stiffened like you’d shocked him, but didn’t pull away.

You drew your hands back as if burned. “Sorry—!”

“No! No, it’s—fine,” he said too fast, standing very still. “It—it’s perfect. Thank you.”

The moment stretched between you, tender and uncertain. You could hear the distant cry of gulls over the sea cliffs. Then, after a beat, he glanced at the sunlight spilling over the courtyard wall.

“Um… I was going to the garden. To… study. Or pretend to study.”

You tried—and failed—not to smile. “That sounds important.”

“It might be more fun with company,” he blurted, eyes darting to yours. “Would you… maybe… want to walk there? With me?”

You blinked, taken off guard. He looked like he might run if you said no.

“Not as a prince,” he added quickly. “Just… as someone who likes quiet. And crowns.”

That did it. You laughed—a real laugh this time, soft and bright as sunlight.

“I’d love to,” you said, gathering the leftover leaves with a light hand.

You fell into step beside him, your shoulders close enough to brush. His scroll was clutched awkwardly under one arm now, entirely forgotten. As you walked through the corridor toward the garden path, sunlight streamed through the olive trees and painted dancing shadows across the walls. The marble glowed beneath your feet. The air smelled like wild thyme and morning sea breeze. And the gods, it seemed, were smiling.

The garden buzzed with the sleepy hum of bees weaving through lavender and rosemary. The scent of warm herbs thickened under the noon sun. A cicada droned lazily from the olive tree above.

You lay on your side in the grass, your cheek pressed to the crook of your arm, listening to Telemachus fumble through a half-hearted explanation of the constellations.

“That one’s… Orion. I think. Or maybe it’s the ladle.”

You snorted. “The ladle?”

“Big Ladle. You know. For soup.”

You laughed, belly-deep now. He chuckled too, clearly relieved he’d made you laugh on purpose this time. His laurel crown was slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Your pinky finger brushed his in the grass.

He stopped mid-sentence. Neither of you moved away. When you finally returned to the palace, your apron was grass-stained and wrinkled, your sandals dusty with garden soil. The laurel altar stood in the courtyard, untouched since morning.

You rounded the column to retrieve the unused sprigs—then froze.

Queen Penelope stood half in shadow, her violet robe catching the breeze, the embroidered hem trailing like flowing water across the stone floor. Her hands were folded, her gaze distant but sharp.

You dipped into a deep bow, trying to smooth your apron with shaking hands. “My Queen—I was just returning—I didn’t mean to delay my duties—”

She raised a single hand, graceful and calm.

“No need to explain,” she said, her voice low and melodious—like wind rustling through reeds.

Your throat bobbed. “I—I apologize if I was late…”

“Was it Telemachus?”

You looked down. The silence said everything.

She stepped forward, her eyes softer now. “He’s clumsy with feelings,” she murmured, almost to herself. “When he was small, he’d hide olives under his bed because he didn’t know how to say he didn’t like them.”

You bit your lip, your fingers tightening on your apron.

“He looked less tired today,” she said, with a faint smile. “Softer. That crown suits him, by the way.”

Your breath caught. You dared a glance at her. “You… saw?”

“I see many things,” she said gently. “Including the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching.”

A beat passed. The butterflies in your chest fluttered so hard it hurt.

“And the way you trip over your own feet when he says your name,” she added, arching a brow.

You flushed from your ears down to your collar. She came to stand beside you, not as a queen now, but as a mother. Her touch on your arm was light—cool, smooth fingers resting briefly in reassurance.

“I would rather my son fall in love with someone kind and genuine, than with a crown and nothing beneath it.”

Your eyes lifted, wide and searching. She held your gaze, calm and sure.

“I only ask one thing.”

You straightened. “Anything, my queen.”

“Be gentle with his heart. He’s only just learning how to use it.”

You swallowed hard, voice barely a breath. “I will.”

She gave a small, approving nod. Then, turning with the quiet poise of a queen born and bred, she walked back toward the archway. Before disappearing into the corridor, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“And tell him,” she said with a glint in her eye, “if he’s going to spend hours in the garden, he may as well weed the thyme bed while he’s there.”

