#Princes Dock
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The Port of Liverpool was once Britain's gateway to the New World

Princes Dock, Liverpool
#Princes Dock#Liverpool#Lancashire#Merseyside#seaport#Atlantic Ocean#ocean liners#shipping#trade & commerce#colonies#docklands#Royal Liver Building#British Empire#UK
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ok so remember the little context i talked about of how Scallywag was deadass pretending to be "Lucky" Lancer? and how Donny REALLY believed the act ? and kind of.. genuinely thought she was actually his idol? yea ok lmao let that sink in
get it? sink? because- because the ship drowne- jokes aside i enjoyed working with the symbolizm here, the lil fake angel symbolism and red sea almost the same color as Donny's blood and all that hoohaa .
also fact, Donny and Lancer were related , that why they look a lot alike
i forgor if i shared this here but ok lol
also rosetasma stuff weehee
Taglist:
@candyheartedchy @berryshipbasket
@radaverse @tireddovahkiin
@bloodhoundini @lficanthaveloveiwantpower
@kissingarthurclaus @ree3942 @sunflawyer
@artcomestolife @self-shipping-crow @mothlessmood @blubberbuns @silverlining-ships @ellie-woody
#darknoverse#art#selfshipping community#digital art#oc x canon#scallywag#8 armed willy#🏴☠️shiver me timbers#flapjack oc#the marvelous misadventures of flapjack#selfinsert#selfship#donny docks#rosetasma#prince rosethorn#antasma#thorns of origins#captain lucky lancer
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You know what, while I'm hcing Allen as Del Barian I've decided that im gonna hc Villdas as Evenerean for that one line in Bait and Switch
#bonus headcanon that is was a flying bat fish that came from his left#jelly tarts#the dragon prince#tdp villads#tdp human kingdoms#listen he was just docked in Katolis and Katolis is known as a melting pot and they have a lot of immigrants from other kingdoms
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#abd heartless#heartless abd illustrates#doppel#doppel glass#heartless#glass#flint solveig#eira hale#alchemy valentine#river dial#prince arthyr#krome#brooke#alastor creed#lorelei l'angenue#dock#bandy bellamis#lance lothaire#diana shikari
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i don’t think neve can dance for shit. i also think this doesn’t stop magpie from dragging her onto the dance floor at the cobbled swan after a few glasses of the (extremely expensive) wine lucanis ordered for them. i think she would Try to teach her a few basic steps but it would very quickly devolve into twirling her around until neither of them can stop laughing and stumbling into each other while lucanis watches with his big stupid baby cow eyes full of the sweetest and most tender affection one man has ever held in his dumb little body.
#i’m NOT writing today. i’m not. but i Am rotating this in my head anyway#it’s all very dramatic and exaggerated. bc it’s magpie. she bows so low and kisses neve’s hand so gently#like this is an orlesian ball and not a dock town bar#which no matter how often she rolls her eyes at magpie’s little prince routine it still makes neve blush.#magpie obvs drags lucanis out there too afterward#and they step on each others toes a billion times because he isn’t used to letting someone else lead#but the thing is it’s perfect. every bit of it.#:(((( they deserve a nice date night. they earned it.#漫言#oc. magpie#r. make a mercy of me
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Oh wow. Everyone was applauding, but he couldn't help but feel awkward. Did he just watch someone get demoted?
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BMO 4EVER
#adventure time bmo#bmo#fionna x flame prince#fionna and cake#finn and jake#nintendo switch#switch dock
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Liverpool Cruise Terminal, Prince's Dock, Liverpool, August 2023
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it’s an Anna/Dean fic if Anna is the little mermaid. it is NOT a destiel fic if Castiel is the little mermaid. to be clear.
#the Anna/Dean version is much more straightforwardly the story of the little mermaid with them in starring roles#and also sam and Lucifer shenanigans in the background#but the Castiel version is a lot more complicated. a lot more focused on the idea of love used as escapism.#castiel gets two legs to go meet his prince and waiting for their love story to begin. and it never does.#Aro!Dean in my little mermaid au? it’s more likely than you think#so Castiel is in an impossible situation but making the best of it. (he’ll be fine. Sam is busy melting Lucifer’s icy heart with shenanigans#u should know this is a Balthazar/Castiel story. to me. Balthazar won’t take legs but he will wait too close to the docks even knowing the#fishing nets might catch his tail every day waiting for Castiel to tell him he’s still safe and alive.#Michael starting as the king of mermaids. he had issues. Raphael starring as the one who gives Castiel the option to kill dean to come home.#not cruelly not maliciously. because they love Castiel. and he cannot come home otherwise. he will turn to sea foam. Raphael looks after#their mermaids.#also starting Gabriel as inexplicably able to walk on land and live in the sea in a plot relevant way
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From “Chapter 3 Let the World Beware!” in Fantastic Four #4, May 1962. Stan Lee script, Jack Kirby pencils, Sol Brodsky inks, Stan Goldberg original colors, Artie Simek letters. Photoshop color reduction.
#chapter 3 let the world beware#let the world beware#fantastic four#fantastic four 4#stan lee#jack kirby#sol brodsky#stan goldberg#artie simek#dock#sub mariner#submariner#earth's mightiest mortal#prince namor#comics#marvel#marvel comics#comic books#silver age comics#1960s#rant#namor
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31st March
Easter Sunday/ Easter Day

Source: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints website
In 2024, today is Easter Sunday, or Easter Day. Easter is the apex of Christian worship, commemorating the moment that Jesus allegedly proved his Godhead by emerging alive from his tomb after his apparent death by crucifixion two days before. Although in the Gospel accounts, the risen Jesus does appear as a somewhat metaphysical figure when visiting his Apostles, the Evangelists are keen to emphasise Christ’s corporeal humanity, and dismiss claims that he may have been a ghost. The Resurrection, and the redemption of all Mankind’s sins that it represents, is what defines Christianity as a universal religion.
A number of traditions and folkloric myths are associated with Easter Sunday. Apparently mermaids are frequently spotted. As midnight chimes on Easter Eve, a mermaid swims in the Downfall, a waterfall near Kinder Reservoir in Derbyshire. Depending on her mood, this mermaid, who is an incarnation of a Celtic water goddess, will grant a visitor eternal life, or bestow instant death. The rising sun is also said to bow or to dance on Easter morning, in recognition of the Resurrection. Easter was often a day of feasting after the long abstinences of Lent, with Dock Pudding being a favoured delicacy. At Lostwithiel in Cornwall, the day’s feasting would be presided over by an elected Mock Prince, in an echo of the Lord of Misrule figure from Christmastide. In a direct reference to the original spring festivals which the Christian Easter supplanted, on the Welsh Borders, the Easter feast would take place outdoors, in a corn field. The picnic was known as corn-showing.
