#telemachus x reader

[kaechu1]

*during the fight in 'Odysseus'*

Telemachus: we can't just go and fight we need a plan!!

y/n: plan? easy i got one.

Telemachus: wait really-

*y/n shoot an arrow through a suitor head*

y/n: go and fight like warriors

ares clapping his hands as he watching this from afar:THAT'S MY GIRL!!

ares:

[nightpumpkie]

Imagin after all the suitors are dead Telemachus (yandere) runs to y/n to make sure his love is ok while Odysseus Is just watching 🧍‍♀️

*does a back flip* thank you for your time-

l loved the idea

The smell of blood filled the room. Telemachus was covered in red liquid, but it wasn't his, it was the blood of the worms that were the suitors. But there was only one thing going on in Telemachus' head: Y/N, his beloved, who had been there when the killing began, but had disappeared. That worried Telemachus more than anything. His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. Telemachus watched Y/N enter. She had a small cut on her face. Suddenly the room didn't seem so scary. Y/N smiled sweetly at the prince in front of her. Telemachus ran so quickly into the young woman's arms. They both hugged each other and gave her a passionate kiss. "Thank God you're okay," Telemachus said, hugging her tighter. "I'm here, Tele." The girl said, giving Telemachus a sweet kiss on the lips. Odysseus was standing there watching the couple with an embarrassed expression, remembering the time when he and Penelope were almost the same thing

I'm sorry for the delay😭

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 43 Chapter 43 | if it counts, prove it⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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A week passed.

And in that week, you learned that bedrest was its own kind of punishment.

At first, there had been pain. Dull, deep aches that throbbed under the surface of every breath. Your side burned if you twisted too far, and your limbs trembled like they hadn't been used in years. But that passed quickly—at least, you thought it did. The healers insisted otherwise.

"Rest," they said, pressing gentle hands to your shoulders when you tried to sit up. "The gods gave you a second chance. Don't waste it by tearing yourself open again."

So you stayed.

Stayed and stared at the ceiling. Watched dust motes swirl in the light. Counted the cracks in the corner stone.

The walls became smaller with each passing day. The soft sheets, once a comfort, turned suffocating. The light from the window too warm. Too golden.

You weren't sure when the sun started annoying you, but it did.

Lady, bless her, was your one steady companion. She rarely left your side, curling along your hip or nudging your palm when your eyes turned too distant.

Sometimes, you whispered secrets into her fur when the silence got too loud. Rubbed her ears when the heaviness threatened to crawl back in. She'd tilt her head, tail flicking gently, like she understood every word, and it made you feel less alone.

The others visited when they could.

Callias, with gossip he'd recently picked up from the guards. Kieran, with a few sweets he'd swiped from the kitchen. Asta, full of gruff concern hidden beneath dry remarks, with a new book in hand for the two of you to read. Lysandra, soft-voiced and careful, like she was still afraid you might vanish again if she blinked too long.

Even the king and queen, dropping by to spend just enough time to have tea.

Telemachus hadn't come.

But you didn't ask.

You didn't want to know what might be keeping him.

You told yourself you were fine.

You were alive. That should've been enough.

Except... you were bored out of your mind.

Every heartbeat felt like a countdown. Every hour became a reminder that life continued out there—without you.

So when the healers finally cleared you to get up and stretch your legs, you didn't even wait for a full explanation. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the stiffness in your knees, and muttered, "I've been fine since day three."

A snort came from the door.

Callias stood there with a grin stretched across his face, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he'd been waiting for this very moment.

"Gods, you're predictable," he said. "Told them you'd try and bolt the second you could stand."

"I'm not bolting," you said, standing carefully. "I'm walking."

"Mmhm." He stepped into the room, followed by Asta and Lysandra. "Welp, let's get a move on."

And before you could protest, all three of them were surrounding you. Callias took your arm like it was a dance escort. Asta steadied your back with one hand, while Lysandra trailed ahead with Lady bounding at her heels.

The walk wasn't far. Just down one hall. A turn.

Two more guards standing at attention.

And then—another hall.

"...What is this?" you asked, suspicion prickling your skin.

"You'll see," Lysandra said, her tone light, though there was a small sparkle in her eye.

Another turn.

Your steps slowed.

It was brighter here. Warmer.

Polished floors. Richer tapestries. Fresher flowers in the wall sconces.

This was the royal wing.

You paused just before the threshold, staring at the ornate door. It wasn't massive or gilded, but it was... nice.

Soft blue paint. Carved trim. A fresh bouquet of lilies sitting in a vase near the entry.

"This isn't—" You turned, confused. "My room's on the west side."

Callias grinned like a cat in the sun. "Was."

Asta folded her arms, clearly enjoying this. "Turns out royal favors mean something."

"Especially when you almost die because of the kingdom," Lysandra added, smile warm.

You stood there dumbly. "So I'm... here now? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We wanted to see your face," Callias said honestly.

"I—I mean, I don't need to be here—"

"You're right around the corner from the prince's room," Asta added, just to be cruel.

"Asta!"

"What? She was gonna find out eventually."

Callias snorted. "Probably by tonight, especially with the way he's been hovering."

You felt the flush bloom all the way down your neck, hands twitching at your sides. Your breath caught somewhere between flustered and stunned.

But beneath the heat in your face, there was something else.

Something small and warm and real.

Happiness.

Because this—this meant something.

You mattered.

Here.

To them.

To him.

Your hand brushed the edge of the door.

And stepped inside.

The light hit you like a wave.

You blinked. Blinked again.

The room was—gods. It was bright. The kind of brightness that didn't just fill a space, but warmed it.

The entire far wall was windows—tall and open, trimmed in pale marble, letting in ribbons of sunlight that made the floor glow. Soft blue curtains were pulled wide to the sides, and beyond them—

The sea.

It stretched out like a dream. Deep and endless, sparkling gold where the sun kissed the waves. You could see the curve of the bay from here, the cliffs trailing down into soft sand and darker rocks.

A gentle breeze lifted through the open panes and swept over your skin like silk, cool and fresh and laced with salt.

There was a balcony—wide, stone-railed, and arched just enough to step onto and lean. A small table sat tucked beside it, already holding a shallow bowl of fruit and a glass pitcher of chilled water.

Your mouth parted.

Because the further you stepped in—

This room could've fit six of your old ones. At least.

The ceilings were high and painted in pale golds and creams—like dawn, you thought. The floor beneath your feet was polished stone, a mosaic of olive leaves and sunbursts tucked around the edges in a quiet halo.

The walls had been whitewashed but not left bare; soft frescoes framed the far corners, each one small and precise.

A lyre.

A sunbeam touching a scroll.

Laurel wreaths, scattered in delicate gold paint.

Apollo's marks. Yours.

Near the arched corner by the bath basin—where steam drifted slowly up from warm water that had clearly been drawn in anticipation—was a smaller motif. An owl. Tiny. Carved into the trim of the bathing table, just above the marble basin spout.

You stepped further in, your feet catching slightly on the edge of a thick woven rug in sea-glass blue and cream. It was soft. Softer than anything you'd ever stepped on barefoot.

And the bed.

Gods.

It was enormous.

A canopied frame rose in pale wood, hung with thin gauze-like curtains drawn back with golden ties. The sheets were blue—light, soft, ocean-colored. The pillows stacked neatly in pairs, a robe folded at the foot of the bed, the embroidery on the hem sparkling faintly in the sun.

Your old room had been practical. Cozy.

This felt like a shrine.

The vanity by the far wall held polished combs. There were fresh lilies in a bowl by the mirror. The scent in the air was lavender, honey, and sea air, all mixing into something faintly divine.

A proper bathing room was set behind a carved wooden door near the corner, where a copper tub sat half-sunk into a tiled platform. The edges were smooth and patterned with olive branches. Heated stones kept the water warm. There were towels folded beside it, and a basket filled with soaps, oils, and little glass vials you didn't even know the names for.

It was the kind of room people wrote about.

You were still standing in the doorway, trying to process all of it when Callias finally broke the silence with a low, reverent:

"Godsdamn."

You jumped slightly, blinking as the others stepped in behind you. Callias stared with wide eyes and an appreciative grin, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "I knew they'd move you up," he said, voice filled with that same low awe, "but this? This is insane. Are you secretly engaged to royalty? Did I miss a scroll?"

Asta laughed behind him, pushing his shoulder. "Shut up. Look at her face."

Your face. Right.

Your hands twitched at your sides again, suddenly very aware of them. You glanced toward the bed again. Then the window. Then down at the sunlight streaming across your bare feet.

You couldn't stop the small sound that left your throat—half breath, half laugh. "I—I don't belong here."

Lysandra stepped in quietly behind you, Lady slipping in at her heels. The dog immediately circled the rug before plopping down in a warm patch of sun, as if she absolutely belonged here.

"Yes, you do," Lysandra said softly.

You turned to her, uncertain.

She smiled. "This room was chosen for you."

Callias rolled onto the bed dramatically, arms flung wide like he was claiming the entire mattress. "And it's the second closest to the prince's," he reminded with a wicked grin.

"Such a tragedy he's not here to witness this exact expression on your face," Asta muttered, smirking.

Your heart skipped a beat. Hard. Again.

But it was... exhilarating. The kind that made warmth creep up your throat and bloom behind your eyes. You stepped toward the balcony on instinct, needing to breathe, needing something to ground you—and when your hands found the smooth stone rail and you looked out again at that sea—

It hit you.

This was yours.

Not just the view.

Not just the room.

But this.

This life. This place in the palace. This quiet honor no one shouted about but still meant something.

The breeze curled through your fingers, warm and steady, and for the first time in a long time, your lungs felt full.

"I... I think I need to sit down," you whispered, breathless.

Callias popped up immediately, all mock-chivalry. "Milady, might I recommend the fainting chaise in the sunbeam near the fruit tray?"

You didn't hit him.

But only because you were too overwhelmed to move.

Luckily, Lysandra did it for you.

Without missing a beat, she reached over and smacked Callias on the shoulder—hard enough to make him grunt and nearly topple off the bed.

"Stop flopping like a fish," she muttered, voice mild but firm.

Callias clutched his chest dramatically. "Ow. Treason. Violence. I'm a guest."

"You're a pest," Asta cut in flatly, stepping between them like she was used to this exact routine. "And if you get blood or dust on her new sheets, I will toss you off the balcony."

"See? Violence again." Callias grinned, unfazed. "You two are obsessed with me."

"You're about two seconds from being removed from the room," Lysandra warned.

He opened his mouth to respond—probably with something that would've gotten him tackled—but Asta lifted a hand.

"Nope. Shush."

"Rude."

"Shhh."

They kept going like that, the bickering spilling into full-on background noise. Callias defending his honor. Lysandra rolling her eyes. Asta attempting some form of peacekeeping but failing spectacularly.

Lady, for her part, just stared up at them from her spot near the rug.

She let out a long, slow huff.

The canine equivalent of gods, get it together.

Then she turned, tail swishing lazily, and trotted across the room—her claws clicking softly on the polished floor—before leaping gracefully onto the bed like she'd already claimed it.

She curled into the pillows like royalty, sighed contentedly, and promptly ignored everyone.

You shook your head, a soft laugh slipping out despite yourself. The three of them were still arguing half-heartedly behind you, trading jabs and threats that didn't carry real heat.

And yet... somehow, it felt grounding.

Normal.

You turned back to the balcony.

Back to the sea.

The breeze brushed past your cheeks again, soft and salt-touched. The light danced along the water, glittering in every direction, and somewhere far off, you could hear gulls calling—faint, but clear.

You curled your fingers gently around the balcony rail.

Let the warmth of the stone sink into your palms.

And for the first time since returning from the brink of death...

Since the blood in the alley...

Since the darkness curled beneath your ribs and whispered that you weren't meant to survive...

You felt like maybe—just maybe—

You were allowed to take up space.

Not as the Divine Liaison.

Not as someone chosen or pitied or pitied again.

But just... as you.

Alive. Here.

In this room that smelled like sunlight and lavender.

With friends who bickered like siblings. An Askálion who picked pillows over people. A view you hadn't known how badly you needed until now.

And right around the corner... him.

Your heart didn't race when you thought it—it pulsed. Soft and steady. Something sure.

You closed your eyes.

And for a few long seconds, you let yourself feel full.

Like you belonged.

☆

☆

You stayed on the balcony longer than you meant to, fingers trailing along the smooth stone, eyes half-closed against the breeze.

The laughter from the others had faded inside—Callias had finally been dragged out (probably by force), and Asta had left with a parting warning about eating lunch or else.

Lysandra had lingered a little longer, adjusting the folds of your robe and smoothing the bed covers with that same gentle care she always showed when she thought no one was watching. When she finally left too, it was with a quiet "Rest well," and a smile you felt in your ribs.

And then you were alone.

Not lonely. Just... alone. With Lady curled in the center of your bed like a queen, paws tucked under her chin, eyes following you without lifting her head.

The hours passed slowly.

A few sunbeams shifted along the floor.

The smell of fresh bread wafted faintly in from a lower courtyard window, and soft lute music floated up from somewhere nearby.

You spent the time sitting cross-legged on the bed, a pillow tucked under your arms, trying to teach Lady a new trick.

"Okay," you murmured, holding out two fingers. "Two fingers means give me your paw."

Lady stared at your hand.

You held your breath.

She blinked, then yawned.

"Okay. Rude," you muttered, snorting. "One more time. Two fingers—paw. Two.��Paw."

You pointed at her paw, then your hand.

She licked your thumb.

You fell back against the pillows with a groan. "Useless."

She barked once and wagged her tail like she'd won something anyway.

You were mid-repeat attempt—two fingers up, Lady's paw half-lifted—when the knock came.

A soft rap. Not urgent. Gentle.

You looked up, caught off guard.

Then came a voice. Not loud, not familiar, but polite and trained.

"Excuse me, Divine Liasion," a servant called from the other side. "There's someone here to see you."

You blinked.

Right. Servants. People announcing visitors now. That was still... new. Weird.

You scrambled up from the bed, brushing a few creases from your tunic as you padded toward the door barefoot. Lady hopped down after you, stretching once before trotting after.

"Who is it?" you called gently, your fingers reaching for the latch.

There was a small pause.

Then. "Lady Andreia."

You froze, just shy of the handle.

Your breath caught—not all the way, not painfully, but... noticeably.

You hadn't seen her since before the alley. Since before the brooch. Since everything.

And now she was here. At your door.

Your hand hovered.

Lady sat at your feet, her ears twitching, gaze flicking from the door to you and back again like she was waiting for your next move.

So were you.

You swallowed once, eyes darting around your new room—at the soft blue sheets, the open windows, the lingering scent of lemon balm and honeywater—and tried to quiet the sudden flutter in your chest.

She was here, and you had no idea why.

You stared at the door like it might blink first.

Your pulse ticked somewhere in your throat—not hard, but enough to notice. Enough to feel.

Then, quietly, you inhaled through your nose.

A slow breath.

Then stepped back.

"Let her in," you said, voice even. Barely.

You watched as the latch turned.

The door creaked open just enough for the servant to slip inside, skirts rustling as she dipped into a curtsy. She didn't speak again—just moved smoothly aside, holding the door open with a polished hand, her head bowed low in practiced etiquette.

And then—

Andreia entered.

Alone.

No guards. No attendants. No scent of rosewater perfume trailing behind silk-trimmed maids. Just her.

Her footsteps were soft against the polished stone—barely more than a whisper. She didn't wear her usual ornate cloak or heavy collar pins this time. Just a pale green dress, loose at the sleeves, tied gently at the waist with a ribbon that matched the thread at the hem. Simple. But still expensive.

Still royal.

Her hair wasn't pinned like usual either.

It fell in a thick braid down her back, red and shining. A few pieces had slipped loose near her temples, curling slightly from the salt in the air. You weren't sure if that had been on purpose.

She stepped in without a word at first, her posture straight but not stiff. You noticed how her hands stayed tucked in front of her, fingers interlaced loosely, like she wasn't sure what to do with them.

The sight of her—standing here, framed by the soft light of your room—made something bitter slide across your tongue. It tasted like cold metal. Like too-long silence.

But you smiled anyway.

The kind of smile that pulled against your cheeks, tight and too polite.

And then—your eyes caught on something else. Just beneath the flush of her lower lip, slightly off-center, there was a faint, healing cut.

You didn't know why, but it stuck with you.

You then dipped into a curtsy, low and proper, the motion slower than usual—your side still sore from moving too quickly.

"My lady," you said, careful. "How may I assist you?"

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, her eyes wandered.

She took in the space quietly—her gaze passing over the balcony, the soft linens, the little vase of lilies someone had refreshed just this morning. Her expression stayed flat. Blank. But not bored. Just... unreadable.

Then her eyes fell on Lady.

The beast who blinked up at her with a single twitch of her tail. Not bothered. Not impressed. Not moving.

Andreia's gaze lingered there a beat longer than everything else.

Just a beat.

Then she turned back to you, and smiled.

Soft.

Small.

The kind of smile that didn't reach all the way to her eyes—but tried.

"I hope I'm not intruding," she said, voice gentle. "I heard you were doing well."

You nodded once, not quite trusting your voice yet.

Andreia's smile held. Just barely.

She took another step forward—and the door shut behind her.

The soft click of her sandals against the floor felt too loud, echoing off the delicate walls of your new chambers. Her braid shifted slightly as she moved, the tail of it brushing against her shoulder in a way that was almost performative—effortless, graceful, like every movement had been practiced in a mirror a thousand times.

She stopped just short of the center of the room, her eyes drifting toward the arched window where the sunlight still spilled across the floor. Then, she looked to you. And smiled.

Suddenly, it felt like the room was holding its breath.

"It's good," she began softly, her voice a gentle hum, "that the palace feels light again. Warm. Merry." She turned slowly, her gaze passing over the tapestries, the bowl of figs on your table. "It's been so... dark. Since your... well—" she trailed off, her eyes sliding away, lips pursed as though the sentence had caught on something just behind her teeth.

You stood still near the door, the warmth that had settled in your chest earlier now ebbed away, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

Dark?

She meant your death. That strange, poetic pause? That vague, dainty tiptoe around the subject?

You knew what she was referring to.

But what really made your skin prickle wasn't the implication. It was the way she said it.

As if she were talking about the weather.

As if it hadn't been a blade to your ribs, your blood spilled across the alley stones, the gods torn from their thrones in grief.

Your knuckles pressed harder against the chair.

Because how dare she act like there wasn't history between you?

She had shattered your lyre. Not figuratively—physically.

Smashed it against her knee and left its pieces in the mud. She had humiliated you with false sweetness and cruel smiles. And now she wanted to stand here and smile like nothing had happened?

Your patience, already thin, frayed at the edges.