My req is the reader bathing Telemachus (like Polycaste did in the Odyssey) Its up to you if you want to make it smut or just fluff, I don't mind either way!!

Thank you very much for your hard work and the beautiful fics you write!

Where the Steam Rises Softly

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Word count: 1.2k

Summary: In the dim hush of torchlight and steam, Telemachus sheds the weight of duty, scars, and silence. As you kneel beside the basin and tend to him with care more intimate than words, something shifts—something tender, rare, and unspoken. He lets you in. In this quiet moment steeped in lavender and vulnerability, the prince is not a warrior nor a son of Odysseus, but simply a man learning to be soft in your hands. And for once, he stays.

Pairing: Servant!Reader x Telemachus

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The steam curled lazily from the surface of the bronze basin, rising in soft spirals that clung to the air like silk. It carried with it the mingled scents of crushed herbs—rosemary, marjoram, and a hint of bay leaf—alongside the mellow richness of warm olive oil and lavender steeped in heat. The small chamber was dim, lit only by the flicker of two wall-mounted torches, their flames casting gold shadows that danced across stone walls worn smooth by time.

You knelt beside the tub on a folded wool rug, your knees cushioned against the cold floor. Your sleeves were pushed up to your elbows, linen damp at the hem, and your fingers gripped a square of soft cloth soaked in the fragrant bathwater. It was warm—almost hot—and your skin prickled with the closeness of it. The air was heavy with moisture, beading at your temples and clinging to your lashes.

Telemachus sat immersed in the water up to his lower ribs, his knees drawn slightly toward his chest. His body was bare, save for a modest swirl of bubbles and a thin veil of steam that curled around his torso. Stray droplets trickled down from his collarbones to the center of his chest, carving thin, glistening trails. His posture was straight, deliberately so—shoulders pulled back, jaw tight, as if trying to remember how royalty is supposed to sit. But the flick of his eyes, the nervous curl of his fingers against the basin’s rim, betrayed him.

You smiled, small and reassuring, brushing back a damp strand of hair from your brow. “You can relax, you know,” you murmured, voice soft in the hush of steam and flickering flame. “You’re not being judged here.”

He gave a breath of a laugh, dry and sheepish. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one being bathed like a child preparing for a feast.”

“Not a child,” you said gently, dipping the cloth back into the basin. The water sighed as it accepted the linen. “Like a prince. And even princes need someone to look after them.”

Telemachus didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you—his eyes a deep, solemn brown, sharper than flint but dulled now by the heat. Droplets clung to his dark lashes. There was a stillness to him in that moment, as if your words had caught on something inside him and refused to let go.

You leaned forward carefully, the warm cloth trailing rivulets as you brought it to the back of his neck. You wiped with slow, careful strokes, circling the base of his skull, the spot where tension lived like a stubborn knot. He inhaled sharply at the first touch, the kind of breath a soldier might take when being stitched. And then he exhaled, the sound barely audible, but telling.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone,” you murmured, wringing the cloth out again with gentle fingers. “You’re allowed to be tired. To let someone else carry the weight.”

His mouth opened slightly, like he might speak—but no words came. Just a look. A flicker of emotion that passed through his face like wind brushing through tall grass. Then, quietly, the stiffness in his shoulders eased. His posture, once held like a shield, gave way. The tension fell from him slowly, like bark peeling from a weather-worn tree.

From the small table beside you, you reached for a delicate ceramic jar. It was cool to the touch. When you opened it, the scent of lavender and honeyed chamomile wafted upward. You dipped your fingers in, rubbing the oil between your palms until it warmed, then reached up to press it into his shoulders with featherlight pressure.

His skin was hot from the bathwater, muscles firm beneath your fingers, but there was a tremble to it too—a slight, involuntary shiver. Not from cold, but from being touched without demand. You worked in small, circular motions, thumbs sweeping gently across the curve of his shoulder blades. That’s when you noticed them: pale lines and faded ridges across his back, some short and shallow, others longer, winding like the roots of old trees.