Easter Day was also the traditional time for the dousing of household fires in recognition of the slowly rising temperatures of spring. Flowers would traditionally be brought indoors from Easter onward and placed the now unlit hearths to indicate the end of winter. New clothes are also recommended at Easter for good luck and, curiously, if the wearer’s gladrags were ‘shat on from a great height’ by irreverent birds on Easter Day, then this was considered a great blessing.
#easter#easter sunday#easter day#the resurrection of jesus#christianity#mermaids#kinder reservoir#dock pudding#mock prince#corn showing
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it's MAR10 , you know what that means!
i wanted to make more softer cozier pieces with them waaaa i love them so very much, i love Antasma
also have some scallywag doodles because ehehee i love her
and lil thing ft Regina @goblin-in-shorts

Taglist:
@candyheartedchy @berryshipbasket
@radaverse @tireddovahkiin
@bloodhoundini @lficanthaveloveiwantpower
@rexscanonwife @ree3942 @sunflawyer
@artcomestolife @self-shipping-crow @mothlessmood @blubberbuns @silverlining-ships @ellie-woody
#darknoverse#art#selfshipping community#digital art#oc x canon#scallywag#8 armed willy#🏴☠️shiver me timbers#flapjack oc#the marvelous misadventures of flapjack#selfinsert#rosetasma#antasma#prince rosethorn#thorns of origins#captain lucky lancer#donny docks
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Prince's Dock Footbridge, Liverpool
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#abd heartless#heartless abd illustrates#doppel#doppel glass#heartless#flint solveig#glass#bandy bellamis#dock#alastor creed#lorelei l'angenue#diana shikari#krome#prince arthyr#alchemy valentine#eira hale#lance lothaire#brooke
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the prince of monaco - cl16

pairing: prince! charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which a sad prince and a common girl cross paths or charles and you find yourself in a forbidden romance warnings: ANGST, smut, language!!! idk what else I'm missing. ANGST ANGST ANGST. not proofread. word count: 5.6k authors note: SURPRISEEEEEE! FIRST CHARLES FIC OF THE YEAR FINALLY. i hope you guys like it & i know you might haaate my guts after but it had to be done LOL. let me know what you think!! love hearing from y’all ALWAYS. xoxo

The palace was too quiet at night. Not peaceful. Hollow.
The kind of silence that rang in your ears and made your own breath sound like betrayal.
Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath Charles’s bare feet, cold and gleaming under the antique chandeliers. He wandered them like a ghost…aimless, invisible, half-dead in a golden cage. A prince draped in silk robes and golden obligations, walking the halls of a kingdom he no longer wanted.
Every corridor smelled like lemon polish and old money. Every portrait he passed stared down with painted eyes. Kings and queens carved from duty, immortalized in oil and expectation.
But Charles wasn’t thinking of them.
His mind was across the city, far from the manicured courtyards and diplomatic smiles. He was with you.
In that cramped little room above Le Vieux Lion, where the wallpaper peeled and the sheets smelled like your perfume.
Where the sea didn’t sparkle for tourists, it slapped the dock with rage. Where the nights weren’t silent, they breathed. They lived.
Where he remembered what it felt like to be wanted, not needed.
He hadn’t seen you in a week. Not since the news.
His father, Sovereign Prince of Monaco, had announced the engagement over dinner, voice as calm as a guillotine dropping.
An alliance. A family legacy. A strategic merger in the form of a wedding.
His mother didn’t blink, just reached for her wine. His sister, seated to his left, squeezed his hand beneath the table…the only rebellion anyone dared to offer.
Charles didn’t say a word.
Not when they showed him the ring.
Not when the date was set.
Not even when the royal tailor measured him for the suit he’d wear to sign away the rest of his life.
He waited. Watched. Swallowed it all.
And then he left.
He didn’t take the servant’s route. Didn’t don a disguise.
He walked straight out the east wing, through the marble archway, silk robe replaced by a hoodie. Soft, frayed, yours.
He pulled it tight around himself like armor and slipped into the black car waiting at the edge of the drive. No driver asked where he was going. The guards didn’t move. They knew better than to ask.
-
Two Years Earlier
The night air outside was warm and heavy with salt. One of those late summer nights where the heat stuck to your skin like a secret. Inside the bar, the ceiling fan creaked in slow, useless circles, stirring nothing but stale smoke and the lingering bitterness of spilled gin.
You were behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, fingers aching from a double shift. The radio played some old French dude, warbling about heartbreak and cigarettes like he’d invented them. A few regulars lingered, quiet and slumped, clinging to their glasses like lifeboats.
That’s when the door creaked open, and he walked in.
Not stumbled, walked. Like he owned the damn place. Like Monaco wasn’t five miles of tight streets and old money and marble prisons, and he wasn’t one of the poor bastards with a crown stitched into his skin.
He looked wrong in the best way.
Dark jeans, leather jacket that probably cost more than your rent. Hair slightly tousled like he wanted it to look like he hadn’t just stepped out of a car worth six figures. And that face…familiar in the way a storm cloud is familiar. You know it’s going to ruin you before it even arrives.
He had that smile. The kind women warn their friends about. Lazy. Expensive. Designed for headlines.
“Got anything that won’t kill me?” He asked, voice smooth like old bourbon, like he already knew you’d give him what he wanted.
You didn’t even glance up. Just kept wiping down the bar with a rag that had fought too many battles.
“That depends,” you said flatly. “You allergic to alcohol, or just fragile?”
The silence that followed was sharp, then broken by a laugh. Low. Rich. Surprised. Like no one had spoken to him like that in years.
“I like you already,” he said.
“Tragic,” you muttered, finally giving him a look. “I already want you to leave.”
He blinked, caught off guard. And then his grin widened, teeth white against the soft shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“What’s your name?” He asked, eyes flicking down, then back up. Slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing you.
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s yours?”
“Charles,” he said smoothly, like the name should mean something.
You gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “Charles. No last name? No title? You forgot the part where you tell me you’re a libra and looking for a real connection.”
He leaned forward on his elbows, mouth tugging into a smirk. “I am a libra, actually.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
“Of course you are.” You turned, grabbing the cleanest glass you could fine, and poured something sharp and unmerciful into it. “Here. Drink. Leave, Or don’t. Just don’t flirt with me like I’m stupid.”
He took the glass, eyes still on you. Sipped. Winced, just slightly, not used to the burn, but didn’t complain.
He liked it.
You could tell.
You were already walking away when he said it, voice low but clear:
“You still didn’t tell me your name.”
You didn’t stop. Just threw a look over your shoulder, that half-smirk you saved for people who thought they were too clever.
“If you come back tomorrow,” you said, “maybe I’ll lie and give you one.”
He stayed until close.
-
The door opened with a soft groan, that old, familiar hinge that had screamed a hundred comings and goings. But this time, it was different. The air changed. You felt it before you saw him.
The hum of the bar dimmed. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed near the back. But your hands paused, just briefly, over the half-dried wine glass in your fingers.
And then, there he was. In the doorway.