You felt the heat begin to rise in your chest—not anger exactly, but something adjacent. A mix of discomfort, disbelief, and that awful, familiar twist of having to smile through things that should've never happened in the first place.

You didn't want her here.

You didn't want her anywhere near your space.

And before you could catch yourself—before you could soften your tone or school your expression—you heard yourself ask it.

"Was that all you came to talk about, my lady?"

Your voice came out cooler than you'd intended. Still polite. But undeniably cold. Stiff.

Andreia blinked.

The soft gleam in her eyes faltered just slightly—just long enough to catch it. Like someone had tapped a mirror, and the perfect image of her cracked.

"I only mean," you added quickly, lifting your chin as you forced a half-smile onto your face, "I'd hate to linger on such dark things. After all, you said yourself—there's been enough gloom in these halls."

You kept your hands clasped gently before you, your back straight, your tone even. But your eyes didn't waver.

And neither did the heaviness hanging between you.

Andreia tilted her head—just a fraction. Her expression hadn't quite hardened, but something behind her eyes had gone... quieter.

And you could feel it.

The temperature shifting.

The mask slipping.

Just a little.

 Andreia's smile to twitched as she gave a soft huff through her nose—part amusement, part something else you didn't want to name—and glanced away, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve like the topic had grown too unflattering to hold her interest for long.

"Mmm," she murmured, eyes sweeping lazily over your room again. "Well. At least they've handled the... situation. The one who hurt you." She tilted her chin slightly. "So terribly upsetting."

You blinked.

Your posture shifted, the words catching on your spine like a splinter.

"...What?" you asked, your voice quieter now. You weren't even sure you'd meant to speak.

Andreia turned back to you then, expression smooth as silk, like this was nothing more than polite gossip at tea.

"Oh," she said, blinking prettily as if she hadn't realized you wouldn't know. "Haven't you heard?"

She took a slow, measured step toward the center of the room, her hands folded neatly before her. "It was one of the suitors' kin. Antinous', I believe? Melanion from Dulichium. Not a soldier, just... bitter. Thought he could balance some scale, avenge some lost family honor." She shrugged. "A sad little thing."

Her tone made it sound like she was talking about a broken vase. A child who'd knocked over a tray of fruit.

"Unfortunate timing, of course," she added, idly flicking at a thread on her sleeve. "You happened to be alone. At night. Wandering. That part was unfortunate. Poorly timed."

Your throat went dry.

But she wasn't done.

"He's dead now," she said, like it was nothing. "I heard from one of the serving girls that they found him in the dungeons. Or what was left of him, I suppose." She smiled faintly. "Mangled, barely recognizable. How... thorough of them."

You stared at her.

Your heart didn't race. Your breath didn't stutter.

You just felt... nothing.

No cold. No shock. Not even relief.

Just a dull, steady beat behind your ribs. Something heavy. Solid.

"Good riddance," you muttered, the words sliding out like stones.

Andreia's brow lifted.

You didn't care.

You tilted your head slightly, tone even as you added, "Hopefully, the rest of my troubles follow him."

Lady, who'd been quiet up to this point, shifted.

A low growl rippled from her throat—soft, but unmistakable. —like thunder just before a storm. Her ears were flat, teeth just barely bared, hackles raised from tail to shoulders as she held her ground between you and Andreia.

Andreia froze for just a second. Her eyes flicked toward the Askálion, something faint flashing across her expression. Surprise? Discomfort?

You didn't move to stop Lady.

You didn't say a word.

You just watched.

Andreia caught the threat. Her eyes narrowed.

Not enough to break her poise—but enough to show she wasn't used to being challenged. Especially not by you—someone's whose status is lower than hers.

Her smile stiffened. The polite tilt of her mouth pulled a little too tight, her lashes lowering ever so slightly in disdain. She didn't move, but her posture shifted. Just enough that you noticed.

And you wondered—if Lady hadn't growled, would she have stepped closer?

Before either of you could say anything—before the heat in the room could grow sharp enough to cut through—

A soft, airy voice rang from the hall.

"Oh, dear, forgive me for not knocking! I just had to bring you over my extra weaving materials—"

The door cracked open with a gentle creak, and Penelope stepped inside, humming the tail end of a familiar lullaby under her breath.

She looked radiant, like always, draped in a warm bronze shawl, her hair pinned up with olive branch combs, a basket balanced in her arms. It was overstuffed—filled with wool and cotton.

But the moment she fully stepped into the room, her steps slowed.

The song died on her lips.

Her eyes flicked between you and Andreia—and then to Lady, still stiff and growling low beside your feet. The air, still heavy with something unsaid. Something sharp.

Penelope's smile faltered just slightly, her brow knitting. She blinked, adjusting the basket arms in her hands. "Am I... interrupting something?" she asked gently, her voice lined with a note of soft concern.

The moment cracked.

Andreia's smile returned with polished ease, sliding into place like it had never left. "Oh, not at all," she said, her tone bright and effortless. "We were just finishing up."

She turned back to you, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a dainty flick of her fingers. "I was just leaving," she added, her eyes gleaming—sharp and saccharine.

Then, without waiting for permission or response, she stepped forward, brushing lightly past Lady—who didn't budge an inch—and toward the door.

She paused beside Penelope only long enough to dip into a small, graceful curtsy. "Your Majesty."

Penelope nodded once, slowly, still watching her carefully.

And then Andreia swept out of the room, her gown whispering along the floor, her perfume trailing after her like smoke.

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

And still—you hadn't moved.

You just stood there, the air heavy in your lungs, heart thudding in that slow, stretched-out way it always did after a storm. Lady lowered her head, hackles still raised, but her growl faded into a low breath, her tail thumping once against your calf before she slunk closer, leaning her weight against your leg.

Penelope glanced toward the door Andreia had just left through, her brows pinched with something between confusion and concern.

Then she turned to you fully.

"Sweetheart?" she asked softly. "What's wrong?"

You didn't answer. Not right away.

You were still staring at the door. Still trying to settle the twist in your chest.

But then—without really meaning to—you blinked and asked, voice quieter than you intended, "What happened to her lip?"

Penelope tilted her head. "Hm?"

"Lady Andreia," you clarified, turning your gaze to her finally. "Her mouth—there was a scab on the corner. An old wound."

Penelope blinked. Her eyes darted toward the door, then back to you. Her expression shifted ever so slightly, the lines around her mouth tightening.

"...Didn't you all get attacked in town?"

You snorted.

It wasn't a full laugh—just sharp air through your nose, bitter at the edges. You looked down briefly, shaking your head. "As far as I know, we didn't get attacked," you muttered. "Because her and her guard were gone. Vanished. One second they were there, the next—" You gestured vaguely. "Poof. Gone."

There was a pause.

Penelope didn't say anything for a moment. "I see," she said simply.

Her face darkened—just faintly. Like a curtain being drawn half-shut. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, her gaze turning thoughtful. But then, just as quickly, the shift disappeared. Smoothed over with practiced ease.

Then she perked up—clearly choosing to change the subject. Her hands moved to the small basket she had brought, her expression brightening like sunshine breaking through overcast.

"Well! I brought this up hoping you might want a bit of distraction," she said, lifting the cloth that covered the contents. "I've been sorting through my old sewing kits—and I thought we could go over the basics again together. It's been so long since we had the time, and now that you're closer—"

Her eyes gleamed with genuine excitement. "You're right around the corner, after all!"

She pulled out a small bundle of neatly folded linens, each one soft and faded at the corners with age. "We can start simple. I even found that practice sash you used to struggle with—the one that always bunched at the hem?" Her voice lifted in amusement.

You blinked at her.

Then—slowly—you let yourself exhale, some of the tension in your shoulders easing at the warmth in her tone.

It wasn't that you forgot what Andreia had said.

You hadn't.

Not even close.

But for now... it helped to have something else to focus on.

Something soft. Something familiar.

You stepped forward and reached for the first scrap of fabric.

It was soft. Faded peach with pale stitching along the edges—uneven, shaky little loops from a time when your hands didn't know how to guide a needle.

You recognized it instantly. The very first sash Penelope had ever taught you to hem. Back when you'd still stuttered over the difference between a running stitch and a backstitch.

You ran your fingers over it, surprised at how the memory struck like a song note you hadn't heard in years.

Penelope smiled when she saw the recognition on your face. "Thought you might remember it," she said gently, pulling out a tiny brass thimble and a fresh spool of thread.

.☆.     .✩.         .☆.

The rest of the day passed like that.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't grand. But it was warm.

The two of you sat cross-legged on the rug by the window, the golden afternoon light casting soft shadows on your knees as she guided your hands once more.

The queen's voice was gentle as she corrected your grip, teased you when your fingers fumbled, praised you when you found a rhythm.

Even when your wrist cramped and the thread tangled, the frustration didn't stick. It melted beneath the quiet hums of Penelope's voice and the steady rhythm of her needle weaving in and out of linen.

Eventually, the light dimmed, casting the room in shades of rose and lavender. A servant was sent for a small meal, and dinner was brought to your chambers on silver trays: roasted lamb and soft cheeses, fruits sliced into perfect curls, honey-sweet bread still warm from the kitchens.

Penelope insisted on eating it cross-legged on the floor, just like you'd done when you were younger—when the servants weren't looking and propriety could take a moment to breathe.

You stayed like that until long after the plates had gone cold, the two of you sipping warm tea while Lady lay curled at the foot of your bed, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

Just as the last traces of day faded to twilight, a servant appeared at the doorway, his voice low as he informed Penelope that Odysseus was asking for her company. It wasn't with urgency but rather a gentle summoning as night settled in, the king desiring the pleasant warmth of his wife's presence.

Penelope's response was a soft chuckle, her eyes lighting up in a way that reminded you of a young girl smitten in love. She rose gracefully, her movements fluid like the fading light. "He does like to have me by his side as the day ends," she said, voice threaded with affection.

Before she left, she leaned over and pressed a motherly kiss to your forehead, her touch as light as the linen you'd been stitching. "Sleep well, my dear," she whispered, the smile still playing on her lips. Then, with a gentle hand, she scratched Lady behind the ears, eliciting a contented sigh from the slumbering beast.

With a final glance filled with warmth and a whispered promise to return tomorrow, Penelope moved toward the door, her silhouette framed for a moment against the dim glow from the hallway. The door closed softly behind her, leaving a whisper of her floral scent lingering in the air.

After the queen's departure, the room felt significantly quieter, the soft rustle of her dress and the comforting cadence of her voice now absent.

You found yourself meandering over to the large chaise near the window, the fabric cool beneath your fingertips as you settled down.

Outside, the sky transitioned from the painted hues of sunset to the deep, velvet blue of twilight. One by one, stars began to pierce the darkening canopy, flickering into existence like distant lighthouses guiding weary sailors home.

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly, mingling with the slow dance of the heavens.

And then... they drifted to Andreia.

It wasn't intentional. But that quiet had a way of pulling buried things to the surface.

You thought back to Penelope's hesitation—the puzzled furrow of her brow when you asked what had happened that day. How her answers, while tender, felt rehearsed. Like she'd been told a version of events and forced to believe it. From her words alone, you pieced it together: Andreia must have lied. Claimed that you all were attacked. Ambushed.

You snorted, low and bitter, the sound barely audible over the whisper of the waves beyond the window. Your eyes stayed fixed on the sea—dark, endless, unforgiving.

Of course, you knew why she would fabricate such a tale—because the truth was far uglier than any polished lie. She lied to conceal her own cowardice, to hide the fact she left you behind. How spineless.

And when she'd returned without you, what choice did she have but to rewrite the ending any way she deemed fit?

Your hand curled over your abdomen, ghosting the place where pain once bloomed. The gods may have stitched your soul back together, but that didn't mean you were whole.

Because coming back from death wasn't some poetic rebirth. There were no angel choirs. No golden glow. Just silence. And a coldness that clung to your skin no matter how warm the tea was, no matter how softly Penelope smiled.

Some part of you was still in that alley.

Still bleeding.

Still waiting to be found.

And maybe... still alone.

But before that thought could root too deep, a soft knock came at the door.

It wasn't the kind a servant would give—sharp and practical.

No, this was softer. Hesitant.

But it cut clean through the silence all the same.

You blinked, turning toward the door..

The room was dark, lit only by the fire's flicker and a single oil lamp. Lady didn't stir—too deep in sleep, her tail twitching faintly.

Another knock followed.

And then, a familiar voice—barely audible through the wood. "...It's me..."

Telemachus.

Your whole body jolted.

A rush of warmth burst through your chest so sudden it made you dizzy. You all but scrambled from the edge of the chalise, nearly tripping over your discarded sash as you padded barefoot toward the door. Your heart raced, pounding so loud you swore he'd hear it before you even opened the latch.

You stopped just before the door.

Took a breath.

Another.

You pressed a hand flat against your chest—feeling the way it fluttered like a bird—and forced your fingers to still.

Then, finally, with hands trembling just a little... you opened the door.

And there he was.

Lit by the soft flicker of the torches in the hallway and the spill of moonlight slanting through the tall window behind him, Telemachus looked like something caught between a dream and memory.

The flamelight painted his shoulders in gold, soft shadows curling under his jaw, while the silver glow from the moon glinted along his hair, just enough to pick out the lighter strands curled behind his ear.

His tunic was loose—casual for once. Not formal wear. Not armor. Just soft, deep blue linen, the collar slightly rumpled like he'd run a hand through it on the way here. His cloak hung half-off one shoulder, and his hair was damp in that way that said he'd just bathed and hadn't bothered to comb it fully. And his eyes—

Gods, his eyes.

He was smiling, but not in the easy, confident way you'd seen before. No. This was small. Tucked at the corners of his mouth like he didn't want to seem too eager.

He cleared his throat gently. "Hey," he said.

Just that.

One word, soft and a little rough—like he was afraid if he spoke louder, the moment might scatter.

Your breath caught. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first.

So instead, you nodded—small, sheepish—and stepped quietly into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you so it wouldn't wake Lady, who remained curled at the foot of your bed, blissfully unaware.

Your bare feet pressed against the cool tile of the corridor, and you folded your arms lightly in front of you, your night tunic brushing just past your knees. The torchlight danced along the edges of your silhouette as you turned to face him.

"I thought it was too late for visitors," you said gently, not teasing, just a quiet observation.

Telemachus' gaze softened. "Yeah," he said. "It is." He glanced away briefly, then looked back, rubbing the back of his neck, his fingers twitching. "I couldn't sleep." A pause. "Kept thinking about you."

Your stomach did something dangerous.

And all at once, the hall felt smaller. Quieter. As if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stood there, facing each other in the flickering warmth of torchlight and the pale hush of moonshine. The silence wasn't tense—not exactly—but it held weight, stretched thin like the space between breath and heartbeat.

Then Telemachus' voice broke through, soft and careful. "Have you been well?" he asked, like the question had been sitting on his tongue for days. His brows tugged together faintly, eyes scanning your face as if searching for the truth behind the answer.

You hummed low, slow, tilting your head just a bit. "Sure."

But it came out too light, too breezy. And you saw it in his face—how he knew that wasn't the full truth.

You let the silence stretch again, and for a heartbeat, you almost let it go. Almost let that small ache in your chest stay buried, ignored, passed off as nothing.

But you didn't.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and something sly slid into your voice as you tipped your head the other way.

"I was visited by everyone, you know," you said softly, a trace of a smile ghosting your lips. "The king, the queen. Kieran, Lysandra, Callias. Even Asta. Twice."

Telemachus'expression fluttered—just the faintest twitch, like a thread had been tugged inside him. His mouth parted like he was going to respond, but you didn't let him.

You stepped forward, just a little.

Close enough to see the way the shadows curled beneath his lashes. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him now, all wrapped in quiet, soft breath and starlit quiet.

You pouted, just the slightest pull of your lips. "Did you not want to see me?"

His face turned scarlet almost instantly.

Like something lit beneath his skin.

Telemachus' lips dropped open, his breath catching as if he'd forgotten how to speak. He blinked at you, stunned, like your question had knocked the air out of his lungs—and for a moment, he just stood there, frozen in place, eyes wide.

Then he stumbled forward a step, voice bursting out in a frantic rush. "Of course not—no! I mean—of course I wanted to—gods—"

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face and turning slightly to the side, clearly trying to gather himself. His fingers curled against his belt like he didn't know what else to do with them. "I just..." he mumbled, voice suddenly quieter, "I couldn't get the courage. After... after kissing you."

You blinked.

"That's it?" you asked, incredulous—and then the laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. It was light and warm and teasing. "Oh, Telemachus..."

He flinched a little at your laugh—not wounded, just bashful—but didn't interrupt.

"It was hardly a kiss," you said, tilting your head with a coy smile. "You only kissed the corner of my mouth."

His face scrunched instantly, mouth parting like he wanted to defend himself. "It still counts," he muttered stubbornly, glaring at the floor.

"Mm," you hummed, stepping a little closer, the torchlight behind you making your silhouette flicker on the wall beside his. "I'm sure it does."

Then your voice dropped, playful, wickedly soft. "Though... I might've forgotten. Maybe you should remind me?"

That did it.

Telemachus' entire body tensed. His ears turned bright red, eyes darting up to meet yours before darting away just as fast. He shook his head like he couldn't believe you, like he didn't trust himself to answer.

"You've gotten bold," he muttered under his breath, his voice shaky but filled with something warmer—something softer, too.

You just smiled.

Because he didn't say no.

You tilted your head, smiling just a little too sweetly. "Is that bad?"

Telemachus gave a quiet scoff, looking away—though his cheeks were still burning. "It's not bad," he muttered, voice a touch too tight to be casual. "Just... new."

"Mhm," you hummed, stepping closer. "You seem awfully red for something that's not bad."

His eyes flicked back to yours, narrowed just enough to be annoyed, but the faint tremble in his breath betrayed him. He tried to fold his arms, only to realize his hands were still fidgeting at his sides. He stopped, stiffened. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?" you asked innocently, swaying just a little closer—barely a step, barely a breath.

Internally, your nerves fluttered like wings, but gods, the thrill of it... You didn't realize how much you liked seeing him like this—flustered and blushing, the usually collected prince unraveling like a spool of thread every time you teased.

Telemachus backed up instinctively, his shoulder blades bumping against the wall opposite your door. The torches cast a soft halo around him, shadows dancing over the lines of his face—over the curve of his throat, the tight set of his jaw.

You followed him slowly, your steps light, deliberate.

And then you were there.

So close, your breath ghosted over his cheek.

So close, you could see the way his pupils had blown wide in the low light, nearly swallowing the hazel ring of his irises.

His hands hovered at his sides like he wasn't sure if he should touch you or stay completely still. Your fingers brushed the wall beside his hip as you leaned in just enough, your lips only a breath away from his.

You could feel the heat radiating off him.

