dxrlingluv

[dxrlingluv]

HIHIHi I looove everything you write!! can I request a fic of Reader and Telemachus's first kiss? the deal is that none of them enjoy kissing and have always considered it corny and gross, but suddenly Telemachus wants to do it, so he tries a looooot of crazy and dumb shit to discreetly get to that, but everything fails so he decides on the end to give up and simply and bluntly ask reader for the kiss LOL pretty pls

A Hero’s Kiss

A/N : The winner from the poll. Here’s your appetizer! I have never loved Telemachus more than ever. I lowkey head-cannon him to try matching his lovers vibes when it comes to displays of affection. Example given: His s/o hates/loathes physical affection, so then he’ll also pretend to hate it even tho he’s a sucker for physical affections—especially hugs and kisses.

WARNING : Fluffy fluff fluff. GN!Reader

Word Count : 1.5k

The hearth fire cast long, dancing shadows across the stone floor of the small chamber, a quiet refuge from the boisterous cacophony of the suitors in the great hall below. The air smelled of woodsmoke, beeswax, and the salty tang of the sea that clung to Ithaca's very bones. Here, away from the prying eyes and leering jests, Telemachus felt he could almost breathe.

Beside him, you were meticulously re-stringing a lyre, your fingers moving with a practiced, steady grace that he had always admired. You and he had a long-standing pact, an unspoken treaty against the grand, performative gestures of affection that seemed to plague the world of heroes and gods. You both agreed, often and with great solemnity, that kissing was a rather silly, overwrought affair.

"Look at them," you'd murmured just an hour earlier, peering through a crack in the door to the great hall as Antinous made a flowery, and frankly ridiculous, speech in Penelope's direction. "All that posturing. You'd think their lips were forged by Hephaestus himself, the way they puff them out. It's absurd."

Telemachus had snorted in agreement. "A waste of good air."

But he was a hypocrite. A fraud. A liar of the highest order. For weeks, a thought had taken root in his mind, a stubborn, tenacious vine that was slowly wrapping itself around his every waking moment. He wanted to kiss you. He, Telemachus, the boy who scoffed at poets' tales of love, wanted to partake in the most absurd, overwrought ritual of them all. And he had no idea how to do it without making a complete fool of himself.

His first attempt had been a disaster of mythic proportions. He'd devised a plan based on the principle of 'Heroic Proximity.' You were in the storeroom, fetching a new amphora of wine to replace one the suitors had drained. He'd "accidentally" jostled a tall, precarious stack of empty clay jars nearby, intending to sweep you out of the way of the toppling column in a feat of daring rescue. He imagined the gasp, the gratitude, the breathless moment their eyes would meet. In reality, he misjudged the trajectory entirely. The jars clattered harmlessly in the opposite direction, while he, in his heroic lunge, tripped over his own feet and landed face-first in a sack of barley.

You had simply stared at him, covered in dust and grain, with an expression of profound bewilderment. "Are the floors attacking you now, my prince?" you had asked, your voice dangerously flat. He had spent the rest of the day picking barley out of his tunic.

His next strategy was 'Atmospheric Persuasion.' He lured you down to the shoreline at dusk, under the pretense of checking the fishing nets. The sky was a masterpiece of bruised purples and fiery oranges, the sea a sheet of hammered gold. It was a setting worthy of a bard's song. He had even rehearsed a line, something profound about the horizon mirroring the endless possibilities between two people.

He turned to you, took a deep, dramatic breath, and opened his mouth to speak. At that exact moment, a large, audacious seagull, clearly unimpressed with romance, swooped down and stole the piece of dried fish he had been saving in his hand. The ensuing squawk and flutter of wings completely shattered the tranquil mood. You, far from being swept away by the beauty of the moment, had dissolved into a fit of unrestrained laughter that echoed across the beach. "Even the birds find you ridiculous," you'd gasped, wiping tears from your eyes.

He felt his hope beginning to curdle into despair. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps it was all just silly. Yet, the longing persisted, a dull ache in his chest whenever you smiled at him, whenever your arm brushed his, whenever you looked at him with that uniquely perceptive gaze that made him feel seen in a way no one else did.

Tonight, sitting by the fire, he decided on one last, desperate attempt. Simplicity. A shared, quiet task. He had a basket of dried olives on the floor beside him, meant for the oil press on the morrow.

"Could you help me sort these?" he asked, his voice sounding a little too tight. "Remove any bad ones."