You paused, brushing your fingertips over one particularly long scar just beneath his right shoulder. Your voice was a hush.

“This one?”

He tilted his head slightly, not enough to meet your gaze, but enough to remember. “Boar hunt. I was fourteen.” His voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “It gored me in the thigh and caught my back as I fell. I cried.”

You said nothing, only continued tracing gentle shapes around the scar.

He huffed a laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Mother said it was good. That if I still had tears, I still had something left to lose.”

You didn’t answer—not with words. Your hands did the speaking, moving slower now, more tenderly. You dipped the cloth once more, rinsing away the oil, trailing clean water down the path of old wounds. His skin, glistening in the firelight, looked almost sculpted—like marble touched by time. His neck, when he tipped his head back, revealed the vulnerable curve of his throat, pulsing softly with breath.

“I can take over,” he said suddenly, voice gravelly, barely audible above the sound of dripping water.

But your hand didn’t leave his back. “You could,” you whispered. “But would you really want to?”

He turned to look at you, slowly. The pride was gone from his eyes now, the careful posture dissolved. No mask of duty, no quiet rehearsals of strength. Just a boy who had grown too fast, too far. Just a man who wanted—needed—to be still.

“I trust you,” he said. “More than most.”

The words hung there, suspended in the steam between you—simple, unadorned, yet so achingly sincere that they rooted you in place. Your hands, still slick with oil and warmth, paused mid-motion on his back, fingers curling slightly as though to hold the moment still. But inside, your heart surged—fluttering not with triumph, but with something far more delicate: the quiet ache of being seen, the weight of being chosen by someone who rarely allowed himself softness.

You swallowed, throat tight, and slowly leaned in.

The distance between you shrank to nothing, and you pressed your forehead gently to his. His skin was damp, almost fever-warm, and the contact made both of you still. Around you, the world seemed to hush. The flamelight flickered against stone, casting long shadows on the walls, while steam coiled in lazy spirals around your bodies, wrapping the two of you in a cocoon of silence and scent.

The mingled warmth of herbs, lavender oil, and skin hung heavily in the air—intimate and grounding. His breath ghosted against your lips, uneven and shallow, and you could feel the tension still lingering at the base of his throat. He was holding something back, some final wall of control that cracked slowly beneath the gentleness of your voice.

“Then let me take care of you,” you murmured, so quietly that your lips barely moved. The words fell between you like a prayer. “Just this once.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp and trembling. You felt the soft, deliberate release of breath against your cheek—a soundless yes.

And this time, he didn’t pull away.

He stayed there, unmoving but undone, his brow resting against yours like a silent surrender. Not a prince, not a warrior, not the son of a myth—but a boy allowing himself, for once, to be held without armor.

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THANK U SO SO SO MUCH FOR ALL OF THE PRAISE, NEW FOLLOWERS, AND 1K LIKES !!! I LOVE U ALL SOOO MUCHH MWAMWAA (especially my wifey oddy 👀)

Like That

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Word count: 2.3k

Summary: While teaching nymphs how to stretch, you effortlessly drop into a split—unaware that Circe and Penelope are secretly watching, completely entranced by your flexibility. Later, the air is thick with magic and intent. They confront you, hungry with desire, and take their time... worshipping you.

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Circe x Penelope

A/N: this is so freaky I TRIED MY BEST I PROMISE

Warnings: MDNI, implied fingering, oral sex, threesome, praise kink

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The midday sun hung high, draping the glade in a molten veil of gold. Light filtered through the canopy in soft shafts, dappling the clearing with flickers of brilliance that danced over moss and skin alike. The earth beneath your bare feet was warm and forgiving, a blend of soft loam and sun-soaked grass. The air was thick with the scents of summer: crushed rosemary underfoot, distant salt from the sea, and the sweetness of blooming myrtle in the trees.