Could see how hard he was trying to keep his gaze locked on yours, not your lips. He was losing that battle.

"I'm just trying to remember," you whispered, voice soft—slow—your mouth nearly brushing his as you spoke. "Was it something like this?"

He swallowed thickly.

Didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

And neither did you.

Not until his hand moved.

Not until his fingers lifted—slowly, deliberately—to brush a knuckle just beneath your jaw.

The touch was featherlight, like he wasn't sure you were real. But when you didn't flinch, did''t move, he leaned in closer. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb tracing lightly—so lightly—across the curve of your scar.

Your breath hitched.

Your eyes widened just slightly.

And instead of stammering like you expected him to—blushing, fumbling—Telemachus lowered his voice, let it roll like smoke across your skin.

"Is this what you wanted?" he murmured, his thumb still trailing the line of your lip. "To see if the boy who kissed you would do it again? Or were you hoping he'd beg for it this time?"

Your heart practically dropped into your stomach.

What?

You blinked, your lips parting, but no words came. Your throat went dry. Heat rushed to your cheeks—not a flirty flutter this time, but real, raw, caught-off-guard embarrassment.

You stepped back on instinct.

Just a single step. Barely a full stride.

But he followed.

Didn't even hesitate.

His expression had shifted into something smug—something quiet and sharp. Like he'd waited for the right moment to bite, and now that he had, he was enjoying it.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice dipped in soft amusement. "Didn't expect me to flirt back?"

You opened your mouth to answer. Closed it. Then opened it again.

But no sound came out.

Because you were pressed against the door—your back flat to the wood, your chest rising too fast, too tight—and Telemachus stood mere inches away.

Your eyes were wide. Too wide. Your lips parted, but all you could do was breathe.

And think. Think too much.

Because your heart was racing—pounding so fast it made your hands tremble at your sides. Your thoughts scrambled in your skull like birds startled into flight.

He was too close.

Not much. Just enough. Enough for your bodies to nearly touch. Enough for you to feel the heat of him, the way it rolled off his chest in waves. The way his presence folded around you like a cloak.

Telemachus chuckled low under his breath—and gods—

You felt it.

The sound curled through your ribs like smoke, heavy and warm and dangerous. It wrapped around your spine, settled in the pit of your stomach like a spark waiting to catch flame. Your knees nearly buckled.

He leaned in, slow.

And when he spoke—his voice was low, too low, like a secret he meant for you to keep. His mouth hovered so close that your noses nearly brushed, and the ghost of his lips dragged along yours as he whispered. "What happened?"

That was all. Just that.

But the sound of it—gods, the feel of it—made your breath stutter in your throat. His lips brushed yours again as he said it, barely touching, just enough to feel like a promise.

Or a warning.

And you didn't move.

Not because you couldn't.

But because you didn't want to.

Not when he was looking at you like that—like he saw through every wall you'd ever built. Like he liked what he saw.

Telemachus tilted his head, feigning a pout. "Still not answering me?" he whispered, voice teasing, like silk caught on skin. "You seemed so bold a moment ago..."

And then his hand—gods—his hand slipped upward.

Fingers warm as they cupped your cheek, trailing along the edge of your jaw with a touch that was maddeningly careful. Then down—slowly, achingly—over the column of your throat, until his palm rested lightly at the base of your neck.

Not gripping. Just there. A gentle weight that stole the air from your lungs.

His thumb brushed beneath your ear, soft. Tender. Dangerous. His smirk deepened.

You still hadn't answered. Not with words. Just wide eyes and a breath stuck behind your ribs.

And he knew it.

The corner of his mouth curled, smug. "That's what I thought," he murmured.

You sucked in a sharp gasp—and that broke it.

Your fingers scrambled behind you, fumbling until they found the cool brass of your door handle. You gripped it like a lifeline.

"I—I should go—goodnight," you blurted in one breath, nearly squeaking.

Then you shoved the door open.

Too fast.

You stumbled backward with a tiny yelp, landing flat on your back across the edge of your rug. From the floor, you saw his face again—startled, concerned, guilty.

"Wait—are you okay—?"

But you popped up like you were spring-loaded, flailing slightly as you scrambled upright, face burning. "I'm fine—fine! Goodnight!"

And slammed the door shut.

You leaned against it immediately, chest heaving, your hands trembling as they pressed to the wood.

Through it, you heard his low laugh—soft and breathless. "...Goodnight, then."

His footsteps padded away, slowly. You waited until they faded.

Then sagged fully against the door with a choked, whispered gasp.

"Gods."

Your hands clutched at your face as you slid to the floor, grinning like a fool.

Your heart was still racing.

And you hoped it never stopped.

A/N: kay, i'm back from break! (ngl came back sooner cuz i been binging 'WARRIOR', and also missed updating) first off—thank you all so much for being so understanding. 💕 i really do appreciate everyone who took the time to clarify, apologize, or even just say they got where i was coming from (even though, like i said before, you didn't have to). my last message wasn't directed at everyone—it was more so aimed at a few folks whose comments gave off a lil' too much passive-aggression (which i made sure to delete cuz who tf???) and only left up those cuz once again, opionions are opinions. like, i love me some discussion. y'all know i live for good commentary and unpacking character moments. but when it comes from a place of telling me i'm doing too much/being cruel/writing violence, when the story's been telling you from jump that this world is not soft-core fluff, it kinda just... rubs me the wrong way. not every part of this story is gonna be palatable. and that's the point. (lol not me sounding like a parrot at this point) but again—i still genuinely appreciate all your thoughts. truly. 🖤 and i promise, not every piece i write will be this heavy or emotionally intense. but in this story, after spending so long crafting who these characters are—how the mc sees them, how we as readers see them—i just couldn't bring myself to skip over their vengeance with a quick summary or brush-past scene. that would've felt like cheating the entire emotional build. so yeah! i'm back. recharged. still loving these chaotic gods and messy mortals with my whole heart. now let's get into it 😌 alsooo, what did y'all think of the newest update?? 👀 i've been a little excited lowkey testing out how mc's trauma is starting to shape her—like how it's subtly shifting her persona. i tried to make it a slow burn, showing that change without hitting y'all over the head with it. we've seen her kinda sheltered, soft, almost halo-level perfect for a while now... and yeah, i couldn't help myself. had to sprinkle in a lil' edge. a lil' darkness. a lil' flirting. 😌 kay byeeee~ 😭🖤 ps. WAIT Y"ALL WHY ARE THERE COMMENTS THINKING ANDRIEA IS DEAD??? OMGGMMG maybe thats on me for wording it poorly, shes not dead  i just meant ppl were wishing for her death to happen 😭😭

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ but before you all continue, i have an announcemtn, after a few lines dashes beneath my regualr fanart submission, i have been sent some nsfw stuff that i'm estatic to share (so plz if you don't want to see it, thats fine, jus scroll along while the rest of us go wild for some drawn tits/pecs 😩❤️) (email: wattywriter04@gmail.com | tumblr: winaxity-ii)

from iconic-idiot-con

OHHHHHHHH MY GODDDD???? I swear I get nothing but gems from you... Not only did you give me a Hades with sad poet hair and those blue eyes like he's been silently grieving for centuries—but then you hit me with Persephone LOOKING LIKE SUNSHINE?? Soft, warm, glowing-from-the-inside-out divine wife energy??? I'm losing it. I'm actually LOSING it. 😭✨ The laurel tucked in Hades' hair??? The crown detail in hers??? This is peak duality. You understood the assignment AND THEN SOME. This is the Godly Things power couple if I've ever seen one—him brooding in the corner with a wine goblet, her lighting up the whole throne room and handing out fruit like a menace. I am OBSESSED. Like genuinely I wanna frame this and hang it above the Underworld's fireplace. THANK YOUUU 💀🌸💘

NOOOOOOO BECAUSE I'M ACTUALLY WEEPING. WEEPING. 😭🔥The lighting??? The DRAMA??? Hermes standing there, golden and furious, spitting those lines with his whole chest??? "SHE IS TO ME WHAT PERSEPHONE IS TO YOU!"—are you trying to kill me??? Because congratulations. I'm dead. Buried. Deceased. Hades turning away all stone-faced while Persephone is like 😳??? The range of emotions?? You gave me storyboard-level intensity in one image and I'm eating it up like a full course meal. The fact that Hermes looks both absolutely heartbroken and ready to start a war?? The way you captured his righteous fury?? This is cinema. This is peak divine pettiness meets romantic desperation and I LOVE IT HERE. 💔💘 You are not just drawing fanart—you are delivering scenes that deserve orchestral backing. Please never stop. PLEASE. ❤️❤️😩

from Kath_Realm21

Ohhh my hearttt 😭💖 The tears. The expression. The weight in her eyes—you captured that silent strength so beautifully. MC's not just surviving—she's enduring. And the way her cloak drapes like it's been through battle and grief and still somehow holds its shape?? QUEEN BEHAVIOR. And that little message beside her?? "She is a queen, and so are you author"—you did not have to make me cry like this before noon!!! 😭😭 The way this sketch feels both soft and powerful, like a quiet moment after the storm, like MC's finally standing tall after being dragged through Tartarus and back... I just... thank you. Thank you so much. This means the world. 👑🖤🕊️

OH MY GODDDD THIS IS—THIS IS TOO MUCH 😭💘First of all—the standoff sketch?? The profile view??? That's not a drawing, that's a duel of souls. The way MC's still got that soft frown, and Telemachus is looking at her like she's his whole damn world... I can HEAR the silence between them. It's so loud. AND THEN THE SECOND ONE—THE WAY THEY'RE LEANING IN??? The hand on the waist, the noses almost touching, the tension practically leaking off the page like fog??? LIKE KISSSSSS!!!! "They're basically Ody & Penelope 2.0"—NO because YOU UNDERSTOOD THE ASSIGNMENT. That's actually canon now, thank you. I'm citing you. These are so tender and emotional and UGH just perfectly them. Thank you so much—this honestly made my entire day 🥹🔥🖤

from BUNI

SCREEEAAAMINGGGG. This. This is ART. This is a VISUAL SYMPHONY. You drew the entire cast and somehow managed to give each one their exact vibe like you've been living in my Google Docs 😭🖤 Hermes with that smug lil "I know I’m hot and I will steal your heart (and wallet)" grin?? CHECK. Apollo looking like a tragic theater major who writes poetry on silk?? CHECK. MC in the middle, glowing like the emotional backbone she is??? GODDESS. Andreia's jawline alone could cut a man—and probably has. CLEO?? Cleo's tired, judgmental, morally gray stare??? Flawless. And Telemachus??? My sweet, sad boy looking like he just finished crying over you and then turned around to chop someone in half in your honor??? Canon. This whole piece is SOOOO well-done I feel like you've assembled the cast of a high-budget TV adaptation of Godly Things and I'm just sitting in the front row sobbing. Thank you for sharing this, Buni—your talent is unreal, and I'm so honored to see the world through your hands 💘👑🎭

from wishesonstars39781

OH YOU DID NOT—YOU GAVE HER A HALO??? 😭💀This is so unseriously Andreia-coded I can't stop laughing. She looks like she just said, "I only want peace and love 🥺" right after shattering someone's emotional support lyre and framing it as their fault. The curls?? The softness?? The fake princess grace??? YOU GET HER. She looks like she’s about to say, "Who, me?" right after orchestrating an entire manipulation arc behind the scenes. This is that Brontë Brat™ energy in full Renaissance portrait mode. I'm OBSESSED. You captured her so beautifully I'm side-eyeing her through my screen. Thank you for this. I will cherish her smug little Mona Lisa smile forever 😌🖼️✨

I AM... SCREAMING INTO THE VOID. 😭💘 YOU DIDN'T JUST DRAW TELEMACHUS. YOU STUDIED HIM. You unlocked his soul like a character sheet and gave us all his phases—soft, lovesick, deadly, awkward, war-torn, owl dad, garden boy, "will you accept my favor?" poetic fool energy. He is fully documented. And that one with the laurel crown and bashful eyes??? I’m biting my fist like a regency maiden. Lemme take a step back for I fall in love w/ him... i gotta be fair to the other love interest but this is making it so hard 😭😭 ACKKKK--THE ONE WITH THE SPEAR DIVIDING "LITTLE WOLF" AND "WARRIOR" TELE????? That's not a sketch. That's cinema. Also: TELEMACHUS AND THE DOG?? HELLO?? That's it. That's the series. Cancel the rest. He wins. Thank you for loving him so much. You captured every flavor of his heartbreak and growth. These pages feel like a shrine and I am a willing worshiper. 💘🗡️🐺

from gab137507

Oh. Oh this one hurts. 🥀🩸 "You help everyone, but who helps you?"—like WHY would you stab me in the soul like that?? The broken symmetry on her face, the cracked lines, the bleeding ink, the quiet devastation in her eyes?? It's haunting. It's beautifully haunting. This captures that exact post-Ch.38 numbness, like when the adrenaline fades and all that's left is you... and the pieces. Not just physically broken, but emotionally worn down, drained, like MC's finally realizing no one is coming to save her. That kind of sadness? You nailed it. This is more than fanart—it's like a visual echo of every moment she held herself together for someone else. Thank you for drawing this and for reminding me why her journey hits so damn hard. I'm gonna be thinking about this one for a long time. 🖤💔

OH THIS??? THIS IS DIVINE. 🔥👑 The poise. The power. The absolute command in her stance—like she just walked out of Olympus and said, "I'm not asking, I'm declaring." Even in sketch form she radiates presence—untouchable, unknowable, but undeniably hers. And the blank, focused expression?? As if she's already seen the future and knows exactly who'll bow next. A goddess not by blood, but by force of will. This is the MC who rises from trauma not just whole—but holy. Thank you for drawing her like this. I feel blessed. 💥🔥🖤

from anon0219

Oh my gods... this gave me chills. The darkness swallowing the space, the faint torchlight bleeding into the stone, and those red stains—just visible enough to haunt you. You didn't even show a body, and yet it's somehow more devastating. The silence, the emptiness, the memory that lingers. It's like the walls remember. Like this is exactly what I was picturing in my mind while writing! And the fact that you took inspiration from Socrates' prison?? That makes this hit even harder. The weight of history, death, and reflection—all of it is captured here. I'm genuinely moved. Thank you for trusting me with this and for saying what you said at the end. It really means more than you know. I promise I'm still writing—and I'll carry this with me as I do.🕯️

from Acheron

not really fanart but the meme was funny lolol

now on to the nsfw... I REFUSE NOTHING BUT PRAISE FOR THESE 😤😤 tr

from iconic-idiot-con

OH.😳🔥You didn't just draw Telemachus down tremendously—you rendered his entire dreamscape like we cracked open his skull and found the holy grail of feral boy fantasy. "Let me get a taste of you"??? "Such a good boy"??? MA'AM. THE WAY I CHOKED. The line delivery. The body language. The dream panel at the bottom where he's LITERALLY JUST SUFFERING IN BED?? Staring into the abyss with a face like 😩 while mentally being dragged across Olympus by MC's thighs—I'm—😭 You captured so much thirst, yearning, and chaotic sleep-deprived masculinity in one sheet I think Telemachus himself would spontaneously combust if he saw it. Which. Honestly. Canon behavior.

OH MY GODDDD HERMES TOO??? 😭 This is so him. Dreaming like he's in a tsundere anime, all cool and unbothered in one panel and then immediately blushing in the next like "wait... oh no she's hot." The way you drew MC saying "Stop being mean and kiss me already" with actual romcom protagonist energy??? AND THAT LIL HERMES IN THE NIGHTCAP??? I'M WHEEZING. He looks like he just woke up in a sweat clutching his sheets whispering, "she told me to kiss her" while staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers. Sir, please. Control your subconscious. You're making it way too obvious. 💀 I cannot believe you're out here animating everyone's horny midnight visions like a divine therapist with a sketchpad. THANK YOU FOR THIS. I'm putting it right next to Telemachus' delusions and calling it the Pantheon's Official Dream Journal™ 😭💘✨

OH MY GOD. NO BECAUSE—THE "PREPARE MY LADY'S SEAT" LINE??? I'm actually howling. This man put on a SKINCARE HEADBAND just to get ready to EAT. 😭💀 The sheer whiplash from the flirty smugness to that last panel??? "broke his neck"???? "STFU!! just heal yourself!!"?!?!?! I've never seen divine foreplay turn into divine post-meal combat so fast. This is PEAK Godly Things energy. The accuracy. The range. The chaos. You get them in ways I didn't even know I wrote them. This whole comic is giving "oral fixation meets Olympian drama," and I want it engraved on my tombstone. The little pillow toss??? The smug look??? I am OBSESSED. 🙏🔥🩷 Thank you again for feeding me. This is art. This is sacred. This is WAR.

Like iconic-idiot-con i don't think you understand how much i love these 😩😩 thank you so much for trusting to send these! ❤️❤️❤️🥀i love me some c*ck/boobs as the next single person with delusional daydreams (#physicallyvirginmentallyslut)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[kawaiigirly21]

Quick question before I allow myself to hyperfixate on this guy enough to write a story, am I missing something? I mean... We all know Telemachus is an adult right? Why do people treat him like he's a child? Like I know he's a really sweet character and pretty tenderhearted but he's not a teenager. He's at least 20 something. That's a grown man. Why does every person I come across not believe me when I say this? Then I get accused of being "gross". He's literally an adult!! He's not a damn kid!! Am I missing a memo that he's a kid now? Cause if the fandom is gonna do that shit, leave me tf out of it

(Art by Duvet box btw)

[jackiepackiee]

Prince Telemachus who’s always been a little afraid to have children. Not that he doesn’t like them, in fact he actually adores their little cute faces. He’s just afraid he’ll have to leave like his father and they’ll have to grow up like he did.

That is until he marries you, his lovely wife and now princess of Ithaca. Odysseus is back and teaching him all the things a father should.

One of the servants has had a baby and while he’s walking with his father and mother to eat breakfast he hears a soft humming. It’s you, holding the servants baby in your arms while she takes a break on a chair.

Its chubby cheeks are pressed against you, tiny fingers tugging at your hair as you coo and calm it from crying. The sight makes him freeze, heart practically beating out of his chest. It’s so overwhelmingly adorable.

To make it worse, Odysseus and Penelope noticed quickly and start their onslaught of comments such as, “She will be a great mother.” “Are you going to give us a little princess or prince soon?” “She’s great with little ones.”

And that moment of seeing you with the cute baby, being such a natural with them, changes his mind entirely.

Yeah, he is definitely ready to be a father if you’re going to be the mother

[girltriestowritestuff]

Royal Arrangements, Chapter 1

Telemachus x Reader

“She’s not here for romance. He’s not ready for a crown. But fate has other plans.” When your mother announces your engagement to Telemachus—yes, that Telemachus, son of Odysseus—you expect politics, not apologies. But the prince turns out to be more awkward than arrogant, more kind than kingly. And you? Well, you're not exactly the swooning type.

an-thank you to @thatoneguythatwatchesgayporn for this idea! Hope you like it.

