sunnidawn

[sunnidawn]

Rafayel thinking of turning into mermaid 🧜‍♀️

[sunnidawn]

Bodyguard and her annoyance

[sunnidawn]

Burn Me, Beloved

Sylus x Reader | Angst | Fantasy | Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | ~ 7,300 words

When dragon Sylus basks in the sun, he forgets you’re only human. Hour after hour, your skin burns beneath his warmth—until you flee in silence, seeking relief in a distant lake. But when Sylus realizes you’re gone, panic consumes him. Smoke. Ash. No scent to follow. All he can think is: have I lost you? A poetic, heart-wrenching tale of pain, fragility, and love that scorches just as deeply as it soothes.

Sylus had warned you once—dragons need the sun.

Not just enjoy it, not bask in it like a cat at a windowsill, but need it. In his words, the sun was the last great tether to his strength, the warmth of old blood still lingering in his veins, a comfort that no cave, no fire, no whispered promise could replace.

So, on that morning, when the clouds parted and the valley filled with light like a goblet filled to the brim with gold, he asked—no, pleaded—with his eyes. “Come with me.”

You had nodded, a soft smile ghosting your lips. How could you say no to him when his voice dipped into velvet just for you? When his scales gleamed with sunrise, and he looked at you like he hadn’t seen warmth until now?

You followed him out of the cool, shaded cave, barefoot and trusting, trailing behind his massive, slow-moving form as he laid himself down like a cathedral of muscle and glinting bone. The open clearing was wide and bright, and the stone beneath your feet was already warm.

You sat near him—at first. Legs tucked beneath you, eyes half-lidded with morning peace. His tail curved near you protectively, a curved crescent of possession. The sun painted everything in gold.

For the first hour, it was bliss.

You felt like a myth, lying beside him—your ancient dragon, the sun-kissed beast, humming softly in his throat like a lullaby carved from centuries of silence. He curled lazily, wings stretched just enough to catch the rays, chest rising and falling in long, even breaths. He looked content, happier than you’d seen him in days.

You were happy just to be near him.

But by the second hour, the sun began to turn cruel.

The soft heat became a sticky cling. Your skin, exposed at the shoulders and thighs, flushed too red. You shifted, trying to find relief, and the stone beneath you scalded like iron. Your mouth dried, tongue heavy behind clenched teeth. Still—you didn’t want to disturb him. He looked so at peace.

You told yourself: just a little longer.

You tried to distract yourself—admiring the way the light played in the grooves of his horns, how his claws flexed ever so slightly in dreams, how even in stillness, he emanated a kind of heavy warmth you could feel in your bones.

But the third hour was agony.

Your skin had blistered under your sleeves. The air shimmered and warped, and your breaths came shallow and tight. Your stomach twisted, and your heart pounded erratically—not from fear, but from the desperate strain of holding it together.

And he didn’t notice.

He was glowing in the sun, luminous and powerful, lost in some ancient ecstasy. He didn’t smell the sharp sting of your sweat or hear the soft, involuntary whimpers in your throat.

You realized—he didn’t know.

Dragons don’t burn like humans do.

You didn’t want to disturb him. You didn’t want to ruin this. You didn’t want to seem weak. So you whispered a lie to yourself: just a short walk, just to cool off, just to breathe again.

You rose shakily, slipping through the underbrush at the edge of the clearing. Sylus didn’t stir. You could barely see past the shimmering white of heatstroke around your vision, but you remembered a place—farther down the ridge, nestled in the forest’s shade. A lake. Cool, silver, hidden.

You walked.

Every step felt like dragging your skin over thorns. Your legs trembled. You tripped, twice. Blood mingled with sweat along your scraped knees, but you didn’t stop.

He won’t even notice, you thought bitterly. He’s with his sun.

And so you found the lake.

Or it found you.

The trees parted mercifully and the light dimmed into soft, dappled shadow. You stumbled into the water fully clothed, body screaming for mercy. The lake took you into its arms. You sank.