Your skirt was knotted high on your hips, fabric bunched loosely at your waist to allow for movement. Your skin glowed with exertion and sun, dewy in the heat, your arms extended gracefully as you moved with slow, deliberate elegance, guiding the nymphs clustered around you. They followed in scattered mimicry, giggling, breathless, stumbling over limbs and balance, their laughter bubbling like a brook down a mountainside. Pure, melodic, endless.

You smiled, patient, serene. “No, no—breathe through it. You have to relax your hips. Let gravity do the work.”

And then, effortlessly, you dropped into a full split. The laughter stuttered into silence. Gasps rose in unison, wide eyes blinking in awe as they watched your body lengthen, open, and settle into the earth with fluid grace. But you barely noticed. Your arms reached skyward, spine lifting tall, crown tilted to the sun. You held the pose with tranquil confidence, your expression soft and unbothered. Like a priestess in morning devotion, channeling something ancient through muscle and breath. The light caressed every curve, every line of strength in your thighs, your waist, your outstretched arms. You were sun-kissed, supple, radiant.

And at the edge of the glade, hidden beneath the green-gold shadows of the trees, two figures watched in rapt, breathless silence. Circe lounged against a gnarled oak, her body half-swallowed by vines and leaves, one hand resting at her side while the other absently twirled a lock of hair. Her golden eyes were slitted, low with desire, watching your every motion like a huntress stalking prey. The sunlight made her golden tattoos shimmer faintly, alive against her bronzed skin, her expression somewhere between amusement and hunger.

Beside her, Penelope stood as if carved from stillness. Her posture was composed, her hands delicately clasped at her waist—but her parted lips and dilated pupils betrayed the storm beneath. Her chest rose in a slow, shallow breath, reverence etched into every line of her face.

“Did you know she could do that?” Penelope asked, her voice barely more than breath—hushed, reverent, nearly aching.

Circe’s smirk deepened, curling at the corners like a secret spell. “I’ve bent her legs back before,” she murmured, the words honeyed and rich, “but not like that.”

Penelope swallowed, eyes glued to the supple arch of your spine, the long stretch of thigh, the soft curve of strength in your core. “I want to see how deep she can arch,” she whispered. “How long she can hold it. How much she can take..”

Circe’s gaze didn’t leave your form. “Then let’s find out,” she said, her smile slow and sharp and promising. From the glade, the nymphs continued their breathless mimicry, but you remained in your stretch, unknowing and open beneath the gaze of two women who were already imagining how to worship and ruin you all over again.

You returned to the cottage much later, the sun low behind the trees, painting the horizon in hues of honey and flame. Your skin was warm and flushed, still tingling from the heat of the day and the laughter of the nymphs echoing in your bones. A lazy smile lingered on your lips as you nudged the door open, humming faintly to yourself, the scent of wild thyme and sun-scorched grass still clinging to your clothes. But the moment you stepped inside, everything changed. The air shifted.

It hit you like the press of velvet to bare skin. Thick, sweet, heavy with something unseen but unmistakable. The warmth inside was not from the fire. It was denser than heat, laced with heady perfume. Sandalwood, crushed rose, and something darker beneath, something charged. The kind of scent that curled in your lungs and made your pulse quicken without permission. Before you could react, the door clicked shut behind you. Then locked. A soft sound, final.

You stilled. “Hello?” you called, voice wavering at the edges, though you weren’t sure why. No one had answered, but something or someone was watching.

From the shadows near the hearth, Circe stepped into view. She moved like poured wine, like a promise about to be broken. Silks clung to her like a second skin. It was barely fastened, slipping down one shoulder to reveal gold-dusted flesh. Her tattoos gleamed in the low light, serpentine and fluid, seeming to pulse with her breath. Her golden eyes found you instantly and devoured—tracing every inch of your form, from the fine sheen of sweat on your collarbone to the soft muscle of your thighs beneath your skirt.

Her smile was slow. Dangerous. “We saw your little display..” she purred, voice the kind that wound around your spine and pulled.