He leaned against the frame like he had all the time in the world—wearing the same leather jacket, but tonight it was zipped halfway down, revealing a black shirt that clung just enough to his chest to make your stomach tighten. His hair was messier, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Or maybe he wanted it to look like someone else had.
His eyes found you instantly. No scan of the room. No pretense. Just direct, deliberate contact, like he’d been thinking about you all day and came to see if the memory lived up to the real thing.
It did.
You didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. Just raised a brow and went back to your glass.
He crossed the room slowly, like he knew the weight of every step. Like he was aware that people were watching him but didn’t care. Or maybe he liked it. Maybe he liked knowing he could have anyone in the room. Except the only one he wanted still hadn’t given him her name.
He slid into the same stool as the night before, elbows on the bar, that same infuriating smirk curling at his mouth.
“I came back,” he said. Voice low, warm. Like a promise you shouldn’t believe.
“I noticed,” you replied, not looking at him as you reached for a fresh glass. “Didn’t expect Monaco’s golden boy to slum it two nights in a row.”
He chuckled…and God, the sound was dangerous.
“Slumming it,” he echoed. “That what you think this is?”
You finally looked at him…fully, openly. And it hit you like a slow, burning wave. He was too close. Too handsome. Too confident in a way that wasn’t just money or power. It was something in his eyes—that flicker of hunger, of loneliness, of knowing what he wanted and hating himself for wanting it.
“This isn’t your world,” you said quietly. “You don’t belong here.”
He leaned in a little. Not enough to touch. Just enough that your breath caught.
“No,” he murmured. “But it’s yours.”
Your heart stuttered. You hated the way he said it. Like it was a confession wrapped in silk. Like he didn’t mean to mean it, but he did.
You slid the drink in front of him, fingers brushing his just barely…and even that felt like too much.
“You being here is a bad idea.” You whispered.
His eyes were on your mouth now. His smile was gone. “Then stop me.”
You didn’t stop him.
And he didn’t leave.
-
He kept coming back.
Not with fanfare. Not like royalty.
But quietly. Always late, always alone.
There were no photographers waiting outside, no clipped palace escorts, no watchful guards trailing behind him. He wore anonymity like armor. Hood pulled low, hands in pockets, head slightly down like he didn’t want the world to recognize him. Or maybe he didn’t care if it did.
He came as Charles. Not as a prince. Not as a future king. Just…Charles.
Worn leather jacket, soft hoodie, shadows beneath his eyes, and the kind of smile that looked like it had forgotten how to be whole. He smelled like night air and something faintly bitter—like espresso left too long in the pot. And every time he looked at you, it would felt like you were being read, not watched. Like he saw every layer you tried to keep hidden behind sarcasm and smoke.
You hated how much you liked it.
-
At first, he sat at the bar.
Always in the same stool, hands cradling a chipped tumbler of whiskey he nursed more for the comfort than the taste. He didn’t flirt. Not outright. He asked about your night, the music, the bar fights you’d broken up over that week. He smirked at your answers, raised an eyebrow at your insults. Said your name like he was trying to memorize the shape of it in his mouth.
You tried not to care.
Tried not to notice the way he leaned in, just slightly, whenever you spoke.
Tried not to wonder why a man with the world at his feet kept choosing your tiny corner of it.
But he did.
-
Then, one night, you turned around and he was behind the bar.
Not on the customer’s side, but on yours.
He leaned casually against the shelves like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just crossed the invisible line between your world and his.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You asked, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the irritation, or the pulse suddenly roaring in your ears.
He held up a wine glass and a dish rag with a crooked grin. “Thought I’d lend a hand.”
“You’re holding that like it insulted you.”
“Could be worse,” he said, examining the stem with mock seriousness. “Could be holding my dignity. But I think I left that back at the palace.”
You snorted despite yourself. “You’re useless.”
He leaned in closer, voice lowering just enough to stir something under your ribs. “And yet…you haven’t told me to leave.”
You said nothing. But your silence felt like permission.
-
He started coming earlier. Staying later.
He’d drift in before your shift ended, slip through the back door like he belonged there. Sometimes he brought pastries, sometimes coffee. Once, inexplicably, a worn book littered with his handwriting on the pages.
“Though you might like this one,” he’d said with a shrug.
He’d sit in your space like it was second nature. Perching on the edge of the counter, watching you work, making soft commentary on your music taste.
“You play the same six songs,” he’d mutter, clicking through your ancient playlist.
“They’re classics.”
“They’re depressing.”
You glanced at him. “So are you.”
He smiled softly. “That’s probably why I keep coming back here.”
-
He asked you questions no one else dared.
Not the polite kind. Not surface things. He wanted the bones. The quiet hurts. The dreams you hadn’t spoken out loud before. Sometimes you answered. Sometimes you didn’t. But you never once, told him to stop asking.
And in return, he gave you pieces of himself. Unvarnished ones. The kind they didn’t print in the magazines.
“I hate the palace,” he confessed once, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach you. “Every room echoes. You start to wonder if you exist as all, or if you’re just…noise in a marble tomb.”
You didn’t reply. You just glanced at him until he did that thing with his jaw, the clench, like he’d said too much. Like he was scared of how much he wanted you to hear it.
-
There were moments when it felt like something would snap.
His hand brushing yours when you passed him a glass…not on accident, not anymore. His fingers would linger a fraction too long, just enough to let your pulse stutter, just enough to make you feel it later, alone in the dark.
The way he leaned in when he spoke, low and close, his breath grazing your neck, your jaw, the edge of your mouth like a secret he hadn’t confessed yet.
You stopped hearing his words. You only felt them.
You knew the shape of his mouth now. The way his bottom lip curved when he was trying not to smile. The faint pink of it after a drink. The way it moved when he said your name, like it was something he wanted, no needed, to taste.
And you hated it.
How much you wanted him to.
-
One night, while you closed up, the lights were low, doors locked, just you and the hum of the city outside...you caught him watching you.
Really watching.
He stood behind the bar, hands in his pockets, posture casual. But his eyes were anything bit. They followed you like he was hungry. Like he was memorizing the way your shoulders moved beneath your shirt, the way your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, the way your lips parted whenever you sighed without realizing it.
He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.
You leaned on the bar, trying to keep your voice steady, playful. “You always this much of a romantic?”
He didn’t smirk. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, his gaze flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. It was so fast that you could’ve missed it. But you didn’t.
“No,” he said. His voice rougher than usual. “Just with you.”
Your breath caught. Just for a second.
Your lips parted, something sharp and stupid rising. A comeback, a deflection. But nothing came out.
Your lips moved, then stopped.
And he looked away, jaw tight.
Not because he didn’t want to see what you were about to say. But because he already knew. And he couldn’t bear it.
-
The bar was quieter than usual. Only the hum of the cooler and the occasional creak of the old wood floor filled the silence. Rain tapped softly against the windows, more mist than storm, casting blurry halos around the streetlamp outside.