The cold was cruel at first, but then—nothing. You sighed. Your body gave up the fight. You closed your eyes.

⸻

Back in the clearing…

Sylus stirred.

Not from the heat, nor from hunger, nor from the hum of the earth—but from absence. The silence that followed when your laughter didn’t fill the edges of the breeze. The way your scent—always sweet, human, warm—was simply… gone.

He lifted his head.

You weren’t there.

Panic bloomed like fire across his ribs.

He rose sharply, wings twitching, claws digging into the scorched stone. “Where—?” he began, voice cracked with sudden urgency. He searched the clearing, growled low in his chest, inhaled deeply—and stopped.

Smoke.

He smelled smoke.

The sun had masked everything. He couldn’t trace your scent—he could barely find his own. His pupils narrowed, heart slamming. The wind was too dry. Too hot. He turned in circles, tail lashing, eyes scanning—no footprints, no signs, no you.

“MC?” His voice cracked the air like a whip. No reply.

The trees mocked him in silence.

He took to the skies in a heartbeat, a shriek rattling from his throat—a sound ancient and afraid. He dove through forest and rock, roared at rivers, clawed at ridges, eyes burning with terror. He didn’t care about the sun anymore. He didn’t care about the heat or the world or himself.

Where were you?

Where was his mate?

He didn’t remember landing.

One second he was tearing across the sky, wings cutting through clouds like knives, and the next—he smelled you. Distant, faint, drenched in water and pain. Not the kind of pain that bites. The kind that bleeds slow. The kind you don’t come back from.

His claws tore through the earth as he crashed near the lake’s edge. The trees snapped like twigs around him, a shower of pine and leaves raining down as his tail swiped aside boulders without care. He didn’t roar.

No, he was quiet now.

Something in his chest had begun to close.

His eyes found your body in the water like a hawk spots a dying bird. You were floating. Half submerged. Skin far too pale. Your lips were parted slightly. No breath. No movement.

No life.

Time stopped.

The world muted.

The sun that once warmed his blood now felt like a cruel god laughing from above.

Sylus dropped to his knees beside the lake, his hands shaking.

“MC?” he rasped, voice caught somewhere between a prayer and a scream. He waded into the water, heedless of the cold. You didn’t respond.

He cradled your body to his chest. You were heavy in his arms, limp, like something carved from wax. His claws retracted so he wouldn’t cut you. His wings hung low in mourning.

“NO—No, no…no—” he whispered, rocking you back and forth. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know…”

And gods, he didn’t.

He’d left you in the sun. A human. Fragile, delicate, soft. And he hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t looked. Hadn’t even heard your breaths growing short. He’d been so wrapped in the comfort of the warmth that he forgot—

You weren’t built for fire.

Tears—hot and furious—dripped down his cheeks. He pressed his lips to your forehead, voice cracking as he muttered, “Come back. Come back, sweetie, please…”

Still, you didn’t stir.

So he wept.

This time, not as a dragon. Not as a creature of ancient fire and celestial storms. But as Sylus—a man who’d found something precious in a world that had given him nothing. A man who had you. And lost you.

Because he hadn’t noticed.

⸻

But you…

You weren’t gone.

You were drifting.

Somewhere between pain and sleep. You felt the cold, the pressure of arms around you. A chest heaving against your back. A voice—broken and shaking—repeating your name. It echoed inside you like a whisper from a far-off dream.

“Come back to me.”

You wanted to. Gods, you wanted to. But everything hurt. Your skin was cracked. Your lungs ached. Your eyes burned.

But the moment you felt his hand tremble against your jaw, his voice hiccup on a sob—you fought.

You fought.

And slowly, painfully, with a gasp that tore through your ribs, you breathed.

Your eyes opened.

Not fully. Barely. But enough to see his tear-streaked face above you. His wide, wild eyes. His lips trembling.