Another figure followed—Penelope, quiet as moonlight on water. She was all grace and restraint, wrapped in linen the color of doves’ wings, her hair unbound and curling slightly at the ends. But her eyes, so sharp with heat, darkened with a hunger that made your breath catch. She looked at you like you were a feast she’d been fasting from for far too long.

“You didn’t tell us you were that flexible, love,” she said gently, but her voice was taut with want, reverence curled beneath the words like an undertow.

You blinked, startled by their intensity, your smile faltering as something low and liquid stirred in your belly. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

Circe was in front of you before the last word left your mouth—two long, effortless steps, and then her hand was beneath your chin, tilting your face up to hers. Her fingers were cool and sure, her gaze molten.

“Oh, it matters now,” She said softly, the words like smoke, like silk, like the beginning of something inevitable. They undressed you slowly, worshipfully.

Penelope’s fingers moved with reverence, tracing the curve of your spine like she was reading scripture written in skin. Circe followed the path of her hands with her mouth, lips brushing over your collarbone, hot and deliberate, as if she meant to kiss the breath right from your lungs. Their touch didn’t rush.. it unraveled. Inch by inch. Layer by layer. Until you stood bare before them, warm and golden in the firelight, chest rising and falling with something thick and thrumming.

They guided you to the bed like an offering.

Circe settled behind you, legs framing your hips, her thighs firm and warm against yours. She draped herself over your back, hands resting at your waist like they belonged there. Penelope knelt between your parted legs, her gaze reverent, dark eyes shining with something between worship and hunger.

“Can you show us again?” Penelope whispered, her voice a velvet thread, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. Her fingertips skimmed the inside of your thigh—featherlight, reverent.. As if you might vanish if she touched too hard. “How far can you go?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The air had already thickened with knowing. With a slow, fluid shift of your hips, you lowered yourself into the splits—effortless, sinuous, your body opening like a prayer answered. The tension in the room snapped.

A strangled sound ripped from Circe’s throat, half-growl, half-moan. Her hands found your hips like they were drawn there by spellwork, her fingers clutching hard enough to bruise. Her nails bit into your skin, anchoring her to the sight of you. “Fuck,” she rasped, her voice wrecked. “You’re going to kill me.”

Penelope’s breath caught audibly. Her lips parted, her eyes devouring every inch of you like she couldn’t quite believe you were real. She dropped lower with reverent slowness, her hair brushing your skin as she kissed her way up your trembling inner thigh, her touch was soft, unhurried, like you were something sacred. When her breath fanned over your slick heat, your hips twitched. She paused.

“My my…” she whispered, the words soaked in awe and hunger, her voice nearly broken. “Look at you.”

And then her mouth was on you. Hot, soft, devastating. The first drag of her tongue stole the breath from your lungs. The world tilted, spun, melted. You forgot your own name. Circe groaned behind you, her grip tightening, her chest rising and falling against your back like she was struggling not to come just from the sight. But you could barely process it. All thought drowned beneath the slow, sinful worship of Penelope’s mouth.

Penelope's tongue was warm, slow, precise, circling, dipping, drinking. She moved like she was savoring something sacred, like your pleasure was holy and she was its high priestess. Circe held you open, her grip tight, worship-rough, nails biting crescents into your hips. She kissed your shoulder. Soft, murmuring words into your skin in a language you didn’t know, but your body understood. Every syllable lit sparks beneath your ribs. Every breath she fed you trembled straight to your core.

Your leg lifted easily, muscle pliant from hours of movement and stretch, and Penelope guided it over her shoulder, angling you wider. Deeper. Her moan vibrated against you as you cried out, helpless, trembling under the onslaught of pleasure. Her fingers joined her mouth—two, then three—moving in a rhythm so deliberate it made your spine arch. Circe groaned into your neck, rocking against your back with abandon, drinking in every sound you made like she’d go feral without it.

“You take so well,” Circe whispered, her voice ragged, hips grinding against your lower back. “So pliant. So good. I want to see how many ways we can make you come.”

And boy, they made good on the promise.