You could immediately tell something was going on when your mother asked to speak with you. Privately.

You’d had “talks” before, usually about responsibilities or etiquette or who you were accidentally offending at court this time. But this one felt different—heavier somehow. You felt it in her voice, in the way she wouldn’t quite meet your eyes when she asked.

Still, you followed her down the corridor. What else could you do?

You walked into her room, where she was already seated neatly on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap like she had to physically restrain herself from fussing with her skirts. She looked like she was rehearsing something. You didn’t sit down yet.

"There's been some news from Ithaca," she said, her voice gentle, almost too gentle.

That was the first red flag.

You narrowed your eyes a little. “Should I be alarmed or surprised?”

“That depends,” she said, pausing like she wasn’t sure how much to say. “How do you feel about marriage?”

You blinked. “That’s… a leap.”

But she didn’t answer.

You crossed your arms, a defense more than a gesture. “Is it being forced on me because someone actually wants me, or is this a politics thing?”

She gave you a familiar look—part fond, part tired, part amused despite herself. “Don’t be clever.”

“Too late.”

She sighed, brushing invisible dust off her skirt. “My love, I know you don’t want to marry—”

“To whom,” you interrupted, “and it’s fine, Mom.”

It wasn’t fine. You were not “fine.” But you’d learned long ago that saying so didn’t change much. And she looked like she didn’t want to do this either.

Your mother hesitated, the way she did when she was about to say something that might shatter whatever peace you had left. She looked at you with something like guilt in her eyes.

“To Telemachus,” she said at last. “Son of Odysseus.”

You blinked. “As in Ithaca Telemachus?”

She nodded.

You let out a breath through your nose and ran a hand down your face. “Of all the names you could’ve said, that one’s… bold.”

“He needs legitimacy,” she explained softly. “The suitors are circling like vultures. Penelope can’t hold them off much longer. He needs to be king.”

“And I’m supposed to make him one?” you asked, dryly.

“You would make a fine queen,” she replied.

You stayed quiet, chewing on that. Being queen wasn’t the problem. Being a pawn was.

Still, you sat down beside her, letting your weight sink into the mattress. You were nearly twenty, but in that moment, you felt closer to ten—tired, uncertain, needing a mother more than anything else.

“I’m not saying he’s a bad choice,” you said carefully. “I’m saying… I never had a choice.”

Your mother wrapped her arms around you. It wasn’t one of those tight, desperate hugs, but a steady, warm one. Like she was trying to hold everything together just by holding you.

“I know this isn’t the life you imagined,” she said into your hair.

You gave her a small, sad smile. “I stopped imagining a long time ago.”

She squeezed you gently. “I’ve spoken with Penelope,” she said. “She says he’s… kind. Thoughtful. Not rude like you might think.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So, what, he probably reads poetry and apologizes too much?”

Your mother chuckled—real and soft, like it snuck out before she could stop it. “Would that be so bad?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I’ve played these games before. I know how kind eyes can lie.”

She nodded, her expression serious now. “He’s not a game.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” she said. “But I believe in him. And more importantly… Penelope believes in him. That means something.”

You leaned into her shoulder. It was oddly comforting to know that Penelope, a woman known for her patience and wisdom, was vouching for this boy.

Boy. That’s what he was to you. Just a name, a story, a set of expectations dressed in royal robes.

You’d grown up on stories about Odysseus—clever Odysseus, cunning Odysseus, the man who tricked gods and toppled cities. What kind of son would that man raise?

What kind of boy accepts a crown with strings attached?

What kind of prince agrees to marry a stranger?

And what kind of man would he turn out to be?

You didn’t say yes. Not yet. But you didn’t say no either. That was something.

“I don’t want to be the answer to someone else’s problems,” you said, quietly.

“You’re not,” your mother said. “But you might be part of a solution.”

“That's a lot of weight to put on someone who didn’t get to choose.”

“I know,” she said again. “But sometimes, the only power we have is how we carry what’s given to us.”

You sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But it didn’t make it easier.

Still, part of you—the part that had grown cautious but not yet completely bitter—was curious.

Curious about a boy raised in a broken kingdom. A boy trying to become a king in the shadow of legends. A boy who might be just as trapped as you.

Maybe he was more than a name.

Maybe you were more than a tool.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of your story, but a strange, unexpected beginning.

[tired0artist]

Crack idea, of where Telemachus falls for a child of Poseidon and now the Sea God and Odysseus have to endure uncomfortable family dinners.

Much to Penelope’s amusement and Telemachus’s obliviousness.

Ody and Poseidon would be at each other’s throats constantly, I think that Pen would have to hide all of the forks from her husband.

Poseidon would be secretly relieved by that lol

I kinda see it as the family dinner in Shrek 2 lmaooo

(I’m ignoring his later romance with Circe, for this crack idea)

[primrosechronicles]

"For the Queen: Chapter Two"

Credits to @diviniyae and @graphic-cest for the dividers

A Epic the Musical Telemachus x Sorcerer!Reader

Summary: A young prince faces growing tension in his home as he confronts power, pressure, and unexpected forces that challenge his courage. Warnings: Violence, blood Word count: 1610 (Previous > Next)

Before him sits an elevated platform with three seats. On the far right is a medium-sized throne, reserved for his mother; he had always thought that the artists that made his mother’s throne knew exactly what they were doing as they were making it. The cushion of the seat is held up by golden legs, and the backrest of the chair is tall, but small enough that it wouldn’t ruin her hair if she leaned on it.

Beside it stands another throne, taller than his mother’s chair; but it looks less maintained, untouched even, the golden accents of the chair now dull. The King's throne—its backrest is big, bigger than his mother’s throne. When he looks at it, a chill goes down his spine; it looks like a culmination of all the pressure he will bear when he becomes king. It's a humbling feeling.

Now, on the farther left is his throne. It’s smaller than his parents’. It’s well-kept, and its gold trim is radiant.

Telemachus has always loved the main hallway of the palace. It was long, long enough to look like it stretched to infinity. He looks back and is greeted with the rest of the throne room, and the sight disgusts him. The throne room looks like a skeleton of what it once was; the pillars as the ribs, the statues of his father as the lungs, and the three chairs that sit at the end of it are the heart. But it seems the room has digested a type of… poison. The ribs are cut into by swords, the lungs destroyed—marked by visible, man-made aggression.

And the heart, barely intact; one of the valves—a throne—sits there, sword, arrows, spears lodged in its center.

Horrifying, these gluttonous men that poison his home are vile and wretched. These scars that cover his home represent something bigger, something bigger than the burden of being a king. It represents the safety of his mother beginning to crumble.

He walks into the dining hall, where all the suitors sit, eat, and lounge around. He looks at them with disdain. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my mother safe,” he promises to himself.

He looks down at his bruise-covered arms. Keeping his mother safe? With this build? He has been getting his ass beat these past few years; it would take an act of the gods for him to be able to get strong enough to actually go toe-to-toe with one of them.

“Boy!” he hears a booming voice from behind him.

… fuck.

He feels a sharp tug on his arm. The man's grip on him tightens. “Your mother really is taking her sweet time weaving that fucking shroud…”

A deep chuckle emanates from his mouth. “Tell us… when your tramp of a mother is going to finally choose, huh?”

Telemachus’ face scrunches into disgust. “Don’t you fucking dare call her that.”

Antinous’ voice lets out a high-pitched squeal. “Oooo!!! Little Wolf has claws!”

He smirks and slowly whispers into the prince’s ear. “Say… why don’t you open the doors to her chambers so we can show her what she's been missing…?”

Telemachus’ eyes widen. The thought of his mother being in bed with these… animals… makes the bile from his stomach rise up.

He uses all the strength he can muster into his free hand to throw a punch at the suitor’s face. He suddenly feels that his hand is… restrained. Antinous scoffs. “Ha! You think I'm scared of you, little wolf?”

“I am the son of the woman you are ‘courting,’” he rolls his eyes. “If you could even call it that…”

His grip on Telemachus tightens. “Big words from a boy who used to hide under his mother’s skirt.”

“Big words for a man who can’t even follow the sacred rules of Xenia.”

The man glares back at him and shoves Telemachus into a group of men who grab his arms to restrict his movement.

Antinous raises his sword at Telemachus’ throat. “Say, boy… why don't I teach you the know-how of a warrior..? Something your dead daddy never got the chance to teach you,” he says as he discards his own weapon.

The suitors that surround them cheer and yell, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The shouts—the arms that restrict him—all fill him with a fiery rage.

The suitors that restrained his movement push him back into the ring. He throws away his own sword and prepares for the confrontation.

Antinous repeatedly throws heavy blows on the prince’s body. “Come on, Princess! You aren’t even putting up a fight! I thought you wanted to entertain me!” he says mockingly.

Telemachus stumbles, his feet trying to keep him steady as he receives more strikes from his opponent. He looks up and sees Antinous, his fists still guarded around his face—but his guard is loose, his attention toward the other suitors. Now is his chance!

Telemachus runs forward, his arm wound up to deliver a hard blow. Then Antinous' face turns into shock; his guard now rock solid. As Telemachus twists his body to deal the blow, then suddenly, it is as if time—

Stops.

“Need some help?”

Telemachus looks down in surprise, his body supposedly suspended in time. “What is happening…?”

A snap from a pair of fingers can be heard from behind him. Telemachus then trips forward. He pushes himself off the ground and sees… something divine.

Before him is a tall, grey-eyed goddess; her hair covered by the beautifully made bronze helmet, her muscular body wrapped in a radiant set of armour, and her shield adorned with Medusa’s head.

This goddess is none other than… Lady Athena, goddess of wisdom, war tactics, and many more…

“Is your plan to just sit there and stare? Because I suggest you fight back.” “I have no idea how to—” “—Uppercut him. Now!”

Telemachus’ fist meets Antinous' jaw, slowly sending him flying backwards. His gaze wanders to his arms; he feels the strength of a thousand men coursing through his veins. “How did I do that? Is time moving slow?”

“No, I just made your thoughts more alert.” “Cool!”

The roars and shouts of the suitors reach his ears, but Lady Athena doesn’t need to be loud. Her presence is overwhelming as it is powerful. “I have no respect for these types of men.”

Her body turns to smoke, moving and weaving through the crowd of men. She then re-materializes behind the prince’s opponent. “These men force their wants onto others; their will leaves others to suffer.”

Her calculated gaze shifts onto Antinous. “The only reason they act like this is because of insecurity.”

She uses her spear to gesture at Telemachus. “But you, Little Wolf, have something much more important. A heart.”

With a wave of the goddess’ hand, Telemachus’ injuries are no more, and “time” begins to move normally. “Let’s try this again.”

Antinous rushes forward, his fist in the air, ready to deal a deadly blow. Telemachus uses his cape to catch his arm, to restrain Antinous’ movement.

Telemachus uses momentum to throw Antinous face-first into a wall. The other suitors laugh as Antinous wipes blood from his nose.

“Looks like the Little Wolf has some bite… let’s test how much you can chew.”

Antinous changes his tactics. Now his stance is lower, aiming for Telemachus’ legs.

“Telemachus! Take advantage now!” Athena shouts.

Telemachus clasps his hands together, raising them up high. As Antinous lunges toward his legs, Telemachus’ clasped hands drop into Antinous’ back, sending his body onto the concrete.

Something shifts. The air thickens, heavy and sharp—like the moment before a blade hits. It’s not from Antinous, not from the suitors. It’s something else. Something magical. Watching.

Then out of nowhere, piles and piles of vines slither to separate Telemachus from the suitors. He sees you, standing on a pillar erected out of ivy, your hand outstretched; emanating a deadly aura. Your vines snake around the suitors, their faces contort—first with unease, then with agony—until the pain becomes unbearable and they unleash blood-curdling screams.

You glide down the ivy-formed pillar and land next to him. He is shaking and hunched over, his eye bruising purple and blood dripping down from his eye sockets. “Telemachus, are you alright?!”

Panicking, you quickly stretch your hand out again, to assess the damage done to his body, but then—he flinches. He’s staring at you, his eyes—bloodshot and panicked—won’t meet yours. He doesn’t see you. He sees another force that could hurt him if it wanted to.

Telemachus looks at you—like really looks at you—and something inside him recoils. Not because you’ve hurt him, but because you could.

Your fingers freeze mid-air. He’s still staring—not at your face, but past it. He’s looking at your soul like you’re a storm he’s waiting to pass.

You retract your hand, slowly. You’ve seen that look before—fear in someone who’s never had a reason to trust power when it stands too close.

You look away as you bite your lip, your attention toward the suitors who are trapped in your vines. You slowly bring them back down; sighs of relief can be heard as they make contact with the ground.

The sound of leaves rustling reaches your ears. Your head snaps toward the direction of the sound, and you see Antinous—body barely able to stand, his right hand clutching his left arm.

“Make sure your mother hears this, boy…”

Antinous slowly walks to his sword, while still holding eye contact with Telemachus. He then raises it, the tip of his sword aimed directly at Telemachus’ throat. “If she won't choose a man, your screams won’t be the only ones screaming throughout the palace.”

A/N: sorry this took a while!!! school has really got me tiedajhdadw

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Can I request a Telemachus x reader smut? Specifically after the slaughter of the suitors while Odysseus and Penelope reunite. Hehe thank you!!

A/n: YES! He's such a cutie.

Warnings: p in v , telemachus is covered in blood, telemachus dirty talks ( this man letting out his years of frustrations on you 👀)

The halls of your home still reek of blood and vengeance. The air is heavy with smoke from overturned torches, and the cries of dying men still echo faintly in the walls. But it’s over now.

Odysseus has reclaimed his throne. Penelope has wept and clung to him like a woman reborn.

And Telemachus?

He finds you in the shadows of the corridor, just past the carnage.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but his voice is low, almost trembling. You can see the red on his hands—some of it is his, most of it not. There’s a storm behind his eyes. Too much death. Too many years. Too much waiting.

“I stayed,” you say, stepping closer. “For you.”

His breath catches. For a moment, you think he’ll walk away, disappear into the dark to let his parents have their story.

But instead, he reaches for you like a man who’s finally allowed to feel. His mouth is on yours before you can say another word, and his hands are rough and trembling, pulling you flush against him.

It’s frantic. Desperate. He backs you into the wall of the hallway, the cold stone against your spine making you gasp—and that sound drives him wild.

“Say my name,” he growls against your throat.

“Telemachus,” you breathe, your fingers sliding under the hem of his tunic, feeling the muscles still tight with adrenaline. “I thought I lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me.” He grips your thigh, lifting it around his waist. “Not now. Not ever.”

His armor is half-undone, and he fumbles with your clothes like he’s afraid this is a dream, like you might vanish with the dawn. But the heat of your skin against his is real, and when he finally thrusts into you, it’s with all the pent-up rage and longing of a man who’s waited his whole life to be seen as more than a boy.

The corridor is silent now, save for the soft sound of your bodies meeting, your stifled moans, and his whispered promises in your ear.

“You’re mine,” he says, over and over, voice breaking. “Mine.”

And when it’s over, you’re still pressed against the stone, breathless, trembling, and utterly wrecked—in the best way.

Oh, you want spice? Say less.

Here’s a spicier continuation of that scene—still right after the slaughter, but now the intensity and detail get turned up. We’re leaning into the tension, dominance, and raw need Telemachus has been holding back for far too long.A

You’re still pinned against the cold stone wall, your heart thudding wildly in your chest. Telemachus’ hands are everywhere—rough with blood and battle, claiming you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You waited for me,” he murmurs against your neck, voice low and dark. “Now I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

His words make your knees buckle, but he’s already hoisting you up—your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he carries you into one of the unused rooms off the corridor. The door slams shut behind you, and he sets you down only long enough to rip the bloodied tunic from his chest. You drink him in—his broad shoulders, the scars, the raw power in his frame. He catches your gaze and smirks.

“See something you like?” he taunts.

You don’t answer—you just slide your hands down his chest, grazing the line of dark hair below his navel, before sinking to your knees.

He hisses through his teeth as you take him into your mouth—he’s already hard, thick and pulsing in your hands, and the way he growls your name as his head tips back has heat pooling between your thighs.

But he doesn’t let you finish.

“Not like this,” he growls, dragging you back to your feet. “I need to feel you.”

He strips you bare, not gently, but reverently—like he’s unwrapping a gift meant only for him. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch, and then he bends you over the table behind you, one hand pressing into your lower back.

“You have no idea how long I’ve imagined this,” he whispers into your ear, lining himself up at your entrance. “How many nights I stroked myself thinking of how you’d sound when I finally—”

He thrusts in, deep and hard, cutting off his own sentence and drawing a loud cry from your lips.

He fucks you like a man possessed—deep, relentless, his hips slamming into you with wild rhythm. One hand wraps in your hair, tugging your head back so he can bite your neck, your shoulder. Marking you.

The table creaks beneath you. Your moans echo in the dim room, along with his grunts and filthy praise.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “So good for me. You’re mine. Gods, you’re mine.”

Your climax builds fast—sharp and burning—and when it hits, you shatter, calling out his name like a prayer. He’s not far behind, pulling you flush against him as he spills inside you with a deep groan, holding you through it like you’re something precious he almost lost.

After, he presses kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your lips—softer now, but no less possessive.

“We’ll clean the blood tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Tonight, I’m not letting you leave this bed.”

And he doesn’t.

He takes you again. And again.

Until you’re too sore to move, too drunk on him to care,Your thighs are trembling. You’ve already come twice, and your body feels spent, marked, owned.

But Telemachus isn’t finished with you.

He’s sprawled beside you now, chest slick with sweat, hand lazily tracing circles over your thigh as he watches you catch your breath. There’s a smirk tugging at his lips—like he’s not done proving something.

“You look ruined,” he murmurs, voice rough from growling your name for the last hour. “But I think you’ve got more in you.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers between your legs, brushing your oversensitive core. Your hips jerk, and he laughs low in his throat, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“What’s the matter, little one? Too much for you?”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

“No,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good girl.”

The tone shifts.

Suddenly, his hand is around your throat—not tight, but firm. Dominant. He pushes you back into the pillows, hovering over you like a predator. His other hand slides down your body, spreading your thighs apart once more.

“You want more?” he growls, voice dripping with sin. “Then open those legs for your prince like the needy little thing you are.”

Your breath catches. You obey.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice like silk and smoke. “Such a pretty little slut. All mine.”

And then he’s inside you again.

This time, it’s rougher. More controlled. His hand stays on your throat, his thumb brushing your pulse while he ruts into you with long, punishing thrusts.