“MC?” he said, like he couldn’t believe it. “Gods—you’re alive—”

You groaned softly, voice hoarse. “I—I needed the water…”

His breath hitched. He held you closer, as if trying to fuse you into his skin.

“You idiot,” he whispered, voice choked with relief and self-hate. “You beautiful, brave idiot…”

You winced. “My skin…”

He looked down and saw the blisters. The angry red patches. The sunburn that ran in angry trails down your arms and shoulders.

That was when the guilt hit harder than any flame ever could.

“I did this,” he said, disgusted. “I left you there. I thought—I thought you were fine. I didn’t know, I—” he stopped, swallowing hard. “I should’ve known.”

Your fingers reached up, brushing weakly against his cheek. “You didn’t mean to…”

“That doesn’t change it.” His arms tightened. “You almost died.”

You nodded faintly, then whispered, “But you found me.”

⸻

He carried you back.

Not to the sun. Not to the stones. But to the cave—his home. Your home. Where shadows cradled the walls and water trickled down the edges of the rock like lullabies. He laid you on a nest of soft furs and silks he’d once claimed as trophies but now held no pride in. Only you mattered.

He fetched cloth and water and soothed your burns, whispering apologies into every inch of your skin. His claws were careful. His touch, reverent. Like he feared he’d break you further.

You watched him with half-lidded eyes, tears slipping down your temple—not from pain, but from love.

He was so gentle.

So ashamed.

“I should’ve asked,” he murmured. “Should’ve known you’d never say no. Not to me. You always follow me.”

You gave a fragile smile. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because it hurts to know it’s true. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You reached for his hand. “You made a mistake. But you came for me. You always come for me.”

He dropped his head to your stomach, curling around you like a dragon guarding his hoard. “You are the only warmth I need.”

⸻

And there he stayed.

Even as the sun set, and his power waned.

He didn’t go out again that day.

He didn’t need to.

Because you were safe.

And now he burned—with guilt, with love, with something ancient and aching.

Not from the sun.

But from you.

He didn’t leave your side. Not even for a breath.

The cave grew dim as twilight poured in from the jagged opening high above, but Sylus made no move to rise from where he lay—curled beside you, wings tucked in tightly, a protective curve of his body between you and the cold world beyond.

You were wrapped in furs, skin still flushed and tender, but healing. Slowly. Painfully. But healing nonetheless. And every time you winced, Sylus would press soft kisses to your temple and murmur, “I’ve got you, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

The next morning, he refused to let you lift a single finger.

He fed you with his own hands—ripe fruits he sliced with claws that could tear through stone, yet moved with the gentleness of silk. He’d crush herbs in a stone mortar and mix them into warm broth with an oddly domestic concentration, tail flicking anxiously behind him whenever you so much as coughed.

You teased him once, whispering through a grin, “You’re quite the nursemaid, you know…”

He flushed—his face a soft shade of gold, like his scales—and huffed, “Mock me and I’ll burn the whole forest down so the sun never touches you again.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered sleepily.

“Devoted,” he corrected, nudging your nose with his. “You scared me, mc. I thought I lost you. I don’t ever want to feel that again.”

You leaned against him then, resting your head against his chest, where his heart beat slow and thunderous—like a lullaby carved from the bones of the earth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He held you tighter. “You better not.”

⸻

Later that evening, he brushed your hair.

Yes. Claws and all.

He sat behind you, legs wrapped around yours, tail curled lazily nearby while he dragged a comb—one he carved himself from bone and polished smooth—through your tangled strands. He was terribly slow at it, tongue poking out just slightly in concentration.

You nearly fell asleep.

But then he whispered—barely audible—“I almost lost my mate…”

You opened your eyes. “But you didn’t.”

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” he said, a fragile edge in his voice.

You smiled. “Good. Then you’ll have to carry me to the bathroom, to the lake, and everywhere else.”

He paused. Then said, completely serious: “Done.”

You laughed, and something inside him melted.