You should’ve been locking up. Should’ve told him to go.
But he was sitting at the bar again, legs swinging slowly, drink untouched, eyes on you like he was waiting for something neither of you could name.
And you weren’t moving. Not really.
You were pretending to count the bottles behind the counter, pretending your hands weren’t trembling just slightly, pretending you didn’t feel the way the air between you hadn’t changed.
Thicker now. Heavier. Laced with heat.
“I think about you,” he said suddenly, voice low—like he hadn’t meant to speak but couldn’t hold it back anymore.
Your fingers pause over a single bottle.
“In meetings. In cars. In rooms where I’m supposed to be someone I don’t even recognize anymore.” His voice dipped, softening, unraveling. “I think about this bar. About you.”
You swallowed hard. “Charles—“
"I know,” he cut in. “Don’t say it. Don’t say we shouldn’t.”
He slid off the bar in one fluid movement and stepped around it…slow, deliberate, as if trying to give you every chance to stop him. You didn’t.
Now he was standing in front of you. Too close.
The kind of close where the heat of him was brushing against your skin, where you could smell the rain still clinging to his clothes and the hint of citrus on his breath.
His hand hovered between you. Not touching. Just hanging there in the space that ached for more.
“Just…let me look at you.” He mutters, eyes sad.
You didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.
His fingers rose slowly, the knuckles of fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. Like even that felt too intimate. Too much.
But it wasn’t enough. God, it wasn’t even close to enough.
His hand turned, fingertips now tracing the line of your cheekbones. Featherlight. The kind of touch that wasn’t claiming, just asking.
He steps closer, close enough that your chests are nearly pressed together with every breath of air.
His thumb slid under your jaw, tilting your face up, and his eyes were fire and ruin and something devastatingly gentle all at once. Like he wanted to memorize you the way people memorize song lyrics. The way they memorize prayers.
His lips part and your heart nearly stops.
Then, he pulls back. Just an inch.
Just enough to break the spell. He stared at you like he hated himself for stopping.
His hand drops to his side like it weighed too much to carry.
Then, just barely, you whisper, “why didn’t you kiss me?”
He sighs, like your words physically pain him.
“Because if I do,” he says, voice wrecked. “I won’t stop.”
-
It was the first time in weeks you’d let yourself be seen.
You didn’t know if it was the dress; midnight black, backless, clinging to you like it had been painted on, or the third drink warming your veins, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about him.
Or at least, you were trying not to.
The music was low and sexy. Your friends circled you, glittering and laughing, pulling you toward the edge of the dance floor under the pink-gold haze of the club lights. You let them. You let yourself move. Let yourself laugh. Let your head tilt back when that guy James said something cocky but charming into your ear.
His hand found your hip, just light enough to feel like suggestion, not possession. And you let him keep it there.
Because Charles wasn’t here.
Because tonight, you weren’t the girl in the back of the run-down bar, aching for something she couldn’t have.
You were fun. You were untouchable. You were free.
And then, you felt it.
The shift in the room was subtle at first, like a low pressure drop before a storm. You felt it in your spine. In the way the air thickened, charged. In the sudden awareness that someone was looking a you.
You turned. Slowly.
And there he was.
Charles.
Backlit by golden light, framed by the glint of glass and sweat and movement, he looked like something that didn’t belong here. Or maybe something that the room had been waiting for.
Black shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair falling just wrong over his forehead. Jaw tight, mouth set in something between a smirk and a snarl. Like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself to do it.
He looked like sin. Like power on the edge of unraveling.
And his eyes. Locked on you.
Not the room.
Not the crowd.
Not even James.
Just you.
And when his gaze dropped. To the hand on your waist, the fingertips sprawled against your waist, to the way James leaned in a little too close. Something dark flickered across his face.
Something in him burned. You saw it. Felt it.
Like a wire snapped behind his ribs and now he couldn’t breathe.
His jaw locked. His chest rose once, slow and sharp, like even breathing had become too dangerous. Like just standing there and not touching you took every ounce of control he had left.
The heat in his stare could’ve burned a hole through you.
James leaned in closer. “You okay?”
You blinked and swallowed. Tried to smile. “Yeah,” you said. “Just—“
Your eyes flicked back to the bar. He was still there. Still watching. Still not moving.
James turned to follow your gaze. “I can’t believe he’s here. That’s so cool”
“Yeah…me either.”
People moved out of his way without realizing they had. They parted instinctively, like water bending around stone. Like the room itself knew who he was.
They didn’t see the crown. They felt the weight of it.
Royalty cloaked in rage and want, striding toward the storm.
Toward you.
-
The air was hot and heady, choked with perfume and alcohol and the sound of people trying too hard to feel something. The lights pulsed like a heartbeat. It was too fast. Too bright.
He didn’t want to be here. But anywhere was better than the palace.
He spotted her instantly. As if his body already knew where to look before his eyes did. The same way it always did. Like your presence had carved out a space in him long before he even touched you.
You stood near the edge of the crowd, black dress hugging you like a second skin, eyes bright, mouth curved in something that looked like a laugh.
And beside you. Another man.
The hand on your waist, the smug, lazy confidence of someone who didn’t know how precious what he was touching actually was.
The way he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, like your body was already his to own.
Like your heart didn’t already belong to someone else. Him.
Charles stopped breathing.
The sound around him blurred into static. His hands curled into fists in his pockets, nails biting into his palms.
Something sharp twisted low in the pit of his stomach.
Jealousy wasn’t the word for it.
This was grief. This was rage. This was how dare you.
How dare you let someone touch you where he should’ve touched you.
How dare you pretend you’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand one breath from kissing.
-
The club was still pushing behind you, the laughter and sweat and lights bleeding through the walls…but here, in this narrow, dim corridor, it was just the two of you.
Too close. Too quiet.
Too dangerous.
He’d pulled you through the curtain without a word, fingers laced with yours like a vice, dragging you past confused glances and stunned silence. You’d followed, furious, breathless, burning.
Now, you were pressed against the wall, your back flush to the cold stone, your heart thundering like it wanted out of your chest.
And he was standing in front of you. Pacing. Seething. Unraveling.
“What the fuck was that?” He hissed, his voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “Letting him touch you like that…was that supposed to hurt me? Was that the point?”
You scoffed, folding your arms to keep from grabbing him by the collar. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
He stopped pacing. His head turned slowly, jaw locked tight.
“You think I don’t see it?” He growled. “The way you look at me? Like you’re still waiting for something to happen, even though you know it can’t?”
Another step. His body inches from yours.
“You shouldn’t have worn that dress.”
Your voice shook when you said it: “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I know.”
His hand slams against the wall beside your head, not to scare you, just to steady himself. His face was too close now. The warmth of him coiled into your skin. His eyes search yours, wild and desperate and so goddamn full of want that it hurt.
“You’re not his,” he whispered.
You stalled. “Im not yours, either.”