You cry out—half moan, half sob—and he loves it.

“Gods, listen to you,” he pants. “So fucking loud for me. You want the whole palace to know how desperate you are? How wet you get for your prince’s cock?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please—please don’t stop—”

He growls and fucks you harder.

“Of course you like this. Filthy little thing. You like being used, don’t you?”

You can’t even form words anymore. Your nails rake down his back, and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours as your walls flutter around him.

“Come for me,” he growls. “One more. I want to feel you fall apart."

And gods—you do.

You scream his name as your body clamps down on him, spasming with a white-hot rush that steals the air from your lungs. He follows with a snarl, biting down on your shoulder as he spills into you, deep and possessive.

When it’s over, you’re both gasping. Shaking.

He doesn’t move for a long moment—just holds you close, forehead still resting against yours.

Then his hands soften.

He eases out of you, cradling your body with almost reverent care. He grabs a cloth and cleans between your thighs, kissing your hip as he does.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs. His voice is tender now, barely above a whisper. “My perfect girl. My goddess.”

You can barely keep your eyes open as he wraps you in his arms, pulling a blanket over the two of you. His lips brush your forehead, your cheek, your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Sleep, sweet thing. I’ll protect you now. Always.”

And you do—drifting off to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, knowing you’re safe.

Loved. Owned.

[fanficsat12am]

Where the little lamb frolics (the little wolf follows)

As blood is spilled in the palace halls, Telemachus' greatest fight is not against the suitors, but against the helplessness that comes as he watches his beloved in the grasp of danger wc: 1.6k warnings: mentions of blood, violence, death, and implications of harassment credits of the art goes to the wonderful @gigizetz and @saradika-graphics for the dividers ❤️

As you ran through the palace's corridors, the sound of screams echoed off its marbled walls. Arrows sliced through the air with a sharp hiss, followed by a sickening squelch, a piercing shriek, and then, with grim finality, a heavy thud. The suitors who had parasitized the halls for decades were now either clambering to get to the doors or dead, their blood staining the previously white floors. 

“Telemachus!” You frantically called out, head whipping in every direction as you continued to scan every face that passed by you in your search. 

Your terror mounted with every step you took. The thought of your beloved joining the bodies lying on the ground sent a wave of dread that engulfed the pit of your stomach. 

As you passed one of the palace’s storerooms, you heard the unmistakable striking of swords. Despite your instincts telling you to run, you knew that even if there was the slightest chance he’d be in there, you’d rather take that over nothing. Running inside, you find Telemachus locked in a fierce struggle, battling off more than a dozen suitors with a fiery determination in his eyes. The sounds of clashing swords and desperate grunts filled the air as your betrothed fought with a fire that left you both in awe and terror, each move calculated and precise, yet the odds seemed stacked against him. 

You sighed in relief to see that the boy was at least alive, but the moment of respite was cut short as one of his opponents successfully disarmed him, his weapon skidding to the side. 

Before you could call out to him, a rough tug at the back of your chiton cuts you off, sending you stumbling backward into something. Your blood ran cold as an arm wrapped around your torso and arms with a vice-like grip, their hot breath fanning the nape of your neck. As you tried to writhe your body from your captor's hold, you were met by the cold metal of a blade that pressed deeper into your throat with every move. 

The man called out to a familiar face that stood in the middle of the room, Melanthius. You’d recognized him to be the king’s goatherd who provided the suitors the finest food and bent to their every will. His loyalty to the king had long been drowned, if it wasn’t obvious enough by how he had practically become one with the other suitors.  A disgusting grin formed on the corners of Melanthius’ mouth as his gaze met yours, a dangerous glint shining through.

“It seems we’ve caught ourselves a little lamb” he taunts, stalking towards you. 

Little Lamb. Telemachus knew that nickname anywhere. 

His words made Telemachus’ head turn sharply your way, his eyes widening, brows drawing together. Despite all the training and lessons taught to him by the Goddess of Wisdom herself, his heart will always trump his mind when it comes to you. He felt the world stop as he saw the glistening metal drawn against your skin. 

The momentary distraction had given the other suitors ample time to capture him, seizing his arms as their fingers dug into his skin like iron chains before pushing him onto his knees. He struggled against their hold, his gaze locked on you as his chest continued to rise and fall in ragged breaths. 

Melanthius lets out a low chuckle, “Wherever the little lamb frolics, the little wolf will always follow suit.”  

Each stride Melanthius took felt like a weight pressing down on Telemachus' chest, and with every inch the man drew nearer, Telemachus found himself aching—not just wanting, but needing to be by your side. In the prince’s eyes, the scene before him was no different from that of an innocent lamb poised to be pounced upon by a pack of ravenous wolves. 

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on them!” he screamed, lurching in every way possible if it meant getting to you. Melanthius turned to look at the struggling prince, finding his futile display entertaining. 

“You have no power here, young prince,” he snickered, pausing from his advance to you and instead walking to him, bending down to meet his eyes. 

Telemachus glared at the man, “You may bleed the palace dry of its fortunes for all I care. But no harm shall befall my mother and my beloved for I swear by the gods that I shall make you and your men pay with your life” he growled, the fire of his fury continuing to blaze like the forge of Hephaestus that wanted to consume all that dared to stand in his path to you. 

The suitor laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes glinted with a mix of arrogance and amusement as he stood again, making his way back to you. His footsteps fell heavily on the floor as he drew nearer as the air between you thickened with a tension so palpable it could almost be touched. 

“Oh, Little Wolf, did you, in your naivety, truly think of them as fools who seek only treasure?” his voice was even and relaxed, masking how poisonous his words truly were.

“Your presence here has doomed the old king. And once we’ve slain him, noblemen shall rightfully take the throne. Along with it, Ithaca, the crown…” he pauses, taking hold of your chin. His stare held a sinister gleam, “and more.”

“No!” Telemachus screamed, the word cracking in the air, sharp and jagged.

Yet, beneath the force of his cry, there was an unmistakable sense of vulnerability, for he understood his helplessness. Despite having the goddess Athena by his side, he wasn't strong enough to shield you. And now, because of that, you were going to suffer. Amid the echo of his cry, there came a sickening squelch followed by a grunt of pain, laced with disbelief.

The grin that had once spread across Melanthius' face had twisted into a frown, crimson blood trailing from the corners. No one had noticed the king who now stood behind him, the attacker’s blade piercing through his chest. 

Melanthius sputtered, the thick liquid rising in his throat making the task of speaking almost impossible.

“M…Mer-” 

“Mercy?” Odysseus growled, his breath heaved as his teeth grated together. Beneath the unkempt locks of his hair concealed a gaze that flickered with intense rage. 

“Mercy?” In a split second, an arrow had found its way to another suitor’s head, the sight leaving the others terrified. 

The hands that once held Telemachus with a firm, iron grip had now loosened, now frozen in fear of their inescapable death. You saw the prince move with a speed so unmatched, it was as though the gods had blessed him with the swiftness of Hermes himself. For a brief moment, his eyes locked with yours, and you saw it—the same burning fury that consumed his father. It was wild, untamed, a storm that raged in the depths of his gaze. The prince was no longer a son or a man—he was a force of nature, unstoppable and fierce, bound only by the fierce will to protect what he loved.

With a speed that could only be born from the gods, he shot toward the nearest dory, his hand steady as he seized the weapon. In one fluid motion, he hurled it toward your attacker, its flight a blur of lethal intent. His once-compassionate regard for the suitors had vanished. Mercy had been swallowed whole by a tidal wave of unrelenting vengeance, a wrath so fierce it seemed to rise from the depths of the underworld itself. 

You let out a shaking breath of relief as the chilling bite of the blade finally withdrew from your skin, leaving behind a lingering ache like the ghost of its touch. The sharpness of the metal still seemed to hum in the air, a haunting reminder of the danger you’d narrowly escaped. Your body trembled, weak from the shock, as if your very soul had been tested. The ground beneath you seemed to shift, threatening to give way as your legs buckled, but before you could falter, Telemachus’s strong arms enveloped you, pulling you into the shelter of his protective embrace. 

As you pulled away, his hands gently cupped your face, tilting it with a quiet urgency.

"Are you alright, my love? Did they hurt you? Please, tell me you're safe."

His eyes searched every inch of your skin, scanning for any trace of injury, any sign of pain that might have been hidden. The touch was tender, yet the fear in his eyes was unmistakable. The world seemed to fall away as he focused, desperate to ensure that nothing, nothing had touched his beloved in any way that might cause hurt for it will only further cement that he had failed. Placing your hands atop his, you give him a gentle squeeze. 

"I am well, Tele. Do not worry—" The words were cut short as a suitor’s shrill scream pierced the air, sending a shiver through the stillness.  Without hesitation, Telemachus pulled you close, his strong arms wrapping around you as he shielded you from the chaos. As your cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest, you could feel the rapid thrum of his heart, pounding like a war drum in the silence between you. The scent of sweat and earth clung to him, a stark contrast to the cold fear that had gripped you only moments before. His body trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the tension that came with knowing danger still lurked nearby. Yet, within the strength of his embrace, you knew there was no place safer in all the world.

"As long as I live, I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear it to you," he whispers, drawing you closer to him for he will not make the same mistake again.

[kaechu1]

ares: I can't believe you're getting so worked up over some... PRINCE???

y/n: no ares you don't understand this one is different...

ares: please..

y/n: he's kind and sweet, he'd never do anything to hurt me-

ares: HE'S A PRINCE!?

might be a sneak peak from my ares blessed reader who knows

[fatal-thoughts]

A Lovely Exchange

p2 here

Telemachus x Servant! Reader

Synopsis: Telemachus already fights off his mother’s suitors, but what if he manages to become one? To… one of the palace’s servants?

warnings: slow burn, flustered Telemachus, puppy love, assault, threats

A/N: This is fluffier than what I usually write, but I couldn't help it. I love him sm wtf

Part 1 of ???

You went about your routines as usual—watering the garden, cleaning the halls, fixing any imperfections in the palace, and even helping other servants when needed.

It wasn’t unusual to see you wandering around the palace; after all, you were the queen’s favorite assistant.

No one really knew why or how you and the queen were so close, not even you. But you knew there were both benefits and drawbacks to it.

Including being a target of the 108 suitors now living under the same roof as you.

As much as you wanted to continue your duties as usual, they never failed to hinder your responsibilities.

You were heading toward the palace dining room. Though it was the last place you wanted to go, you had to pass through it to reach the kitchen to prepare something for the queen—who also refused to set foot in there.

So far, so good, until you stepped into the hallway. The once loud and distracted suitors were now eyeing you.

You swallowed nervously, the lump in your throat growing, but continued forward, treading slowly so as not to attract more attention than you already had.

You made it to the end of the hall, believing you were safe, until you felt someone grab your wrist and pull so hard you almost lost your balance. You looked up and saw one of the queen’s most persistent suitors: Antinous.

The man had a proud smirk on his face as he looked down at you, still holding onto your wrist. He’d made multiple attempts to converse with you, all of which you declined, so you weren’t entirely surprised that he’d resorted to these measures.

"Ah, well, if it isn’t the lovely slave herself.”

That pissed you off.

You knew you couldn’t do anything about it, but if you could, you’d have slapped him by now. Instead, you jerked your arm away from him.

But that didn’t stop him. He grabbed you again, this time by the arm, with a much tighter and more painful grip, making you gasp in pain.

“Whoa now, where do you think you’re going? You don’t think you can just run off that easily, do you?” he taunted, leaning closer to your neck, his voice low.

“We want the queen, and since she’s unavailable, I guess we’ll have to settle for you.”

You glanced behind you, noticing all the men in the hall staring at you with intense gazes filled with hunger, desire, and thirst.

Frightened, you hurriedly tried to break free from Antinous’s grip. He chuckled softly, holding you tighter and pulling you closer. You struggled with all your strength until, finally, he let go. But it wasn’t because of your effort.

His gaze had shifted—he was no longer looking at you, but at something, or someone, else.

Backing away from him, you looked behind him and saw none other than the queen’s son, Telemachus.

He was gripping his sword, pointing it at Antinous.

“Leave her alone.”

You were surprised, to say the least. You and Telemachus had never really spoken. He usually avoided you whenever he ran into you.

You never understood why. Every time you saw him, he’d dash away like a startled deer.

But now, here he was, standing in front of you, holding a sword to one of the suitor’s neck.

Antinous raised his hands sarcastically, a smug grin on his face as he glanced between Telemachus and you.

“Alright, I’ll leave her be, little wolf.”

He walked past you, but as he did, he whispered, “Don’t think I’m done with you yet, slave.”

You recoiled instantly as he let out a shameless laugh.

You and Telemachus watched him walk away, and then you quickly exited the dining hall.

Catching your breath, you adjusted your hair and robes, trying to calm yourself. No suitor had ever approached you with such aggression before, and now Antinous had gone to these lengths? It was terrifying.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you realized Telemachus was still standing in front of you, staring at you like a deer caught by a hunter.

You raised a brow, confused. Did he see something?

“My prince, are you… alright?” you asked, still somewhat shaken. After all, he did just save you. Maybe he was in shock?

“Shit, shit, shit, shit—” was what was running through Telemachus’s mind as he stood there.

He hadn’t really thought he’d get this far. All he saw was you in danger, and his instincts had taken over.

But now that he had actually saved you, talking to you afterward wasn’t part of the plan—if he even had a plan.

He was practically begging the gods that you wouldn’t notice the inconvenient pink hue on his cheeks because that would only make things worse.

He had gone to such lengths to avoid you, to ignore you, to ward you off—foolish attempts, all of them—and now here you were, standing right in front of him.

He waited for you to tell him that you knew. Knew he admired you, probably too much.

His lips quivered slightly as he stared at you, unable to stop himself. Come to think of it, he’d never noticed how beautiful you were up close. The shape of your nose, how perfectly it fit your face. The look in your eyes, with the soft tint of color. And your lips, how pretty they looked, even when they smiled just a little.

“Fuck, I’m staring,” he muttered under his breath, snapping out of his trance.

Which you definitely heard.

You tilted your head slightly. Was he okay? Had Antinous done something to him?

No, he was just a nervous wreck because his childhood crush was standing right in front of him, and he was so not prepared.

If Athena was watching him right now, this was definitely not a battle she had prepared him for.

With a silent, desperate cry, he cleared his throat, trying to make the situation less embarrassing than it already was.

“I-I’m fine. How are you?”

…

Seriously? THAT’S the best you could do?

He stared at the ground, trying to mask his shame. Maybe if he couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see him either, right? Zeus might as well strike him down with lightning.

He was about to punch himself when he heard something.

You were… laughing?

He looked up to see you covering your mouth, short giggles escaping your lips.

Was it bad that he found them so pretty?

Eventually, you calmed down.

“Thank you, my prince, for saving me back there. Truthfully, I wouldn’t know what to do if you hadn’t come to my aid. So, thank you.”

You bowed your head, expressing your gratitude.

“How can I repay you, my princ—”

“N-No! It’s fine, please! I don’t need anything. You’re safe, that’s all that matters. I wouldn’t want anything bad happening to you, so just…”

And now he was rambling.

Nice going, Telemachus. Might as well confess to her right here and now, right? Just go for it!

Before he could continue his spiral, both of you noticed a familiar silhouette approaching. As she got closer, you immediately recognized her.

And she did not seem pleased.

“Queen Penelope! Forgive me, I was delayed on my way to the kitchen. I’ll quickly fetch your meal as you requested—”

“No, it’s alright, Y/n. You are not the one I am concerned with.”

Her gaze shifted sharply to Telemachus, her eyes almost piercing through him.

The boy’s soul nearly escaped his body when he saw the way his mother looked at him.

“Son, come with me.” Penelope turned and walked away without another word.

Telemachus glanced back at you, taking in your beautiful presence one last time.

“I…”

“Quickly, Telemachus.”

If there was one thing he didn’t want to do, it was anger his mother. He feared her more than any god.

“I’lltalktoyoulaterbye!” he blurted out as he hurried to catch up with her.

That… was something. For a first impression, it wasn’t that bad, right?

Right?

Ah, shit.

He followed Penelope as they walked through the halls, still unsure of where they were headed, but he kept his pace with her.

Eventually, they reached the palace garden. A place where Penelope liked to unwind, where Telemachus often rested, and where you, conveniently, loved to work.

The queen sat beside the marble fountain, and Telemachus followed suit. A comfortable silence fell between them as they enjoyed the peaceful moment. It had been some time since they’d spent time together, and both of them treasured even the smallest moments.

“You like her, don’t you, son?”

…

Wait… WHAT?

So, what do you think?

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: THE SMILE BEFORE THE STRIKE DIVINE WHISPERS: The Smile Before The Strike | divine whispers: the smile before the strike⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Telemachus didn't realize he was smiling until the cool air of the corridor hit his face.

He exhaled, long and slow, his back resting briefly against the wall outside your room. A shaky breath followed.

His heart was still fluttering—uneven and distracted—and his ears were tinged with warmth. It was almost funny, how rattled he was, how giddy. He looked dazed, not from battle or bloodshed, but from the way your voice had softened when you spoke, the way your fingers had curled at your sides as you flustered yourself into silence.

You'd been the one who'd started it—teasing, flirtatious, sharper than he'd expected—but the second he gave it back, just a little, you were done for. He couldn't help but laugh under his breath, the sound low and light.

Gods, you're ridiculous. Sweet, though. Sweet in a way that crept under his skin and nestled there, snug and stubborn.

And he hoped it never stopped.

He peeled himself away from the wall, running a hand through his hair as he walked toward his chambers, still caught in that quiet haze. He was already imagining what might happen next—if you'd look at him the same way during dinner, if you'd fluster again, if—

"Prince Telemachus!"

The voice snapped the moment like glass.

He turned, startled, and found a servant rushing toward him, panting, his tunic half-untucked and face flushed from exertion.

"Your father and mother—they've summoned you. Both of them. They're in the study."

The soft hum inside him shifted immediately.

He nodded once, sharply. "Understood."

There was no need for further questions, but still—both of them, at this hour? Something was off.

As he followed the servant through the twisting halls, his earlier lightness began to fade, piece by piece.

That sweet, dizzy warmth that had wrapped around him like a second skin began to peel back, replaced by the slow click of instinct setting in. The weight of his station, his name, his blood—it all resurfaced with every step.

The soft promise of earlier—the brush of your voice, the weight of his name on your mouth—lingered still, like perfume on his collar.

But as the door to the royal study drew near, so too did reality, cold and waiting.

Telemachus paused just outside it, his fingers grazing the carved edge of the doorframe. The warmth from before—your soft giggles, the heat of your breath against his mouth, the quiet tremble of your shoulders when he leaned too close—hadn't left his chest yet. It still lingered in his bones, stubborn and golden, like sun caught behind the ribs.