⸻

That night, he slept with your head tucked under his chin, his arm draped over your stomach, wings fanned over both your bodies like the sheltering sky. The firelight flickered across the cave walls, but neither of you needed its warmth.

You had each other.

And beneath the mountain, in the stillness of the cave, Sylus finally rested—not as a dragon scorched by guilt, but as a mate who had nearly lost his whole world… and now knew better than to ever take the light of it for granted.

[sunnidawn]

Hi can I get tipsy/drunk Telemachus and reader taking care of him... (if you're comfortable with it)

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?

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

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.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

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

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[sunnidawn]

It's been so hot and humid and grossss 😭

[sunnidawn]

He ate (those souls)

[sunnidawn]

saw a car dragging a labubu facedown through the street

[sunnidawn]

guises of the grey eyed godess

[sunnidawn]

NEED A TELEMACHUS X DOMINANT reader SO BAD👅👅👅👅👅👅👅 perchance the said reader is a female guardian of the palace.. And mayhaps they're Telemachus' only trustworthy friend 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

You were a prince

A/N : Ya’ll don’t know how much I wanted to hug the life out of Telemachus in Epic: The Musical. He deserves so much.

WARNING : Smut, 18+, Dominant!Reader, Fem!Reader, Top!Reader, p in v.

Word Count : 1.9k

The air in the great hall of Ithaca was thick with the stench of arrogance. It smelled of spilled wine, roasted meat going cold, and the cloying perfume of men who believed themselves kings. From your position near the main entryway, you watched it all, your hand resting on the hilt of the bronze sword at your hip. Your face was a mask of placid neutrality, a skill you had perfected over ten long years. As the only female guardian in the palace—a position you inherited from your father who had sailed with Odysseus—that mask was your most essential piece of armor.

Your eyes, however, were fixed on one person. Telemachus.

He stood near the central hearth, the firelight catching the fine, noble lines of his face, a face so much like his father's, yet still holding the softness of youth. He was trying to reason with Antinous, his voice low and steady, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip he had on the wine cup in his hand. Antinous, all swagger and sneering condescension, laughed in his face, turning to the other suitors to share the 'joke.' A wave of brutish laughter followed.

You saw the flash of fury in Telemachus's eyes, the humiliation that washed over him like a blush of shame. He held his ground for another moment, a prince in his own home with no power, before turning on his heel and stalking from the hall, his jaw set like stone.

His eyes met yours for a fraction of a second as he passed. It was a look you knew intimately. It was a cry for help, a desperate plea, and a silent command all in one. Later.

You held your post for another hour, your gaze sweeping the room, your presence a silent, steady warning that even in this den of wolves, some part of the old kingdom still stood guard. When another guard came to relieve you, you nodded curtly and began your final patrol. Your route, however, took a slight detour, one not found on any official palace roster. It led you to the prince's chambers.

You slipped inside without a sound, closing the heavy oak door behind you. He was there, as you knew he would be, pacing the length of the room like a caged lion. The wine cup lay shattered in the hearth. The moment he saw you, the mask of princely composure he wore for the world dissolved, and the raw, frustrated young man was left in its place.

"He laughed at me, Y/N," he began, his voice tight with rage. He wasn't speaking to a guard; he was speaking to his only friend. "In my own home, he stood there and mocked me. They all did. They eat my father's livestock, they try to force themselves on my mother, and I... I can do nothing. I am nothing." He finally stopped pacing and drove his fist into the stone wall, a sharp crack echoing in the room. He barely seemed to feel it.

You didn't move. You didn't offer empty platitudes or words of comfort. You simply stood, your presence a silent anchor in his storm, and you let him rage. You let him vent all the poison he was forced to swallow every single day. This was the first part of your ritual, the first service you offered him. You were the vessel for his fury.