He leaned in closer, mouth almost brushing yours, his breath warm and ragged.
“Say that again,” he dared.
You couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you.
“I hate you,” you breathed.
“I know,” he said, voice breaking.
And then he kissed you.
Hard. Desperate. Starving.
His hands cup your face like he’d dreamt of this a hundred times and never thought he’d actually get to feel it. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, yanking him closer, closer—mouths crashing like waves, clashing with every single ounce of frustration and ache.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t even polite.
It was heat and fury and I’ve wanted this for so long tangled in every brush of lips, every muffled groan, every helpless moan he pulled from your throat.
He kissed you like it hurt.
Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
-
You don’t remember the walk to your apartment. Just the quiet tension between you. The warmth of his hand brushing yours but never holding it. The hum in your chest that hadn’t stopped since he kissed you.
You unlocked the door with trembling fingers. Left the light off. You didn’t need to see the room. You needed to feel him.
You tugged at his shirt, breath hitching as your fingertips brushed skin. His hands were all over you now, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted them. Your back, your hips, your jaw, gentle and desperate at once.
He knew he shouldn’t be here. Not in your apartment. Not in your bed. Not looking down at you like you were something he’d prayed for and never dared to ask.
But he was. And he couldn’t stop if he tried.
You were under him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your breath catching every time his fingers traced skin. And all he could think, over and over, was mine.
You arched into him, and he couldn’t stop the sound that tore from his throat.
Every inch of you was fire and familiarity, like his hands memorized your body before even touching it. Your thighs wrapped around his hips, nails dragged down his back.
He groaned into your skin, forehead pressed to your collarbone.
“Are you sure?”
She nods, breathless. “You’re already here.”
It was more than permission. It was a confession.
And when he sank into you slowly, carefully, the world full on stopped.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed.
It was slow. Intimate. Almost painful in how good it felt, like every thirst was peeling back layers they’d spent building.
Moans swallowed into kisses. Skin against skin. Fingers tangled. Whispers like promises neither of them could keep.
He touched her like she was sacred. She kissed him like she’d never get the chance again.
“You look so good like this,” he murmured, voice thick with awe, like the sight of you beneath him had knocked the breath clean from his chest.
His lips trailed along your jawline, slow open-mouthed kisses dragging fire across your skin. He wasn’t in a rush. He wanted to taste every inch of you. To savor.
You gasped softly when he reached the hollow beneath your ear, and he felt it. The sharp intake of breath, the way your body arched, the flutter of your pulse under his tongue.
His hand slid along your waist, fingers pressing gently into your hip as he anchored himself to you, like he didn’t trust that this moment was real.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were heavy, glazed with want, lips parted and trembling.
And he couldn’t help it. He smiled. Not his royal smile. Not the careful, curated one they taught him to wear.
This one was raw. Private.
Just for you.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, brushing his nose along yours.
Your fingers reached up, sliding into his hair, and you pulled him back down. Kissed him like he was air, like he was yours.
And Charles, normally composed, trained, restrained. Melted.
Right there, into your mouth. Into your body. Into you.
-
Present Day
You’re pacing now, your bare feet silent on the floor that suddenly feels too cold, too clean, and your hands are shaking. Not violently or visibly, but enough that you can feel your pulse throb between your fingers.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice not quite a scream but not quiet.
You turn to face him and he’s just standing there. Standing in the middle of your living room like he doesn’t belong to any part of it, like he’s not the reason everything in your body burns and aches.
“You should’ve looked me in the eye,” you breath is shaking now, “and told me you were going to marry her before I had to read it on a fucking television screen.”
He winces. But he doesn’t argue.
Of course he fucking doesn’t.
He never fights when it counts. He just lets things happen.
“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly. As if saying it softer will make it less cruel.
“Oh,” you laugh now. It’s sharp and ugly. “You were goingto?”
You arms fold across your chest because you need something. Anything. To hold on to.
“When?” You ask. Its a quiet kind of fury, tighter and more precise. “After the ring was on her finger? After the palace sent out save-the-dates? Or were you planning to do it after your wedding night, when you needed someone else to fuck.”
His eyes flash and there’s something wild there now, wounded and defensive, but he doesn’t move.
“You don’t get to do this,” your voice trembles. “You don’t get to kiss me, hold me, say things to me like they meant something, and then just leave.”
His jaw tightens but his hands are clenched at his sides. He won’t interrupt you and it only makes you angrier. Because he’s so calm. So composed.
“You were never a detour,” he says. Finally.
“Then what was I?” You ask, and your voice breaks. “What the fuck was I to you?”
His voice rises now, like he’s been holding it in for hours, for years.
“I didn’t want this!” He shouts. “Do you think I wanted to fall in love with you? To walk into a bar and meet someone who made me question everything I’ve spent my whole life being told I have to be?”
You blink, completely startled by the honesty in his voice. With the way it sounds like he’s choking on his words.
“Then why are you still choosing her?” Your voice softer. “Why are you marrying someone you don’t love?”
He looks at you like he’s bleeding. “Because I don’t have a choice. Because if I don’t marry her, everything I’ve spent my entire life preparing for. The crown, the country, the people. It all falls apart.”
“No,” You say, eyes locked on him. “It doesn’t fall apart. You’re just afraid.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“God,” you laugh. “You’re a fucking coward.”
He’s still just standing there. Looking at you like he’s drowning, like he knows what he’s about to do will haunt him forever. But he’s going to do it anyways.
That’s what love looks like.
A crown. A cage. And the person you would burn for walking away because the fire scares them.
“You don’t get to look at me like that.”
His brows furrow, “Like what?”
“Like I’m the one breaking your heart.”
He flinches. Just barely.
But you see it. You always do.
You walk to the sink, turning away from him, and turn the faucet on just to do something. “I hope she’s worth it.”
Charles swallows hard. “Don’t do that.”
You spin, your hands still dripping with water. “Don’t what? Don’t act like I’m the one being unreasonable while you walk away from the only thing that ever made you feel something?”
“I feel everything with you!” He yells, words bursting from his throat. “Every time I’m with you, I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t think. I can’t fucking sleep. I walk into the palace and I feel your hands on me like they’re branded there. I see your face in every goddamn crowd. I dream about you when I have to lie next to her, and I hate myself for it.”
You blink. Staggered. But he’s not done.
“You think this is easy for me?” His voice breaks now. “You think I don’t want to choose you? That I haven’t stopped and stood in front of almost every mirror rehearsing how I’d say the words I’m done? That I haven’t imagined running, just running, until I could crawl into your bed and never leave?”
“Then do it,” you cry. “Fucking do it!”
He stares at you, breath heaving, soaked in silence.
And then softly he says, too softly. “I'm not brave enough.”
And that’s what finally does it. Your heart breaks in full. Like a dam giving way.
You let out a harsh sob that tastes like surrender. You push past him, hand over your mouth, body shaking as you try to hold yourself together.
But he follows.