Penelope curled her fingers just right, dragging them slow and deep as her tongue flicked wickedly. Meanwhile, Circe’s mouth found your throat, teeth grazing, sucking until you cried out. You writhed between them, lost in the stretch, the angle, the pressure. Your knees folded nearly to your ears as Penelope fucked you deeper, her breath catching as she pulled back just enough to look.

“Gods,” Penelope breathed, her voice shaking, eyes wide and devout as if she were witnessing a revelation. “You look divine like this. Open and trembling.”

Her words dripped worship, and they made you whimper. Circe’s hand slid up your chest, slow and possessive, until her fingers brushed your lips. You opened for her without hesitation, greedily and needy. Her fingers pushed past your lips, and you sucked them deep, tongue curling, mouth slick and obedient. The taste of your own arousal lingered faintly on her skin, and the low moan she gave in response only made your pulse spike.

“Good girl,” She rasped, her voice raw silk, heavy with reverence and hunger. Her hips rolled against you from behind, her slick heat grinding against your ass, her body a furnace pressed tight to your back. You could feel her. Every curve, every inch of heat and want. As she moved, slow and relentless. Her free hand found your breast again, fingers pinching and rolling the peaked flesh until your back arched, taut and trembling.

“You’re ours,” she growled, right against your ear, her breath hot and ragged. “Our little stretch of heaven.”

The words tore through you. You shattered. Once—your cry muffled around Circe’s fingers, your body tensing, twitching. And once again, your thighs twitching, curling instinctively, as Penelope’s tongue never relented, her fingers stroking you through each wave like she could read your body by heart.

Your body gave out, wrung dry and burning, hips jerking weakly, muscles trembling and clenching with every aftershock. You sobbed softly around Circe’s fingers, lips wet and swollen, eyes fluttering shut as your body pulsed in their hands—wrecked, radiant, utterly undone. You couldn’t even count. Every orgasm melted into the next. Wave after wave after wave. They didn’t stop. They shifted. Adjusted your body like sculptors molding soft clay, marveling at every tremble, every arch, every broken sound that spilled from your lips. Your strength only fed them. Your surrender made them starved.

By the time it was over, you were boneless and melted into the mattress, limbs sprawled without aim or tension, breath dragging shallow and slow from your parted lips. Sweat cooled on your flushed skin, glistening in the firelight like dew on petaled flesh after rainfall. Your hair was a wild halo, tangled across the pillows and your shoulders, clinging in damp, curling strands. Your thighs still trembled faintly, twitching with aftershocks, overstimulated and gloriously used. Every inch of you pulsed with pleasure, the echoes of their touch thrumming beneath your skin like distant thunder.

You felt claimed in the deepest sense. Not just taken, but known. Worshipped. Marked in ways no mirror could reflect. A constellation of bruises bloomed along your hips and inner thighs, love-bites blossomed over your collarbone and the swell of your breast, each one a story, a moment, a gasp etched into flesh.

Circe’s body blanketed yours from behind, her breath warm against your ear as she draped herself over your back like a lioness at rest, possessive and sated. Her fingers skimmed lazily down your waist, dipping into the hollow of your hip with familiarity that made your belly flutter all over again. She pressed a kiss to your temple. One soft, tender, reverent.

“Tomorrow,” she murmured, her voice husky with satisfaction, lips brushing your skin, “you’re teaching us those stretches.”

A tired, breathless laugh slipped from you, but it was stolen almost immediately by the press of another mouth. Penelope had never moved far, still curled beside you like a prayer, one hand stroking the inside of your thigh in idle, reverent circles. Her touch was feather-light, more soothing than seeking now, as if she could coax your body to melt even further into safety. Her gaze was soft but dark, heavy with lingering want, her lashes casting shadows against flushed cheeks as she leaned in.

She kissed you, lingering like the last note of a hymn in a quiet temple. It tasted like devotion. Like honey and salt and promise. Not an ending. An invitation.

“But tonight,” she whispered, lips brushing yours—

“Let’s see how else you bend.”

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my longest fic ever.. yuri.. smut.. okay pop off