When his anger was spent, it left a vacuum, and a deep, weary sorrow filled it. He turned to you, his shoulders slumped, his eyes filled with a pain so profound it made your heart ache. His bravado was gone, leaving only a vulnerable boy drowning under the weight of a king's crown that wasn't yet his.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered, his voice breaking. "They are going to devour us, and I am not strong enough to stop them."

This was your cue. You moved then, crossing the room until you stood before him. You reached out and took his hand, the one he had struck the wall with, and gently uncurled his fingers. His knuckles were already swelling, split and bleeding.

"You are strong enough," you said, your voice low and firm, a stark contrast to his broken whisper. The tone of a friend was gone, replaced by the tone of something else, something deeper. The tone of his commander. His savior. "You carry this whole house on your shoulders. But you are not meant to carry it every hour of every day. Not tonight."

You led him to the edge of his bed and pushed him down gently until he was sitting. You knelt before him, your calloused fingers working at the leather laces of his sandals.

"Tonight," you continued, your eyes fixed on your task, "you will put it all down. The anger. The fear. The weight of your father's name. You will give it all to me. I will hold it for you until morning."

He looked down at you, his breathing shaky. He was the prince, and you were his guard, yet in this room, the dynamic was inverted. Here, he was not your master. You were his. It was the only way he could find release.

You removed his sandals and looked up, your gaze locking with his. "Take off your tunic."

It was a soft command, but a command nonetheless. He obeyed without hesitation, pulling the fine linen garment over his head. His chest was lean but well-defined, the body of a young man caught between boyhood and the warrior he was destined to become.

"Good," you murmured your approval. You rose to your feet and stood over him. "Lie back."

He did, stretching out on the bed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was surrendering his power to you, the only person in the world he trusted enough to be this vulnerable with.

"Close your eyes," you commanded. You watched him obey, his long lashes dark against his pale skin. You took a moment to just look at him, this beautiful, burdened boy. Your heart swelled with a fierce, protective love that was painful in its intensity.

You straddled his hips, your weight settling onto him. You leaned down, your lips hovering just above his. "Tonight, you are not a prince. You are not the son of Odysseus. You are just mine. Do you understand, Telemachus?"

"Yes," he breathed, the word a prayer.

You kissed him then, a slow, deep kiss of possession. You took control, your tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting his sorrow and his relief. His hands, which had been fisted, opened and came up to grip your waist, holding on to you as if you were the only solid thing in his world.

You broke the kiss and began your slow, meticulous worship. Your hands roamed his body, learning the tense lines of his muscles, the frantic beating of his heart. You whispered praises against his skin, telling him how strong he was, how brave. But you also whispered commands, telling him to breathe, to relax, to let go.

Your mouth trailed down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach. He gasped when you reached the waistband of his trousers, his hips twitching in anticipation.

"Patience," you chided gently, your voice a low purr. You undid the laces and pushed the fabric down, freeing his erection. He was hard and hot, throbbing with a desperate need. You took him in your hand, your grip firm and sure. He moaned, his eyes still squeezed shut.

"Look at me," you commanded.

His eyes fluttered open, dazed and pleading.

"I want you to watch," you said, your voice leaving no room for argument. You lowered your head and took him into your mouth, your gaze locked with his.

His back arched, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. You took him slowly, your movements deliberate and teasing. You showed him what it felt like to be powerless in the hands of someone who adored him, to have his pleasure be entirely out of his control. He was so used to powerlessness being a source of pain; you were determined to make it his salvation.

You brought him to the edge again and again, pulling back each time he was about to come, ignoring his choked pleas. You were teaching him to let go, to trust in you completely. Finally, when he was trembling and panting your name like a mantra, you moved up, positioning yourself over him.

You lowered yourself onto his cock, taking him inside you with a slow, deliberate movement that made you both hiss in pleasure. You were hot and tight around him, and he was so full inside you. He tried to thrust up, to take the lead, but you placed your hands on his chest and held him down.

"No," you whispered. "I move. You just feel."