“Don’t,” you say. “Please don’t—“
But his hands are already on you. Not to claim, not to kiss. Just to hold. Just to feel you. His arms wrap around your back like he doesn’t know what to do. His face buries into your neck, and you feel it. His breath hitching, his shoulders trembling.
He’s crying.
“I love you,” he says, muffled. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
And you sob harder. Because that’s what makes it worse.
Because he means it. And it’s still not enough.
#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc#f1 imagines#f1 x reader#charles leclerc angst#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc fic#f1 imagine#f1 x female reader#f1 x y/n#f1 x you#f1 one shot
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Lover Boy


. Summary: After years of stolen glances, unfortunate interruptions, and sneaking out of the palace, Telemachus finally musters the courage to confess to you, well… not without a little help, of course. . Pairing: Telemachus x gn! Reader . Warnings: None . Notes: This one had been rotting in the drafts for a while. You can all thank @selena-of-ithaca for inspiring me to finish it! I will probably be doing a second part of this closer to what the request originally was cause it left me thinking about some ideas I wanna explore Art taken from duvetbox's animatic of Legendary Stars devider made by @saradika-graphics, taken from this post

You can say what you will about love at first sight—that it's not real, that it's just an exaggeration poets use to get their point across. But for Telemachus, it was real. Way too real. He just didn't know it at the time.
The first time he saw you, he was just a boy, running from the suffocating walls of the palace. It had stopped feeling like a home—what it was supposed to be—and had become a den. He felt like a lone sheep trapped in a cave full of wolves, and there was no escape. He couldn't leave. He had duties, responsibilities. And most importantly, his mother needed him.
Ever since the suitors had stormed in, treating the palace and everyone inside it as if they were nothing, life had become unbearable. The halls were filled with laughter that wasn't joyful, voices that weren't kind. Every step he took had to be careful, every turn of a corner calculated, just to avoid crossing paths with them. It didn't matter that he was the prince, the heir to Ithaca's throne—his title held no weight with them.
He felt like he was drowning, even though he stood on solid ground.
So naturally, he went to the beach. Or at least, that's where he intended to go. Lost in his thoughts, his mind running rampant, he barely noticed where his feet were taking him. He was halfway down the docks when he collided with someone—hard. The impact sent both of you to the ground, and something clattered beside you.
"Are you alright?"
The voice reached him before he even opened his eyes. The blow had forced them shut, but when he finally blinked them open, the sight before him left him speechless.
At the time, he would've chalked it up to embarrassment. Maybe that was part of it. But looking back, he thought maybe—just maybe—he knew you were the one right then and there, even if he hadn't fully realized it yet.
"Uh... hello?" You waved a hand in front of his face. That snapped him out of his daze, but before he could speak, another voice cut through.
"Kid!"
Both of you turned in unison. A man stood at the edge of the docks—a gruff, towering figure with a bit of gray streaking through his hair. His arms, covered in calluses and old scars, looked like they belonged to someone who could crush a person with a single tap. But you knew better. You knew his heart was made of gold.
"What happened? Are you alright? I knew I shouldn't have let you hold the spears," the man grumbled, his deep voice thick with concern.
"Dad," you muttered, a hint of embarrassment creeping into your tone.
But he wasn't listening. He kept going, mumbling about how he should keep a better eye on you.
"Dad! I'm alright," you reassured him, then turned back to Telemachus—though at the time, you didn't know his name. "Are you?"
He nodded quickly, still a bit unsettled by the sheer presence of your father.
"See? Everything's fine." That seemed to calm the man, at least a little.
You rose from the ground, dusting yourself off before gathering the fallen spears. With one hand, you picked them up. With the other, you reached down and helped Telemachus to his feet.
Your father studied him with a keen eye. "What's your name, son?"
"Telemachus, sir." Anyone could hear the uncertainty in his voice.
Your father's brows lifted slightly. "The prince? What are you doing all the way out here?"
"I just wanted to take a stroll along the beach." Telemachus gestured toward the shore—a more desolate place, one few people ever ventured to.
"Oh, well, that's always a delight to see," your father said with a knowing smile. "Why don't you take [Name] with you? They love going there."
"Dad!"
Heat rushed to your face. That was all you could muster in your embarrassment.
"What?" Your father shrugged. "You could use a break. You need friends your age, anyway." He muttered the last part, but it was loud enough for Telemachus to hear—making your face burn even more.
That day was the first of many.
Over the next ten years, you and Telemachus built something unshakable—a bond carefully woven over time. And in those years, Telemachus came to a realization.
He liked you.
Really liked you.
He had always been hesitant to use the word love. He had never really seen it with his own eyes—not the kind poets spoke of. He had never met his father, and his mother had spent most of his life waiting, praying for Odysseus to return. He supposed the strength she carried was love, in its own way. But he had never seen it in action.
And the years had only made it harder. The suitors had grown more desperate, more dangerous, stripping away every ounce of his attention and confidence.
But then—after twenty long, agonizing years—his father came home.
Everything changed.
In the first few weeks, Telemachus watched his parents reunite. He saw the way they cherished each other, how they barely left each other's side. He saw love in the way they looked at one another, in the way his father reached for his mother's hand without thinking, in the way she smiled as if she had been holding her breath for two decades and could finally exhale.
And that's when he knew.
That's what he wanted.
He wanted to hold your hand, wanted to make you smile—not that he didn't already manage to do that. He wanted to wake up by your side, to trace soft, chaste kisses along your face. He wanted to look into your eyes and, without a single word, know that you both felt the same, that you loved each other.
The only problem was... he didn't know how.
And, gods, he was scared.
──────💗──────
Odysseus made his rounds through town, as he had made a habit of doing ever since returning home. He liked watching the people go about their day, seeing the town buzz with life. He took in every sound, every movement, every face. After spending so many years without proper human interaction, he had learned to appreciate the small things.
That, of course, didn't mean he didn't make time for his family. If anything, he dreaded the moments he had to spend away from them to tend to his duties. That was why, when his son volunteered to accompany him to the docks, he was ecstatic. His mind raced with possible conversation topics, excited at the rare opportunity to bond with Telemachus outside the walls of the palace.
But as they walked, it became increasingly clear that the conversation was more one-sided than he would have liked. Telemachus seemed distracted, his gaze scanning the crowd as if searching for something. Or someone.
Normally, Odysseus might have felt a twinge of disappointment at his son's lack of attention. But then he spotted you, helping your father unload the fishing boat. And then he noticed his son—staring directly at you, his hands fidgeting at his sides before he wiped them on his tunic, as if trying to get rid of sudden clamminess.
Oh. That explained it.
Odysseus' observation skills might have been rusty, but he wasn't stupid.
"Do you want to go talk to them?"
Telemachus nearly jumped out of his skin, his head snapping toward his father. "I— I already do talk to them! We're friends."
Odysseus raised an eyebrow with skepticism. "Friends?"