He didn't want to let it go.

But the moment the heavy doors creaked open, the shift was immediate.

The air in the study felt different—tight. Tense. Not angry, not heavy with punishment... just still. Expectant.

The lamps had been dimmed save for the one on Penelope's side of the desk, casting a long glow over her embroidery and the stack of unopened letters beside her.

Odysseus stood by the hearth, arms folded, eyes trained on the fire—but his shoulders were too stiff for it to be casual.

Penelope sat upright, her back straight and her hands resting neatly in her lap. Her gaze followed him the moment he entered.

Telemachus swallowed thickly.

He stepped forward without being asked, pulling out the same chair he always used for formal discussions. The scrape of it across the stone felt louder than it should've. He eased down into the seat, eyes flicking between them.

Whatever this was, it wasn't casual.

"You called for me?" he asked, voice steady. Almost.

Odysseus turned first. His tone was calm, but it had that slow edge to it—the one that usually meant he was building toward something. "Have you learned anything from her lately?"

Telemachus blinked. "From...?"

"____," Odysseus clarified, glancing now toward his wife.

Telemachus sat up straighter. "No? I mean, not really. Why would you assume I did?"

"Because," Penelope cut in smoothly, one brow arched, "as if you have the restraint not to see her."

Her voice was teasing, light in a way that only mothers could pull off while still being deeply exasperated. The tension cracked, just slightly, enough for the air to breathe again.

"I—what? I haven't—That's not—I was in my room," Telemachus stammered, heat climbing up the back of his neck. Then, realizing how weak the defense sounded, he slumped slightly. "...Alright. I saw her. Once. Briefly."

Penelope hummed knowingly, reaching for the embroidery hoop beside her. She didn't even lift her gaze. "Mm. Briefly."

Odysseus didn't smile, but the tightness in his brow relaxed, just a little.

Telemachus sighed and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Why? What's this about?"

The question hung there—genuine, confused. Whatever haze had wrapped itself around him moments before was slipping away fast. The way they were both looking at him now... it wasn't teasing anymore.

Something had shifted again.

And he could feel it.

Penelope's hands stilled on the thread. Odysseus turned fully toward him, expression shadowed by the firelight.

But it wasn't Odysseus who spoke.

It was Penelope.

"She told me what happened," she said softly—though her voice was anything but gentle. "About that day. About the alley. About how she was alone."

Telemachus stiffened.

His mother didn't raise her eyes immediately. She simply reached forward and picked up the small bowl of thread at her side—then set it back down again. Slowly. Carefully. Like she needed something to do with her hands to keep from shaking.

"Lady Andreia left her," she said. "Left her alone. Sent her back for a brooch. In the middle of a street she didn't recognize. In a district she hadn't walked in since childhood."

Now she looked up.

And her eyes were cold.

Not hurt.

Not scared.

Cold.

"I should've known," Penelope whispered. "I should've known something was wrong the moment that girl walked in here with a split lip and a story too clean. A little cut and some crocodile tears. And all this time, we were the ones comforting her. Opening our halls. Letting her mourn in peace."

Her voice sharpened, each word cutting through the air like broken glass.

"She wore my linens. Sat at my table. Took your hand, Telemachus, and paraded through our streets as if she belonged here—while the girl this kingdom chose bled alone in the dirt."

Odysseus moved then.

He didn't speak—only crossed the room and gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

Penelope froze for a moment... then closed her eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. She tilted slightly into his touch, just enough for the tension in her shoulders to soften. Her voice, when it returned, was quieter. Apologetic.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't mean to lose my temper."

But Telemachus was already standing.

"No," he said, his voice a low hiss. "Don't apologize."

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling.

"I knew she had something to do with it," he snapped, pacing once across the room like the motion might burn off the fury curling tight in his gut. "I knew something was off—she's always smiling when she shouldn't be, always watching her like she's prey. And now—"

"Telemachus," Odysseus said calmly. "Listen to me."

"No!" he growled, spinning toward them. "If she hadn't left—if she hadn't wandered off or pretended to forget that brooch—then ____ wouldn't have been alone! She wouldn't have—"

His voice cracked. Just slightly.

Odysseus held his ground, voice steady. "I understand how you feel. I do. But going in headfirst won't fix this."

"Then what will?" Telemachus snapped, his eyes burning. "Tell me, father. Because I've been patient. I've been diplomatic. I've watched that girl slink around this palace like it's hers, all while acting like she didn't send the person I love straight into a knife."

His voice dropped to a whisper. Raw. Ragged.

"____ died."

The silence that followed was thick. Hot. Charged.

Penelope's eyes glistened in the firelight, her fingers twisting tightly around the edge of her shawl. She stared at the flames for a long moment before finally speaking, her voice low but steady.

"It's getting... concerning," she said. "The way Andreia looks at her. It's not just ambition anymore. It's... envy."

Telemachus' jaw tightened.

"Then she shouldn't be here," he said coldly. "She's overstayed her welcome."

Penelope looked up.

Telemachus didn't falter.

"They've already collected Andros. Had his body blessed and sent back home with a whole Brontean escort. She's done what she came here to do." He crossed his arms, his voice growing sharp with each word. "So let her go. Let her lie to her parents if she wants—I don't care. She can spin whatever story she wants about her stay. But I want her gone."

The room went quiet.

Even the fire in the hearth seemed to still.

Across from him, Odysseus stood tall, his shoulders squared, face unreadable in the flickering light. His expression smoothed into something calm, but far too serious.

"You're upset right now," the king said plainly. "And rightly so. But go clear your head. When you're ready to talk about actual strategies—ones that won't cause a political wildfire—you come back here."

Telemachus opened his mouth to argue, but Odysseus raised a hand.

"You want her gone? Good. So do I. But if we do it the wrong way, we make enemies. And that means you don't get to protect the girl you love." His voice lowered. "Think like a king, not a boy in love. Don't give her more weapons, my son. Not until you have enough armor."

A pause.

"And as for her guard..." His gaze darkened just slightly. "Clearly, someone lied. And it led to our Liaison being left alone in a vulnerable alley. You can have him questioned—thoroughly. If he broke protocol... deliver the punishment."

Telemachus didn't speak.

His face twitched once, something bitter moving across it, before he rolled his eyes with a scoff.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice low and clipped.

He turned sharply on his heel, the folds of his tunic brushing past the edge of a chair as he left the study. The door swung closed behind him, not quite a slam—but not gentle either.

The silence returned.

Penelope stared at the closed door for a moment longer, lips pressed into a thin line.

"...He's right, Ody..." she whispered. "Andreia can't stay here much longer. It's not safe. Not for ____."

Odysseus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I know," he said. "But one of us has to stay level-headed."

He looked toward the fire again.

"And I suppose that means me."

☆

☆

Time had slipped.

The torches lining the lower halls burned low now, their flames sputtering against the cool stone as if exhausted from watching.

Telemachus stepped out of the dungeon with a slow, deliberate breath, his bloodied knuckles wrapped in a spare strip of linen—one offered wordlessly by the trembling servant trailing behind him.

He didn't speak. Didn't need to.

The silence said enough.

His body still buzzed faintly with the aftermath of fury—residual sparks twitching in his fingers, buried in the curve of his spine—but the storm had passed. Mostly. What remained wasn't rage. It was a low, simmering weight, pulsing somewhere behind his ribs.

It wasn't satisfying.

Not really.

But it had quieted something in him.

His boots echoed across the stone with each step, the rhythm steady, practiced. Not like before—when he stormed through the palace like something wild. Now he walked like a prince again. Composed. Contained.

Almost.

He lifted his hand briefly, examining the cloth wrapped tightly around his fingers. Beneath it, his knuckles throbbed. He'd split the skin again. Maybe worse. He hadn't checked. Not when each swing felt like proof that someone—anyone—was finally being held responsible.

The guard hadn't cried out. Not much, anyway.

But he had confessed.

Eventually.

"You knew she was alone," Telemachus had hissed between blows, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. "You knew she left. You were her protection."

The guard, beaten, gasping, bruises already blooming purple across his cheek, had finally cracked. Shaky words had spilled from his lips in pieces, coughed up between swollen breaths.

He had known.

You were told to fetch the brooch Andreia left behind.

And the moment you were out of sight—the moment you rounded that corner—Andreia had turned to him and waved him off.

"Let's not wait," she'd said. "She'll catch up."

A direct order.

And so, the guard left.

Abandoned his post. Left you alone.

That detail—that part—had been the breaking point.

Because in Telemachus' eyes, that wasn't just a mistake.

It was complicity.

"You could've stopped her," Telemachus growled after the third punch. "You could've refused. You were the sword at her back. And instead, you chose comfort. You chose obedience."

The guard didn't argue. Didn't try.

He just wept—quiet and broken.

And Telemachus had walked away after that.

Not satisfied.

But... less empty.

Now, as he emerged into the main corridor, the shadows peeled away from him in slow, reluctant folds.

The servant at his back swallowed nervously, still keeping his distance. He didn't dare speak. Not with the way the prince's shoulders moved—rigid but calm. The kind of calm that meant danger hadn't vanished... only settled.

Telemachus paused briefly at a basin near one of the side corridors. He dipped his hands into the cool water, wincing slightly as the sting hit the torn flesh. Blood clouded the bowl quickly, curling in lazy spirals beneath the surface.

He watched it disappear, the red fading into pale pink.

Gone.

Like it had never been there at all.

"She could've died," he whispered to himself. Not for the first time.

His jaw clenched.

"She did die."

And the gods brought her back.

But that didn't erase what had been taken. It didn't uncarve the scar on your lip. Didn't undo the silence in your eyes. Didn't change the fact that you'd bled, alone and afraid, in an alley where no one came.

Because someone didn't stay.

Because someone lied.

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, blinking water from his lashes. His reflection stared back at him from the rippling bowl—eyes sunken, cheekbone bruised from the dungeon's edge, lips tight.

"She deserved better," he said quietly.

He didn't mean the guard.

He meant all of it.

And he meant to make sure it didn't happen again.

With one last pass of his bloodstained hand across his mouth, Telemachus turned away from the basin.

He had more than bruises to answer for.

He had decisions to make.

And the Bronte princess?

She wasn't going to like them.

Telemachus rounded the corner with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who'd spent the last hour cracking bone and swallowing fury like seawater. His hands stung with every twitch, and his shoulder ached from where he'd braced against the dungeon wall. But he didn't stop.

Not until a voice—small, hesitant—sputtered behind him.

"P-Prince Telemachus?"

He paused mid-step. His shoulders tensed, brow twitching just slightly as he turned halfway. "Speak up."

The servant who had followed him—barely more than a boy, all wiry limbs and wide-set shoulders—straightened like a startled deer.

He looked like he'd been working since before dawn, his tunic wrinkled, collar damp with sweat. His skin was a deep umber-brown, sun-warmed and smooth, and his honey-brown eyes flicked up nervously beneath the thick lashes that shadowed them.

Telemachus blinked in recognition. "You're Nurse Eurycleia's new help, aren't you?"

The boy flinched, then nodded quickly, clearly both flattered and terrified to be known. "Yes, Your Highness. M-My name's Theron."

"Theron," Telemachus repeated, rolling the name over his tongue. He nodded, jaw relaxing slightly. "Alright. Go on."

Theron swallowed hard, then cleared his throat again, squaring his shoulders. "I—I only meant to say... forgive the interruption, my prince, I didn't mean to intrude during your visit to the cells, I know you were very busy, but I was sent by the physicians to—"

"Theron," Telemachus interrupted gently. His tone was patient, amused now, the sharpness in him softening. "Just speak. I don't bite."

The boy flushed and nodded quickly. "They—they just wanted to update you on her condition. The Divine Liaison. They said she's doing... very well, actually." He fiddled with the edge of his tunic. "The wounds have scarred nicely. And they think—with a few more weeks of proper bedrest and careful pacing—she should be... she should be back to full strength."

Telemachus stopped walking altogether.

For a second, the weight in his chest eased. Just a little.

A quiet breath slipped from his nose, and one corner of his mouth twitched into something fond. "She's not going to like that."

Theron blinked. "Sir?"

"The bedrest," Telemachus said, lips curving further into a smile now. "She's already itching to run across the gardens again. The gods help anyone who tries to keep her inside that room past next week."

Theron chuckled under his breath, his posture easing. "I did see her throw a pillow at one of the Bronte servants last time he reminded her not to lift anything."

Telemachus barked a laugh at that, the sound low and rough but real. The tension in the hallway cracked a bit, warmth seeping in like late morning sun.

They walked a few more paces in companionable quiet before Theron glanced sideways.

"You should be careful too, you know," he said, his tone shy but sincere. "You reopened your wounds last week, didn't you? Your hand looks worse."

Telemachus raised a brow. "Spying on me, are you?"

Theron flushed. "N-No! I mean—Eurycleia scolded me for not bringing enough bandages to the training yard, so I noticed you... wincing. Just a little."

The prince smirked, his lip quirking higher. "Caught."

"Seriously, Ypur Highness," Theron said, brow furrowed. "Who's going to teach me to fight when I become a soldier if you keep breaking yourself on the guards and the dungeon walls?"

Telemachus' smile lingered. "You think I'd trust you to fight like me?"

Theron gave a small, sheepish shrug. "I'm fast."

"Hm, we'll see." Telemachus said, rubbing his wrapped hand with a faint wince. "Alright. No more re-breaking anything. This was the last time."

"You promise?"

Telemachus looked at him, then held up his wounded hand with a crooked grin. "On this poor, abused thing."

Theron snorted despite himself.

The halls ahead stretched empty and calm, torchlight pooling across the floor in long ribbons of orange-gold. And for the first time in hours, Telemachus let himself relax just enough to feel it.

The quiet relief of good news.

You were healing.

And soon—you'd be well enough to sing again, walk again, argue with him again.

And when that day came?

He'd be there.

Right beside you.

The warmth of that thought was still curling in his chest when his steps faltered.

Just up ahead—half-drenched in the silver gleam of moonlight and the flicker of a nearby torch—walked Andreia.

The Bronte princess moved slowly, deliberately, her slippered feet gliding across the marble as if the entire corridor were hers. She wore a pale nightgown, sheer at the sleeves, belted loosely in the middle with a silken sash.

Her handmaidens flanked her, speaking in hushed tones, their words fading in and out like the tide. They moved like a procession—quiet, careful, eerie in the way shadows draped over them with every step.

The moonlight filtered through the tall palace windows, dappling Andreia's auburn hair with pale shimmer. It caught the sharp line of her jaw, glinted against the fine chain around her neck. With every sway of her hips, her gown shimmered like water—too delicate, too clean.

Too untouched by consequence.

And it made Telemachus' blood boil.

His jaw clenched. His knuckles, still sore from the dungeon, ached as his fists curled tight again. Every part of him screamed to act—to raise his voice, to step forward, to spit the truth into her face.

She left you.

She lied.

She's the reason you bled.

But he didn't.

He remembered his father's warning.

"Don't give her more weapons, my son. Not until you have enough armor."

So he stood there, breathing slow through his nose, letting the rage crawl back down where it belonged.

Telemachus let his eyes drop to the side—Theron, who had paused just behind him, eyes wide and uncertain.

"Go get some rest," the prince said quietly. His voice came low and tired, but steady. "You've done enough today."

Theron blinked. "But—"

Telemachus glanced down, a thread of warmth threading through the heat in his chest. "Thank you, Theron. Truly."

The boy looked like he didn't quite know what to do with the praise. But he nodded, then stepped back into the shadows of the corridor, his sandals whispering over the stone as he retreated.

A moment later, Telemachus heard him murmur it—soft, but genuine.

"Goodnight, my prince."

Telemachus didn't answer.

His eyes had already fixed back on Andreia's figure—just as she turned the far corner, laughter floating faint and airy behind her. The echo of it slid down the hallway like perfume—sweet, artificial, and far too strong.

He took a breath.

Then he followed.

Not because he wanted to speak.

But because it was time she knew:

He was done playing games.

And he wasn't afraid to let her see the cost of what she'd done.

Telemachus followed at a distance.

Far enough to avoid suspicion. Close enough to strike.

His footsteps echoed softly over the marble floor, measured and calm, but his jaw stayed clenched the entire way. He watched her closely—how her handmaids fluttering around her like docile birds. One adjusted the back of her gown. Another whispered something at her side, and Andreia laughed—a soft, breathy thing that made Telemachus' stomach twist.

They reached the end of the hall, just as she was about to turn the corner leading into the Brontean wing.

That's when he called her name.

"Lady Andreia."

His voice was low. Pleasant. Polished.

And it made his skin crawl.

Andreia halted mid-step. Her handmaidens turned first, blinking wide-eyed before whispering to one another in thinly veiled delight.

"O-Oh—he addressed her," one tittered behind a palm. "Men never seek someone out this late unless—"

Andreia turned, graceful and slow, like she'd been waiting for this moment all evening. The torchlight curved around her face, casting her expression in warm gold and long shadow. Her eyes sparkled faintly beneath thick lashes.

"My prince," she greeted, soft and sweet. "What can I do for you... at such an hour?"

Telemachus came to a stop a few feet from her.

Close, but not too close.

He smiled—gods, he smiled—and it nearly broke something inside him to do it. His lips curved smoothly, charming and composed, the way he'd been taught since boyhood. But inside, his stomach churned. His throat burned with the words he couldn't say. Not yet.

Not here.

His gaze flicked to the handmaidens—still lingering, still watching—and then back to her.

Telemachus kept smiling.

Smooth. Polished. Like the prince he was bred to be.

"I was just on my way to my chambers," he said, voice light, easy. "But I heard your voice, and... well, I figured it might be good to come by. Offer a quick update."

Andreia blinked. "An update?"

"Mhm." He nodded, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. "On the investigation."

That one word made the air shift.

Andreia tilted her head slightly, her lashes lowering. "Investigation?" she echoed, her tone careful—pleasant, even—but something in her posture stiffened.

Telemachus raised his brows innocently. "You haven't heard?" he asked. "None of your servants have mentioned it? About the guard who was with you that day?"

She said nothing. Not at first.

So Telemachus pressed on.

"The one who accompanied you and ____. During the—" He hesitated just long enough for it to sting. "—incident with Melanion."

Andreia's lips parted, but still she didn't speak.

He watched her closely.

Patient.

Enjoying the moment she realized he wasn't there to make polite conversation.

Telemachus took a slow step forward, his smile never wavering. "He came forward," he continued softly. "Admitted the three of you were not attacked together. Said you and he were not present when it happened. That you'd ordered him to follow you elsewhere."

Silence.

Andreia's handmaidens shifted awkwardly. One bit her lip. The other looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

But the princess...