You began to ride him with a slow, grinding rhythm, your eyes never leaving his. You watched his face as you moved, saw the tension melt away, replaced by pure, unadulterated pleasure. This was your gift to him. You took the reins of his body so he could let go of the reins of his life, if only for a few stolen hours.

"You're so good for me," he rasped, his hands now gripping the sheets. "So good."

"I know," you said, leaning down to kiss him deeply. "Let go for me, Telemachus. Come apart. I'll put you back together."

That was all he needed. Your permission to shatter. As you picked up the pace, riding him with a fierce, loving intensity, his control finally broke. His eyes rolled back, and he cried out your name, a raw, ragged sound of pure release. His orgasm ripped through him, a violent, shuddering wave that was more than just physical. It was the release of a week's worth of fear, a month of anger, a lifetime of pressure.

His release triggered your own, a hot, tight wave that pulsed in time with his. You collapsed onto his chest, your breathing ragged, your body slick with sweat. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight.

For a long time, you just lay there, your heartbeats slowing in unison. His arms were wrapped around you, holding on with a desperate strength. The dominant and the submissive were gone, leaving only two friends, two lovers, finding solace in the dark.

"Thank you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion and sleep.

You kissed the top of his head. "You faced them today. You were a prince. Tonight, you rested." You tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet your gaze. "And tomorrow, you will face them again. And I will be there, right where you can see me."

You had to leave before the first hint of dawn, before the palace began to stir. You dressed in silence and slipped from his room, every muscle in your body humming with a pleasant ache.

You took up your new post, just outside the prince's chambers. When a bleary-eyed servant passed, you gave him a curt, dismissive nod. You were the guardian of the palace, a stoic, unreadable figure of authority. No one would ever know that you had spent the night guarding the prince's heart, and that his strength tomorrow would be born from the beautiful, perfect way he had surrendered to you tonight.

[sunnidawn]

👋

[sunnidawn]

Cutey cutey romantic moment because I need the serotonin. And a hands insert shot because I apparently hate myself.

[sunnidawn]

kisses for rumi!

[sunnidawn]

"... You're what??"

[sunnidawn]

Can you draw Penny trying to keep her husband calm during a bath?

Poor guy hates water 😔

:(

[sunnidawn]

"mirror mirror on my phone, who's the baddest?

✨ us, hello? ✨"

[sunnidawn]

Good afternoon today I am thinking about how Calypso hears Odysseus say Penelope's name before she even learns what his name is. She hears “Penelope” before she ever hears “Odysseus.”

And so do we.

In the opening lines of the musical, Odysseus rallies his men by invoking home: “Think of your wives and your children.” We are told so early and so clearly that the impulse that drives him, long before we even know him by name, is love, home, and memory. When the choir asks “What do you fight for?” he first answers: “Penelope.” And then he says it again. And when the prophet Tiresias speaks, when Eurylochus confronts him, when Circe questions his heart, when the gods themselves threaten him and debate his fate, it is always Penelope whose name rises, it is always his wife who is consistenly brought up. Penelope, whose presence is invoked in absence. Penelope, who defines every move he makes.

We learn who his wife is long before he utters his own name, which he only ever does once, in the only saga she's not mentioned. The only time he claims his name aloud is the one time he is wholly severed from her, textually and thematically. Every other chapter of this story, every other trial he endures, echoes with her name. Except this one. Penelope does not enter that cave. Her absence is deafening, and the one time he utters his name instead of hers, it is this exact same act that brings the storm, Poseidon's fury, the years added to their journey. The moment he lets go of her is the moment he is torn from her.

Her name is a refrain in the mouths of gods and monsters, a tether through temptation and torment. If you strip her from the story, you do not simply lose a love interest. You lose the anchor. You lose the tension. You lose the meaning behind every choice Odysseus makes, and every cost he bears.

She is not an afterthought. She is with him from the very beginning and she's the one with him at the very end. She is the centre of the story.

[sunnidawn]

Drooly ahh new born but they still love him