"Yes!" Telemachus insisted, a little too quickly. His cheeks, however, betrayed him as they flushed red.
"Then you wouldn't mind if I introduced myself?"
Telemachus gave him an incredulous look. "You're the king. They already know who you are!"
"Yes, well, I never personally introduced myself," Odysseus replied smoothly. "And any friend of my son's is a friend of mine."
And with that, he began walking toward you without waiting for a response.
"Father!" Telemachus whisper-shouted, but Odysseus—despite clearly hearing him—kept going, a determined pep in his step.
Panic surged through Telemachus. His father was about to make it so much worse. Desperately, he glanced around, looking for an escape. And then, without thinking, he ducked behind a stack of barrels, pressing himself against the wall in mortified defeat.
He wanted the earth to swallow him right there and then.
"Hello." Odysseus' voice snapped both you and your father to attention.
"Oh—hello, my king, what brings you to us?" your father said, immediately dropping what he was doing to give the king of Ithaca a respectful bow of his head. You quickly followed suit, though your own bow was a little sloppier in your haste.
Odysseus acknowledged both of you with a nod in return—once to your father, then once to you.
"I just wanted to meet my son's friend," he said casually. "Make up for lost time."
At the mention of Telemachus, your ears perked, and your gaze instinctively swept the area, searching for him. It was an unconscious reaction—but not one that went unnoticed by Odysseus.
"Is... is he here?" you asked, smoothing down some stray hairs without realizing it.
Odysseus' lips curled slightly in amusement, though his sharp eyes held something more calculating. He looked behind him, to where his son once stood. "He was. But he seems to have disappeared." His tone was light, but the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly where his son had gone.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Sounds like him."
"Mm." Odysseus crossed his arms, glancing at you with a thoughtful expression. Then, after a brief pause, he gestured toward the town. "Care for a walk?"
You hesitated, glancing toward your father for guidance. He met your uncertain gaze with an encouraging nod.
"Of course," you answered, finally releasing your grip on your work.
Odysseus extended a hand to help you out of the boat. His grip was firm but not overbearing, a steady reminder of the strength he carried. You accepted his help with a small word of thanks, and he nodded in acknowledgment.
As you stepped onto solid ground, Odysseus and your father exchanged brief goodbyes, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, without further delay, you and the king of Ithaca set off down the worn path.
"Tell me—how did you and my son meet?"
"Oh, uh—he ran into me," you said, remembering the day vividly. "Literally."
Odysseus chuckled, nodding as if that sounded exactly like something Telemachus would do. "And you've been friends ever since?"
You smiled. "More or less. He's easy to talk to."
That earned a raised brow from the king. "Is he?"
You tilted your head, sensing a hidden layer to his question. "Once he warms up to you, yes. He's thoughtful, kind. He listens—really listens. Not just to respond, but because he cares about what you're saying."
Odysseus hummed, rubbing his beard in thought. "And what do you think of him?"
You blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question. "I—well, I think highly of him, of course. He's my friend."
"Just a friend?" Odysseus asked, watching you closely.
You felt warmth creeping up your neck. "I—yes?"
He chuckled at your hesitation, clearly enjoying this far too much. "Well, I suppose time will tell." Then, as if switching subjects entirely, he gestured toward the boat growing smaller behind you. "You work hard."
"I have to," you said, welcoming the shift in topic. "It's not easy work, but it keeps me moving."
Odysseus nodded approvingly. "A strong back and a strong mind—both good things to have." He studied you for a moment longer before adding, "Loyalty is important too. My son, he has to be careful about who he trusts." You could sense something else in his words, more than a father concerned for his son, something personal.
You met his gaze steadily. "I understand. And I'd never betray his trust."
The weight behind your words must have satisfied him because, for the first time, Odysseus' sharp scrutiny softened into something resembling approval. "Good."
Then, without another word, he turned his head slightly and called out, far too casually.
"You can come out now, son."
A muffled curse sounded from behind some abandoned barrels.
Your face lit up with laughter as Telemachus sheepishly emerged from his not so secret hiding spot, his face redder than a pomegranate.
Odysseus clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, grinning. "A prince shouldn't cower behind barrels, Telemachus. Stand tall."
Telemachus muttered something under his breath that you couldn't quite catch. You, however, were too busy giggling to care.
Odysseus gave you one last, knowing glance before stepping back. "I'll leave you two to it, then."
And just like that, he strode off, leaving Telemachus staring at you, utterly mortified.
──────💗──────
"He embarrassed me!"
"You embarrassed yourself."
Telemachus stared at his father in disbelief, then turned toward his mother, silently pleading for help.
Penelope and Odysseus sat side by side on a wooden bench, a stack of parchment spread across the table before them. Penelope had been signing documents, her focus divided between the ink stained sheets and the arms wrapped securely around her waist. Odysseus, ever at ease, rested his chin in the crook of her neck, perfectly content to hold her as she worked.
Penelope glanced up at her son, amusement flickering in her gaze. "Your father just wanted to help."
Telemachus groaned. Of course, he knew that, but did his father really have to do it like that? "I didn't need any help."
At that, Penelope and Odysseus exchanged a look—one of those unspoken conversations only long-married couples could have. A smirk tugged at Odysseus' lips, and Penelope barely suppressed a laugh.
Telemachus narrowed his eyes. "I mean it!"
"I already told you, sweetheart," Penelope said, her voice warm with patience. "You just need to ask them."
Telemachus hesitated. "But what if...?"
"The worst that can happen is them saying no." Odysseus chimed in, casual as ever.
Telemachus huffed. "No, the worst thing that can happen is my friendship with my best friend being destroyed because of my stupid heart!" He dramatically pounded his chest before flopping onto his parents' bed, face first, as if trying to bury his shame into the linens.
Odysseus exhaled through his nose. "You just need to go over there, stand your ground, and be confident."
Telemachus lifted his head just enough to shoot his father a deadpan look. "Be confident? Me?"
Odysseus shrugged. "It worked with your mother."
"No, it didn't."
The response came in stereo. Penelope's tone was amused and firm, while Telemachus' carried all the exasperation of someone who had grown up hearing his father's exaggerated tales one too many times.
Odysseus blinked. "What? Of course it did!"
Penelope gave him a knowing look. "No, I fell in love with you because of your intelligence and because you were so unapologetically you."
Odysseus crossed his arms. "...And my confidence and persistence too."
Penelope hummed, tilting her head. "Ehhh... the good looks did help."
"Hey!" Odysseus gasped in mock offense before playfully patting her waist and pressing a soft kiss to her neck.
Telemachus rolled his eyes. Of course, he loved his parents. Of course, he admired their relationship. But gods, was it frustrating to witness when he felt so incapable of achieving the same thing.
How was he supposed to be confident when confidence had never come naturally to him?
How was he supposed to just ask you when the very thought of it made his stomach twist itself into knots?