She stilled.

Just for a breath.

Long enough for him to see it—panic, quick and sharp—before she pulled herself together like silk being smoothed flat beneath a palm.

"Oh," she said lightly, brows lifting. "I suppose I'd... forgotten about that."

Telemachus said nothing. Just stared.

Andreia smiled.

Delicate. Innocent.

"Forgive me," she went on, lifting her hand as if to brush the conversation aside. "It was such a whirlwind of a day. After the brooch was left behind, I assumed ____ would be alright—she said so herself. I only asked my guard to escort me back because I had a prior engagement with your mother, and I didn't wish to be late."

Her voice softened just the right amount. "I never thought—never imagined—she would be harmed. Gods, if I had known..."

She trailed off, her lashes fluttering as she cast her gaze to the floor. A picture of regret.

Then—quietly—she looked back up, her tone sweet with just a touch of wounded pride. "It wasn't my intention to leave her unguarded."

Telemachus said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Because her mask had slipped—if only for a second—and he'd seen what lived behind it.

Still, Andreia stepped forward slightly, her hands folding delicately in front of her. "I understand if you're upset. But I do hope you know I meant no harm."

Telemachus studied her.

And smiled again.

Wider this time.

Too wide.

"Of course, my lady," he murmured.

And something cold curled beneath the words.

Telemachus' jaw tightened.

Not enough to show. Just enough to feel.

He could hear the faint grind of his teeth behind the calm expression he wore—one that no longer felt like a mask but like a blade. Because gods, how had he not seen it sooner? How had he let himself believe the smile, the soft voice, the apologies?

He should've known better.

He did know better... now.

Still, he didn't let the tension reach his voice.

"Regardless," he said smoothly, "I thought it only right you be informed of your guard's current condition."

Andreia blinked. "Condition?"

He nodded once. "Yes. After hearing his full report and weighing the extent of his failure... I deemed it necessary he face punishment."

Andreia's lips parted slightly, her brows lifting just a little too high. "Punishment?" she echoed. There was something behind the word now—thinly veiled disbelief.

He smiled. "A soldier who abandons his post—no matter the excuse—is no use to me. To this palace."

Her gaze sharpened, the illusion of sweetness beginning to fray. "Abandons?" she repeated, a touch louder now. "Forgive me, but I instructed him to come with me. He was obeying a direct order."

"A direct order from a visiting noble," Telemachus said, voice still calm, "does not supersede the safety of someone in his charge. Especially not one bearing divine favor."

Andreia's mouth twitched. "So you've decided to brutalize my guard? Over what? Miscommunication?"

He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers. "Over negligence," he said. "And cowardice."

Her eyes flashed. "You overstep."

He stepped forward.

Just one pace.

But it was enough that her handmaids stiffened behind her, their eyes wide and uncertain as the prince of Ithaca closed the distance—not as a suitor, not as an ally, but as something colder. Sharper.

"No... You overestimated your place," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "And now learning what that costs."

Andreia opened her mouth—but the words died on her tongue.

Telemachus let the silence stretch between them like a wire.

And then he smiled again.

Not warm. Not even cruel.

Just final.

"Fortunately," he said, stepping back with the grace of someone who had already won, "everything's been handled."

He turned from her then, and walked back down the corridor—leisurely, confidently, as if the entire exchange had taken no more effort than brushing lint from his sleeve.

Just before he rounded the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder. Not enough to meet her eyes—just enough to remind her he could.

"Rest well," he said softly. "Lady Andreia."

And then he vanished into the dark, the torchlight catching only the faint glint of his teeth as he smiled once more.

A predator who no longer had to chase.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.43 ┃ 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭;  lolo i had to update this part it's criminal not to! kay about to go sleep (*read stay up and binge derry girls*)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Soft Feathers, Softer Kisses 🦉

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I'm soooo excited for y'all to see this!!!!

My first time writing for Telemachus and EPIC in general so please go easy on me 🥲

This was born from my need to smooch Tele. He's so cute 🥹

*the art is not mine, I got it from pinterest, if anyone knows the artists lmk pls!*

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You're betrothed to the prince of Ithaca. His father is lost at sea and 108 suitors are pushing his mother to choose a new king. When one of them insults the queen, a fight breaks loose, and you end up fiercely defending your lover with a determined owl at your side.

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The sound of your sandals on the smooth palace floor echoed off the marble walls, the fabric of your chiton that wasn't bunched up in your hands was brushing against your legs while you hurried towards the hall.

The commotion had managed to make its way through the entire building like a breeze of the salty sea air.

Still, the news reached you later than you'd have liked.

Worry and anger twisted in your chest, a feeling like countless arrows piercing your heart. Your lungs were burning, no breath managing to get enough oxygen in your blood.

You had to hurry.

They would eat him alive.

You were well aware of the suitors. The 108 men who'd grown stubborn roots in the palace and refused to leave without getting a chance.

The king had been gone for so long, leaving his throne empty and his family behind. It had been two decades since he sailed off to war.

Not many believed he was even still among the living, instead thinking he was slaving away in his place in the Underworld.

The queen managed to keep the kingdom from ruin for years, ever since her beloved left, and yet they insisted on a new a king, a new man to wear the crown and sit upon the throne.

A new man to take Penelope as his wife.

The moment they showed up at the gates you'd stared at them with disgust, boring into them with your sharp gaze.

None of them were fit to lead, let alone rule an entire kingdom.

The queen stalled and stalled, the hope of her husband's return heavy on her heart.

However, the suitors soon grew impatient. Causing havoc within the walls of the palace, pounding on Penelope's doors, threatening bloodshed if she didn't choose a new king.

And now, your betrothed, the prince of Ithaca, was caught in the middle of it all because he was cursed with a heart too big for his body.

When you turned the corner of the hallway, you were met with a sight that made your heart shatter and wrath boil in your veins.

The suitors had circled Telemachus, leaving him trapped with no way out while Antinous stood over him, broad shoulders throwing shadows on the face of your beloved.

He was beaten and bloodied, heaving while trying to fight back.

Although a small, proud smile cracked on your face when you saw some of the men limping or nursing their bruised eyes.

Even Antinous was left with crimson streaks dripping from his mouth, staining his teeth. Your feet were carrying you further in their direction, a mindless action.

Panic struck you when Antinous raised his hand to deliver another blow.

Without thinking, you called out to him, rage tinting your voice accompanied by the angry grinding of your teeth.

"Antinous!" You yelled, a scowl on your face as you forced your way through the ocean of suitors.

"Get away from him!"

The giant man lowered his hand with a deep chuckle and turned to face you with a smirk that made the previously boiling blood to freeze.

"If it isn't the little princess. Come to save your prince, have you? I swear it's the other way around."

The grin that sat on his face, his bloodstained teeth exposed, made bile rise up your throat.

The men chuckled, making Telemachus' head fall forward in shame.

You payed them no mind, rushing to your lover.

Giving Antinous a look that could kill, you kneeled down next to Telemachus and cupped his face, a worried crease forming between your brows while you gently brushed your thumb over the blooming bruise on his cheek to soothe it.

"Look at you.. you're bleeding!" You gasped, quickly using your chiton to wipe away the blood on his face.

"I'm fine, I promise."

Telemachus gave you an unconvincing smile, followed by a wince. The worried look on your face tugged at his heart.

You looked like you were about to cry, and he hated to think that he was the reason.

"You're not fine. You're bruised and-and what if you broke a bone? How did this even happen? They knew there'd be consequences if they-"

the words just spilled out of you, the concern for your lover was something you could no longer contain.

He cupped your cheek and smiled weakly.

"My love, please. I assure you, I'm alright-"

He was cut off by Antinous, a scoff falling from his split lips. You scowled again and rose from your knees, a panicked expression appearing on your beloved's face.

"No, don't-"

Telemachus grasped at your hand, only for you to gently tug it from his grip as you approached Antinous.

Only when you made your way over to the grinning man did you notice a big owl circling the suitors, flying high towards the tall ceiling.

You spared it a glance, noting the magnificent coloring of its feathers and the bright eyes filled with something you could only describe as a sense of justice.

Not once had you see such determination in an animal, but it managed to put your mind at ease a little.

"You filthy dog! Who do you think you are?! He is your prince, whether you like it or not. And you have no right-" you snarled, raising your hand to point a finger at him.

He quickly caught your wrist in his fierce grip, a deep frown sitting on his face.

Antinous glanced at Telemachus, who was holding his aching side trying to pull himself off the ground, before averting his eyes back to you.

"He doesn't look very princely to me."

The smirk he sported was enough to make the fire in your chest spread even more.

"You-" you sneered only to be interrupted by Antinous again.

"What? Hm? What will you do?"

"Stop." Telemachus heaved, supporting himself on a marble pillar.

You didn't let yourself be intimidated by him and rivaled him with a look just as sharp.

"There's a special place in Tarturus for you, Antinous. If he'd even allow it." You spoke quietly but firmly, feeling satisfaction bloom in your heart at his reaction.

Antinous scowled, tightening his grip around your wrist.

"He," he began, "is dead."

You smirked, a scoff making its way past your lips.

"You better pray to the gods. Lady Tyche is not on your side. You'll be lucky enough if he even grants you a way to the Underworld. I hope you have enough gold on hand. Because the only way you're getting across the Styx is in pieces." You spat at him, venom dripping from your tongue.

Antinous bared his teeth, fury blazing in his eyes as he raised his other hand in the air, presumably to strike you.

"Get."

Telemachus' voice boomed through the hall, a scorned look on his face.

"Your hands. Off of her." He sneered, pushing himself away from the pillar.

"Do you want another beating, boy?" The giant man roared, almost crushing your wrist in his hand.

Down came your feathered friend, swooping in with its sharp claws and a chilling screech, successfully tearing open a new scar across Antinous' eye. He cried out and dropped your wrist, clutching his face instead.

The other men quickly drew their swords, swinging at the bird, only to miss and receive a peck from its beak against any vulnerable spot.

The owl evaded the suitors' weapons with such grace and struck back with such vigor that you were almost mesmerized.

"Αγάπη μου." *(my love)

Telemachus' gentle call for you snapped you out of your haze.

"Are you hurt?" He asked, worried Antinous had caused you any harm. You stared at him, your lips parted.

"I... no. No, I'm alright. We should leave." You said hurried, supporting his weight while you dragged him down an opposite corridor.

You spared the suitors and the mysterious owl a last glance, a smirk tugging at your lips at the sight of 108 men being defeated by a bird.

Antinous caught your gaze, and he snarled at you, still holding his eye.

"Next time.." he called out after you, "you're dead."

The threat sent an unpleasant shiver down your spine, but he was quickly put back in line by the owl, who promptly delivered a peck to the top of his head.

With a small smile playing on your face, you led your beloved back to his rooms to take care of his wounds.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Back in your chambers, you knelt in front of Telemachus, a worried crease between your brows while you gently held a damp linen cloth to his swollen and split knuckles.

The pure white fabric was stained with the crimson blood of your lover, a sting in your heart.

Telemachus sighed and took your chin in his hand, tilting your head to look him in the eyes.

"Λουλούδι μου, your expression pains me. I'd rather see your heartwarming smile." He spoke with a small grin, hissing when his busted lip reopnend and the blood began pouring once more. *(my flower)

Quickly, you pressed the cloth to his mouth, a deep frown on your face.

"And your state pains me. You-... You could've died. These are vicious, feral men, and as much as I don't doubt your ability to stand your ground, 108 against 1.... the odds weren't on your side." You replied, such sadness in your eyes it made Telemachus' heart ache.

"I wouldn't be able to live with myself if..." you sighed deeply, tears threatening to fall from your lashline while your head fell forward.

His gentle hands cupped your face, the rag in your grasp long forgotten.

"But I'm okay. I promise you, my love, it's barely a scratch." A smile cracked on his face and you couldn't help but chuckle, followed by a sniffle.

"You have a larger heart than all those men combined." You whispered, pressing your palm right above his beating heart.

Telemachus cupped your hand and placed a gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes fell shut at the sensation as you melted further into his touch.

"Besides," he broke the silence, a smirk on his lips, "I had help."

He glanced towards his balcony and you followed his line of sight, being met with the owl resting contently on the railing, curiosity in its bright eyes.

"Yes," you chuckled, rising to your feet and walking towards the creature, gently dragging Telemachus behind you by his hand, "your mysterious feathered friend. Care to introduce me?"

"Right. Her name's Ath-"

he was cut off when the owl screeched at him and furiously flapped her wings. He startled and chuckled nervously, clearing his throat.

"I-I meant A... Alena. Yes. Her name's Alena."

If an owl had shoulders and they could sag, this is what you'd imagine it'd look like.

You laughed softly, watching as the bird narrowed her sharp eyes at Telemachus. He swallowed thickly and gave her an awkward smile.

"Well, Thank you." You said sincerely, smiling when the owl bowed her head at you.

What a curious creature.

"We should get you some ointments for those cuts and bruises."

You turned back to your beloved.

"I told you, I'm totally fi- ow."

He winced, holding his side that would undoubtedly bloom with purples and blues come evening. You sighed softly and shook your head at him.

"You're too sweet for your own good sometimes."

You caressed his cheekbone and pressed your lips to his in a gentle kiss, minding his injuries. He hummed into the kiss, resting his hands on your waist.

Lost in your embrace, the owl made another sound, something closer to the typical hoot, averting your attention to her.

She ruffled her feathers and with a last glance at the both of you she took off into sky. With a content expression you watched her glisten in the afternoon sun.

Telemachus had a bright smile on his face and waved after her, watching as she flew into the sunset, disappearing behind the horizon.

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Please let me know what you thought! <3

More of my stuff -> 💫

I think you wanna see this @withonly-sweetheart @allysunny 👀

Thank you so so so much to @vampkennedy for assisting me with the translations 🩷

[lotus-acid-trip]

hi! I hope you don’t mind me asking but may I request a Telemachus x fem reader where when ody returns and is being made fun of by the suitors while still in this begger disguise yn starts fighting off the suitors and yelling at them for being rude and maybe later joins ody while he is hunting them down and Telemachus has a love sick look while watching yn just like ody did for Penelope back when they were younger before he married her and after seeing how cool and awesome of a warrior yn is later ody turns to his son and says “I aprove of this one 😏” and poor Telemachus is just like 😳 all flustered and adorable what can I say Telemachus is a sweetie 🥰

feel free to ignore if you want to hope you have a good rest of your day thank you ☺️

“I approve of this one.”

Telemachus x Reader

[Epic The Musical]

oneshot

fluff

This is my first proper romantic reader insert fic, so I hope you enjoy!

Odysseus sat at the entrance of the courtyard under the shade of a large olive tree as he silently observed the numerous suitors scattered across the courtyard in idle chatter. Is this really what had become of his home while he was gone? It was baffling just how ungrateful and disrespectful all these guests were. He worried for the state of his palace after being infested with all these unwelcome guests for so many years. It must have been so difficult on Penelope and Telemachus to deal with all of them, having to feed and house them along with dealing with their pitiful attempts at courting his wife. It was a wonder why the suitors still haven’t been driven out by Telemachus yet.

His hand fiddled with the small wooden bowl in his hands. Odysseus was disguised as an old beggar, but as much as he wanted to reveal himself right then and there he needed to be patient and play it smart. He didn’t have anything other than an old knife hidden in his clothes to defend himself with and he was probably lacking a lot of proper nutrients and sustenance after being out at sea for so long with food of limited quality and quantity. If he were to fight all these suitors right now, he was sure to fail. Not only do they have an advantage in numbers, it was obvious they were well fed, and all the used training equipment seen around the palace was all he needed to know the suitors could fight. If Odysseus wanted to win, he needed to stick to the plan, which meant playing his part as an old beggar.

A suitor passed by him devouring a chicken leg and he held out his bowl to him. It would be a good opportunity to not only learn more about the state of his palace and family, but to also know just what his family has been up to in the past years. “Would you care to spare a bit of food for this old man?” The suitor tilted his head to look down at Odysseus for a moment before raising a brow. “And what exactly is this homeless old man doing in a palace like this? Surely your life hasn’t fallen so far into poverty that you’d go scrounging for scraps in the homes of royalty.” He leaned back against the tree, hands crossing over his legs. “Well, that wasn’t exactly my plan. I was just walking by but with the heat of the sun and with a body as frail and weak as mine, I just had to take a break under the shade of this mighty tree. I was always curious of what happened in the lives of royalty anyway.” He said as he looked up at the leaves and branches. He remembers planting it so many years ago to see how to take care of an olive tree as preparation for making his and Penelope’s marital bed. It's grown so much since then, and he wonders just how much Telemachus has as well. “Well, since you have so much spare time to just wander around doing nothing, why don’t you bring us all a meal or two, all the way from inside the palace’s pantry. You want some food? Work for it, old man.”

Odysseus raised a hand waving off the offer. “Ah, but there might be one small problem. I am just an old beggar, remember? I don’t know anything of the layout of the palace. I’m sorry, but I must decline. Can’t you just ask a servant to help you instead?” The suitor seemed to get irritated at his reply. “Ha! Yeah right, those servants can barely do anything right. They never bring the food on time and always seem to be short on stock. Not even their pathetic prince seems to know what he’s doing.” He stared at the suitor judgmentally. “ ‘Pathetic prince’ you say? Bold words for someone who’s staying in his palace.” The suitor looked at him as if he had just said something audacious instead of common sense. “Listen old man, we’re the guests here, not them. Do you not understand basic hospitality?” Odysseus narrowed his eyes at the suitor. He knew his palace, his servants and the workforce in it. They aren’t lazy or incompetent, if they were they wouldn’t be serving his family. Not to mention, if there wasn’t enough livestock there were plenty of skilled hunters and hunting dogs to accompany them. His memories of old hunts with Argos and others were more than enough proof of that.