His whole life, he had watched his father's legendary feats unfold in the stories of others. Odysseus, the clever hero. Odysseus, the king of Ithaca. Odysseus, who could talk his way out of anything. He was larger than life, a master of words, a warrior, a man who could fight off monsters and trick the gods themselves.
And Telemachus?
Telemachus could barely keep his voice steady when he so much as thought about telling you how he felt.
It wasn't just rejection he feared—it was the aftermath. What if things changed? What if it became awkward between you? What if you started avoiding him? What if he lost you entirely?
He couldn't risk that.
But at the same time...
He wanted what his parents had. The quiet affection, the easy laughter, the deep-rooted love that had endured twenty years of separation.
He wanted you.
And yet—he felt stuck.
"That's why you should be yourself," Penelope's voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. "You've been friends for a while. They'll understand."
Telemachus sighed, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "I can't be myself. Nobody wants that."
Odysseus snorted. "That's dramatic."
Penelope stood up and made her way to her son, gently touched his arm, her voice softer now. "Just try."
Telemachus swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Just try.
If only it were that easy.
──────💗──────
Telemachus couldn't get the interaction he had with you earlier that day out of his head. He had tried—tried so hard—to keep both his parents' advice in mind. He had finally gathered the confidence to tell you, rehearsing his words over and over, from the moment he woke up to the moment he finally said it.
Well... kind of said it.
You hadn't even heard him. And in that tiny, fleeting moment, all the courage he had painstakingly built crumbled into dust. When you looked at him with those oh so beautiful eyes and that perfect, heart melting smile, he panicked. The words he had prepared vanished like smoke, and before he knew it, he was scrambling to change the topic as fast as possible.
Now, as he replayed the disaster in his mind for what felt like the hundredth time, he decided it was both the smartest and most idiotic thing he had ever done. Smart—because he hadn't ruined your friendship. Stupid—because now he had to go through the agony of doing it all over again.
"You're distracted."
The sharp voice cut through his thoughts, making him flinch. His mentor, Athena, stood a few paces away, arms crossed, her piercing gaze locked onto him like a bird of prey. She had been watching his form as he attacked the training dummy, analyzing every movement, every hesitation.
Heat rushed to his face—not just from embarrassment, but because his mind had been so hopelessly wrapped around you. He swallowed thickly. "... It's [Name]," he admitted.
Athena let out a slow breath, attempting to mask both her amusement and her growing exasperation. She had seen this before—too many times, in fact. First with Odysseus, who had been equally lovesick, and now with his son, who spoke of you so fondly it was becoming predictable.
"Not again." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am not Aphrodite. I can't help you."
But her words only sparked something in Telemachus. His eyes widened, a flicker of realization lighting them up, and then—
A grin.
"But you're Athena! Goddess of strategy!" He straightened, excitement practically radiating from him. "We can strategize this!"
Athena stared at him, expression flat.
"Please!" In a dramatic flourish, he dropped to his knees, hands clasped together in a desperate plea. "Every time I even think of them, my heart feels like it's going to burst through my ribs! Every time I look at them, I can barely think! I love them. I can't take it anymore!"
Athena sighed, looking up at the sky as if seeking divine patience. This was going to be a long conversation.
──────💗──────
The plan was simple. Or at least, Athena had made it sound simple.
Step one: Get you alone. Step two: Lead the conversation toward something sentimental. Step three: Casually, effortlessly, drop the confession like it was nothing.
Easy.
Except, now that Telemachus was actually there—walking beside you through the sun-dappled forest, the scent of pine and earth filling the air—his entire brain had turned to mush.
You walked ahead slightly, arms brushing away stray branches, sunlight catching in your hair just perfectly. You looked so at peace, humming softly to yourself, completely unaware of the internal war raging within him.
He needed to start the plan. Say something smooth. Something clever.
"So... uh." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat violently. "D-Do you like trees?"
You stopped mid step, turning to blink at him. "What?"
"Trees," he repeated, voice slightly strangled. "Do you... like them?"
A pause. Then, you burst into laughter. "Telemachus, we are literally in a forest."
He groaned internally. That was not part of the plan.
Desperate to recover, he tried again. "What I meant to say was... um, people... people are like trees!"
You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? And how's that?"
"Uh..." He hadn't actually thought that far ahead. "Well, some are really tall! And, uh, strong! Like... my father." He winced. Gods, this was a disaster.
You bit your lip, holding back another laugh. "Right. So, are you a tree too?"
"I—" He blushed slightly at the idea you might see him as someone strong. He was spiraling. "I think I might be a bush."
That was it. You doubled over, laughter spilling freely from your lips, and despite his humiliation, Telemachus felt his heart swell at the sound. He loved your laugh. He loved—
Wait. He was supposed to be confessing, not making an absolute fool of himself.
"Why are you so nervous?"
"Umm, it's just—" Telemachus' eyes darted rapidly, searching for something—anything—that could save him. His gaze landed on Athena, perched in the form of a huge white owl on a nearby branch, watching intently. He gave her a desperate, pleading look. She only responded with a subtle nod forward, directing his attention back to you.
"Are you alright?" you asked, concern laced in your voice. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, forcing him to meet your eyes. Gods, you loved his eyes—the way they turned into molten honey when the sunlight hit them just right. At that moment, you cursed your father in your mind. He had hyped you up to finally tell Telemachus how you felt, only for the day to end with him having some allergic reaction or whatever was happening to him.
Telemachus stared at you, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. The way the light bathed your features, making you seem almost ethereal—it was unfair. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
"By the gods, you are beautiful."
"What?"
"What?" His eyes widened slightly as if he could pretend he hadn't just spoken.
You raised an eyebrow. "I heard you. I just wanted to know if I heard right."
"Oh."
A thick silence settled between you. The air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken.
You swallowed hard, deciding to bite the bullet. "...I think you're beautiful too." The words tumbled out before you could second-guess yourself. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you forced yourself to push forward. "I like you. I like you a lot, and it's totally fine if you don't feel the same, I just can't hold it in anymo—"
"I do too."
The response came without hesitation, so natural it almost startled you. He took a deep breath, scanning your face for a reaction—some sign that he wasn't making a mistake. He found it.
His fingers tightened slightly around yours. "You are the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about at night." His voice was steadier now, more certain. "I try to find excuses to talk to you, to be around you, to hear you laugh—even if it's just for a moment. And I know I should have said something sooner, but I was terrified that if I did, I'd lose you."
The world around you blurred. The whispering leaves, the distant crash of waves against the shore, the rustling of Athena's wings—it all faded into the background.
"You won't lose me." you promised, squeezing his hand.
Telemachus let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His free hand hesitantly reached up, brushing against your cheek as if testing whether this moment was real.
"Then, can I—" He stopped himself, but the question lingered in the air.
You smiled. "You can."
And with that, he closed the distance, pressing his lips softly against yours.

BONUS:
"Would you be mad if I let go of your hand?" "Why? What's wrong?" "It's really sweaty"
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