“Of course I do. Perhaps instead of trying to defend your impudence against the prince, you could put away your prideful hurbis for a moment and just lend me even an inch of the food you already have on you. For someone relying on the shared hospitality of someone else for their own comfort, you sure don’t seem to be able to do the same.” The suitor’s bored annoyance quickly morphed into thinly veiled anger. “Listen you old derelict, need I remind you that this is not your courtyard you are resting in? This is not your abode and I do not tolerate your insults. For someone who seems to preach so strongly for returning hospitality, you don’t seem too keen on basic respect.” Odysseus hid his amusement at the irony with indifference. “Although that may be true, last I checked this isn’t your home either.” That statement alone seemed to be enough to push him over the edge into full blown rage. Odysseus jumped away from the suitor’s flying fist as it hit the trunk of the tree where his head used to be. “You know, for someone so insistent on how they have difficulty doing physical activities you’re awfully quick to move.” The suitor began to walk towards him, his larger form towering over him and casting a shadow that engulfed Odysseus’s entire form. “Listen here old man. If you think you can just run off after that impudence, your mind must be as deteriorated as your age.” Odysseus continued to back up, hand immediately searching for the knife he hid. A chill crept up his spine when his back hit something. Turning around, it was another suitor, the others beginning to close in on him. Fuck, he messed up. The suitor he first talked to grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him up to his face so Odysseus could face him. “Now, I think it's time that you finally learned a long needed lesson on hospitality and what happens when you don’t respect your host-“

“Hey! What the hell is all this racket?” Odysseus never turned his head away from the suitor, but averted his gaze towards the newcomer. A woman emerged from inside the palace and stared at the scene before her in a moment of silence before her once confused gaze immediately morphed into an infuriated wrath that could rival the suitor’s own rage. “Antinous, what do you think you’re doing! Gods above and below, has no one ever taught you to respect your elders?” She marched on towards the both of them, unshaken by any visible fear at the obvious violent intent of the suitors. She gripped the suitor’s, now known as Antinous, wrist and forcefully yanked it away from him, letting Odysseus fall to the ground. Antinous opened his mouth, ready to yell at her but the woman cut him off as she glared coldly at him. “The queen is watching us.” She said as she stared into the suitors eyes as if daring him to try anything. The mention of Penelope is all he needed to whip his head towards the balcony he knows she always loved to use to watch the courtyard. And there she was, elegant and poised, watching with a composed face as she always does. He could see how she’s changed from when he last saw her, the small streaks of white in her hair that weren’t there before, the wrinkles and tired eyes. But he didn’t care, for it was his Penelope, and Odysseus felt like he was falling in love all over again.

Penelope observed them silently, looking at each person one by one before her eyes eventually met his. For a moment, it felt like time froze and they did nothing but stare at each other. It was like the world itself was holding its breath. It was the smallest difference in her eyes that made his chest swell with warmth. Those indifferent calculated eyes that always seemed to be studying every little detail softened for a moment, her composed face faltering for a split millisecond to look at him with the same eyes that looked at him with so much affection and appreciation when he told her how he’d tackle the challenge she gave him. The tension in the air was so thick, yet only he could feel it… and maybe she did as well. Logically, Odysseus knew that they had only been looking at each other for a mere few seconds, but it felt like he was staring for an eternity at something so close yet so far. And Penelope did nothing else but silently stare back. She shifted her position, pulling away from the scene and returning back inside. Odysseus let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. It felt like time suddenly began moving once more when it had always been flowing, falling through his fingers like flowing water with no hope of holding on to it.

“Antinous, if you do not explain to me what exactly you were doing I can and will tell Penelope.” The woman said as she walked in front Odysseus, who’s gaze still lingered on the balcony for another moment before returning to look at the suitors and the new woman. Antinous sneered. “And why should I? Your family may be up there in terms of status, but you’re nowhere near close to me.” He sneered. “And? Do you think I care? You already showed just how petty you get because someone bruised your fragile ego. I still haven’t forgiven you for the fight with Telemachus.” The woman took a step forward towards the suitor, but he didn’t move. “And? The boy started it.” Another step forward and another rise in tension. “Who exactly called his mother a tramp? That’s right, you.” Another step forward until she was right in front of him. At this point even more suitors began to crowd around them to see what was happening, and Odysseus dreaded a physical fight would break out.

“Well then, since you seem so keen on berating me for teaching the little wolf a lesson, why don’t I give you an opportunity to even out the scales?” Antinous’s fist met the woman’s face, sending her stumbling back. She regained her balance before gently touching her face, a bruise forming on her right cheek. Whispers and murmurs emanated from the crows as it grew larger, more suitors joining the audience and a few servants discreetly watching from the sidelines. She looked at her own blood smeared against her fingers before turning her attention towards Antinous. “I gladly accept.” She ran forward, fist aimed at Antinous’s face. The suitor held his forearm up to block it, only for her to twist her foot, turning around to kick him from behind without her fist ever making contact with him. Antinous was pushed forward a step from the force of the kick, but quickly recovered, turning around to grab her by the leg she used to kick him. The crowd around them began cheering as he pulled her forward into another punch, which was blocked by her own forearms, now also bruised. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into a headbutt, unable to dodge or move away because of their position.

The sound of a wooden bowl hitting Antinous’s head caused all sound to cease, the silence deafening as everyone’s heads turned to look at the source of the bowl. Antinous glared at Odysseus, who was hiding his grip on his knife in his oversized clothes. Antinous let go of the woman who fell on the floor, wincing at her bruises. Odysseus’s grip on his knife tightened as he took a step forward towards him. He opened his mouth to say something before he was cut off by a young voice. “Stop! What’s going on he- [NAME]!” A young boy shoved his way through the crowd and into the clearing that formed around the olive tree, rushing towards the side of the young woman. He kneeled beside her as he assessed her wounds. Antinous crossed his arms in annoyance as the young boy began to ceaselessly fuss over her. Odysseus stared at the boy, he could recognize those eyes from anywhere. “[name], are you okay? What happened?”

“Tele, I’m fine. It's just a few bruises, I’m not an old frail man.” She said as she sharply turned to look at Antinous. “Unlike the person a certain someone was harassing.” Odysseus stared at the young man- no, his son. No wonder he looked so familiar. He had his mother’s eyes and the same fair skin as her, but the face and hair of his own. His head was reeling, it had been so long since he’d seen his young boy. He was all grown up now, grown through all those special moments in his life Odysseus would never be able to experience. Gods, he missed his first hunt, his first training session, he missed being able to teach his son all the things he promised he’d pass on from his mentorship under Athena. But now Telemachus was right there, but he still couldn’t teach him all the things he wasn’t able to.

Antinous looked at all three of them one by one, from Odysseus to Telemachus in increasing disgust. “I’ve had enough of this, the way both of you act around each other is nauseating.” He said as he left the courtyard and into the building. Telemachus helped [name] up and she turned to look at Odysseus. “I am so sorry for all this. My intent was only to help you get that pig off your back,” She said as she looked at the direction Antinous left in with so much disgust it almost gave Odysseus whiplash from her original apologetic tone. “but it seems my impulsiveness got the better of me. Usually I try not to cause fights but I’m not exactly the best at not doing that.” She said shamefully. “Oh please, it's quite alright. I understand what it’s like. Sometimes, when you’re in the heat of the moment, your emotions cloud your judgement and you’re so focused on doing what you think’s right that… you don’t realize the consequences that might follow.” He said with a wistful smile. “I really have no idea what happened, but I apologize either way. Please, have this for your troubles.” Telemachus said as he handed him money, before cutting through the crowd to probably lead [name] to get healed. Odysseus stared at the coins placed in his hand, it was enough to buy him a whole house.

……………………………………………………

……………………………………………………

The metallic stench of blood filled your nose as you walked across the wet floor, the red liquid staining your sandals. The faint light of the torches could barely illuminate the dark room, the moon’s light nowhere to be seen through the windows. What little the light did show was nothing but puddles of blood and the faint outline of bodies. Right there, at the end of the room were twelve axes that were originally supposed to be used for the challenge queen Penelope made for her suitors. It didn’t take long for you to hear about what went wrong, and it took even shorter for you to make your way here. You grabbed one of the axes, testing its weight as you gave it a few experimental swings. The silence of the challenge room was so quiet you could hear your own wet footsteps echo as you tested the axe. You internally facepalmed as you looked down at your weapon, realizing just how little you thought this through. You had no plan in mind, you just heard that Telemachus was also fighting and just had to join. The idea of fighting alongside him was exhilarating, and meeting his father, king Odysseus and master tactician that won the war? You didn’t really think too hard on your decision to join. As much as you hated to admit it, Telemachus and your father were right. You really needed to think things through more. 

Your body tensed when you heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the room, your grip on your axe tightening. Well, if you were good at one thing, it was brazenly charging into battle. You readied your stance, prepared for a fight. Since you weren’t able to kill Antinous, you’ll have to settle for killing the suitor first. The moment the bright light of a torch rounded the corner of the entryway, you charged forward, swinging your axe towards their head. Being on the other side of the room, they had plenty of time to jump out of your way. Now, you were at the entrance and they were trapped inside the room. Their torch illuminated their face and you took a moment to look at them. Eurymachus, the cowardly one. “Hey, [name], let us talk about this! I never once went out of my way to hurt you nor Telemachus, I always payed my due respects to her majesty. It was Antinous that-“

“Lead you and your fellow scum in the plan to execute my betrothed in secret.” You said with a sneer, throwing the axe at his head. It flew past the torch, the push of wind blowing it out as the man in front of you fell to the floor. He met the floor with a loud thump, his remains now nothing but another body in the landscape of corpses in the room. You moved to pull the axe out of his head with more aggression than needed before leaving. His words irritated you to no end, the man was nothing but an idle fool who made the choice of inaction. Never once did he try to stop his fellow suitors from tormenting Telemachus, never once has he tried to lessen all the resources they waste, never once did he leave when Telemachus ordered them. None of them did.

You let out a sigh as you walked through the hallways. Where exactly was Telemachus? And where was Odysseus? They most likely passed through this area already, if the bodies everywhere said anything. The father son duo was probably closer to the courtyards of the palace outside where the suitors must have fled towards. Either that or the pack of meatheads ran towards their weapon supply. You guessed it was the latter and promptly made your way through the familiar halls, passing by familiar faces on the floor that will never be missed. Surprisingly enough you couldn’t find any signs of struggle during battle. Nothing but the light of torches fallen on the floor could light up the scene, the moon and stars never daring to gaze upon the massacre. Bodies upon bodies were piled up in a gruesome display of vengeance with a vile stench that made your nose wrinkle in disgust, and yet each and every one of them only had an arrow to the head or chest to blame for their demise. No bruising nor cuts of a blade, only a lone arrow on each suitor. It was only after a long time of walking did the bodies slowly lessen in numbers, but still remained ever present. A silent reminder of the ruthless monster that lurked in these dark halls.

Your head turned towards the sound of metal blade against metal blade just to your right. Carefully peeking over the edge, your eyes widened at the sight of Telemachus fighting a suitor on his own. The light of a fallen torch reflected the glint of a knife in the darkness. Your grip on your axe tightened and you swung at the knife wielder without hesitation. The suitor’s screams were drowned by his own blood pouring out of his mouth, your axe lodged into his throat. Looking behind you, a surprised suitor was stabbed from behind, his blood coating the rest of the blade that pierced through him. The sword was pulled out and the suitor fell to the floor, revealing Telemachus behind him. “[name]? What are you doing here?” He asked as he looked around as if worried anyone might be eavesdropping. “Did you really think word of your suitor hunt wouldn’t get out? Tele, the entire palace could hear the screams of terror.” You replied as you rested your axe on your shoulder. “Of course I didn’t think we’d be able to hide a mass genocide! What I’m asking is why you came here after learning about a giant fight-“ He paused mid sentence, and you didn’t need to see his face to know he was staring at you with the most unimpressed expression you’ll ever see. You barely tried to hide your amused snickering as he rolled his eyes at you. “You know what? I retract my statement. The fight was all the reason you needed to come here, wasn’t it.” It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“Actually, not really. At least, it wasn’t the only reason.” You said you stared directly into his eyes that reflected the ever dancing light of the torch. The flame flickered, going from bright to dark and back within seconds. You could barely see Telemachus, but you poured every bit of attention you had into listening to Telemachus go from unamused to curious. “Really? Then what was it?” He asked as you smiled. “I’m looking right at it.” Telemachus looked around once more, but this time to find what you were staring directly at rather than look for hidden dangers. “Wha? But the only thing you’re looking at is… Oh.” You didn’t even try to hide your amusement this time, bursting out into a fit of howling laughter at his flushed face. “Really? Do you have to tease me even in the middle of battle?” You shoved your face right in front of his, mere inches away. “Yeah, cause you haven’t told me to stop yet.”

“Euryalus, he locked the rest of our weapons in one of the rooms! These are the only ones we have, none of us could open it up-“ Telemachus looked towards the group of new suitors, who immediately drew their weapons at the sight of the both of you. “Shit.” You cursed under your breath, you were kinda having a moment here. With much annoyance your stance changed from relaxed and playful with your axe on your shoulder, to a defensive battle stance with your weapon at the ready. Even with Telemachus, you could only handle so many suitors. “Hey Tele, remember what I told you about hunting wild hogs?” You asked as he looked at you incredulously. “Aim for the area around the shoulder or the head? [name], what does this have to do with anything-“ You cut him off with a mischievous grin barely lit by the torch. “Exactly. I suggest you aim for the chest since you’re too short for their heads.” You could practically see the gears turning in his head before he opened his mouth in a baffled offense.

You charged forwards to the four suitors, stepping on the torch and putting it out as you ran. You moved to the side of the group and swung your axe at the outermost member. He blocked your axe, and at the same time you heard the clash of metal from the other side of the group. You could barely see anything, but you recognized the silhouette of Telemachus fighting off the other two suitors. Another suitor came up from behind the one in front of you to aim his sword at your side. You pushed the sword blocking your axe downwards to block the other suitor’s sword, before pushing both of them off. Spinning around, you hit the head of the first suitor you attacked with your axe, killing them. The sight of another sword in the corner of your eye made your breath hitch, it was far too close for you to move away and turn around to block. You still tried to pull up your axe to block it, and a spray of blood passed by your view. By the time you were fully turned around to face your attacker, they were clutching their hand in pain. Or more like their lack of one. In front of you stood Telemachus, sword in hand as he charged forward, stabbing the suitor in their chest while they were writhing in pain. “[name], what did I say about minding your surroundings!” Telemachus said concerned as the suitor died and joined the rest of them on the floor. “Hey, it turned out okay in the end. He’s dead and I’m alive, I’ll be fine-“

A large thud behind you made you jump, and you slowly turned around with your axe held up. “You know, my son is right. If neither of us were here, you’d be another body on the floor.” You blinked and stared at the man before you. “Father!” Telemachus gasped from behind you. Oh. OH. “Odysseus?” You asked bewildered. He was a lot shorter than you expected. Now you know why Telemachus was shorter than all the men his age and you while his mother still towered over everyone in the room. He nodded with a gentle smile. “And you’re the [name] my son has so fondly told me about.” He said as he drew back his bow. You looked back at Telemachus and you both made eye contact, before you looked at Odysseus. “Wait, what? He talks about me? Wait, what did he say? Tele, you better not have told your father about the sand incident.” You heard him stifle a small chuckle, and you whipped around to gasp at him with all the exasperation you could manage. “You did not!”

“I did.” He said unapologetically. You stared at him in betrayal, jaw dropped before turning back to Odysseus. “Hey, your majesty, did you know that before I got with your son he trained Argos to run at me so he could pretend like he accidentally let him loose to make an opportunity to talk with mMMFFF!” Telemachus slapped his hand onto your mouth as you struggled against his arm. “I did not do that, she’s lying.” He said indignantly as Odysseus stared at the two of you amused. You shoved at Telemachus’s wrist while you both physically struggled against each other. You saw him eyeing your hand on his wrist and you looked at him sternly. “Don’t you even dare- OW!” The madlad bit your hand and you pulled away from him, your bodies detaching from one another. “You menace.” You said as he shoved his face into yours, mere inches away like you were mere moments ago. For a moment, he just stared at you and you stared back at him. It was like all the emotional intensity that was interrupted before was returning full force, a shameless rush of affection like a raging river. You’ve always been told by Penelope that there were moments between her and Odysseus that felt like time stopped, when they looked into their eyes and saw love for eternity in each other. But right now, you felt nothing close to that. It was like time was rushing past you with no end, quick and intense. Every small detail blurred together into Telemachus, and in his eyes you saw the life you have right now.

“Telemachus, I know little to nothing about you, and even less about [name], but I see the same love I have for your mother in you, and I see the same love Penelope has for me in [name].” You both stared at him, hands that had intertwined subconsciously squeezing tightly. Telemachus looked over to you, and once again you saw not just your life in his eyes, but yours and his. “I approve of this one.” Your lover blinked in sync with you. “Besides, weren’t you the one who said how much you loved it when she stood up for you before you got the courage to fight Antinous?” Telemachus stared at his father and after a beat of silence, screeched with embarrassment. “FATHER, DON’T-“ You looked at Odysseus with a devious grin, and began to explain every single Argos incident while Telemachus hid his face in your neck.

[antinousletmehit]

𐙚 ⋮ Aphrodites gamble ꒱ ‧₊˚

୨୧┇This series is basically like what if Antinous had a younger sister that likes to bully Telemachus but plot twist they fall in love and Antinous crashes out.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

╰─ ♡ Main series:

୨୧┇Chapter one

୨୧┇chapter two

୨୧┇Chapter three

୨୧┇Chapter four

୨୧┇Chapter five

୨୧┇Chapter six

୨୧┇Chapter seven

୨୧┇Chapter eight

୨୧┇Chapter nine

୨୧┇Chapter ten

୨୧┇Chapter eleven

୨୧┇Chapter twelve

୨୧┇Chapter thirteen

୨୧┇Chapter fourteen

୨୧┇Chapter fifteen

୨୧┇Chapter sixteen

୨୧┇Chapter seventeen

୨୧┇Chapter eighteen

୨୧┇Chapter nineteen

୨୧┇Chapter twenty

୨୧┇Chapter twenty one

୨୧┇Chapter twenty two

୨୧┇Chapter twenty three

୨୧┇Chapter twenty four

୨୧┇Chapter twenty five

୨୧┇Chapter twenty six

୨୧┇Chapter twenty seven

୨୧┇Chapter twenty eight

୨୧┇Chapter twenty nine

୨୧┇Chapter thirty

୨୧┇Chapter thirty one FINAL!!

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ Antinous and Y/N sibling stuff:

Talking about their relationship/past

Scenarios from when they were younger

More scenarios from when they’re younger but antinous is shittier

Reader is injured

Antinous being a shitty brother (and character designs)

Antinous walks in on his sister smooching Tele

Antinous dying during hold them down

Reader having a breakdown during chapter 19

Chapter 20 scenario that anti talked about

A brother’s plea

Readers dead

Kid reader is drunk

Emotional manipulation.

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ Extra:

Ithaca saga scenario

Ithaca saga scenario pt2

Bad ending (not cannon)

The cast as cats

Reader is dead again

Eurymachus’s first time meeting reader

Early palace scenarios

Reverse au

Younger reader and Tele

Pillows….

Caught in the act

Odyssey!Tele meets reader

More early palace

College au Drabble

How would odyssey!telemachus deal w this

Early palace pt3

Antinous’s bad babysitting

Telemachus fearing for his life

Early palace pt4

Early palace p5

Odyssues finding out of readers past

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ SEQUEL

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

╰─ ♡ COMMENT TO BE ON TAGLIST

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