You looked up from the lyre, offering him a small, easy smile. "Of course." You shifted closer, the warmth from your body a pleasant hum next to his. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the soft click of olives being dropped into a discard bowl. The flickering light caught in your hair, turning it to a halo of spun gold and shadow. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

'Now,' his mind screamed. 'Just lean over. Say something. Anything!'

He formulated a new, incredibly foolish plan in the space of a single heartbeat. The 'Accidental Tumble.' He would reach for an olive on your side of the basket, overbalance slightly, and perhaps his hand would land on yours. It was subtle. It was plausible.

He leaned. He reached. But in his nervousness, he put too much weight on his supporting hand, which slipped on a stray olive that had rolled onto the flagstones. His balance evaporated. With a yelp of surprise, he flailed, his arms pinwheeling through the air as he tried to correct his trajectory. His hand, instead of landing gracefully on yours, slammed directly into the basket of olives, sending them scattering across the floor like a shower of dark pebbles. Worse, a cascade of them flew upwards, and he felt a dozen or more land directly in his already unruly hair.

He froze, half-sprawled on the floor, the empty basket lying on its side. Silence descended, thick and heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, well-deserved mockery.

A small, choked sound escaped you. He cracked one eye open. You were staring at him, your hand over your mouth, your shoulders shaking. And then it came, a peel of bright, unrestrained laughter that filled the small room, a sound more beautiful than any lyre. You laughed until you had to clutch your stomach, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

He felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. It was over. He was a clown, a jester, a boy playing at being a man and failing at every turn.

"I'm sorry," you finally managed, taking a deep, shuddering breath. You reached out, your laughter softening into a look of genuine, tender amusement, and began to gently pick the olives from his hair, one by one. "Oh, Telemachus. What, by all the gods, is wrong with you lately?"

Your touch was light, almost reverent. And something inside him broke. All the planning, all the scheming, all the ridiculous, elaborate failures – they all felt so utterly pointless in the face of that simple, gentle touch.

"I wanted to kiss you," he said, the words tumbling out, quiet and raw in the firelight.

Your hand stilled in his hair. The laughter died on your lips. You looked down at him, your expression unreadable in the flickering shadows. "You what?" you whispered.

"I wanted to kiss you," he repeated, looking up to meet your gaze, his own eyes filled with a desperate, ragged honesty. "I know we think it's silly. I know it's absurd. And every time I've tried to... orchestrate some perfect moment like in the poets' songs, I end up covered in barley or fighting a seagull or wearing olives in my hair. I'm no hero from a song, Y/N. I'm just... me. And I really, truly want to kiss you."

He watched, breathless, as a storm of emotions passed over your face. Surprise. Confusion. And then, a slow, dawning comprehension. A soft light entered your eyes, a warmth that seemed to push back the shadows. You saw it all now – the clumsiness, the strange behavior, the fumbled attempts – not as failures, but as the earnest, awkward efforts of a boy who was terrified of getting it wrong.

A smile, small and incredibly gentle, touched your lips. You finished picking the last olive from his hair, your fingers lingering for a moment against his temple.

"Oh, you fool," you murmured, your voice thick with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "A perfect moment?" You leaned down, your face coming closer to his until he could feel the soft warmth of your breath. "You don't need to orchestrate anything."

And then, you closed the small distance between you.

It wasn't a hero's kiss, claimed in victory or passion. It was hesitant, and soft, and tasted faintly of salt and smoke. It was a question and an answer all at once. It was clumsy and perfect and real. It was a quiet promise made in a small room, a moment of peace stolen from a world of chaos.

When you pulled back, the firelight was dancing in your eyes. He was breathless, his world tilted on its axis.

"Well," you said, your voice a low murmur. "Perhaps it's not so absurd after all."

He stared at you, a slow, wondrous smile spreading across his face. In that moment, with the scent of woodsmoke in the air and the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, Telemachus felt, for the first time, not like the son of Odysseus, but simply, completely, himself. And it was more than enough.

[dxrlingluv]

HIII ODDYY YOURE BACKK ♥️ I COULD SURVIVE WITHOUT YOU FOR A DAY 😔

In your last post, you said 'I’ll keep doing my best to create stories worth getting lost in🤍'

I just want to say: I wanna get lost in your eyes instead *wink wink*

(lol this was kinda cringe but I wanted to say smthng)

Oh, so you want to get lost in my eyes instead of my writing? Bold move,, But fair warning: unlike my stories, my eyes don’t have a clear ending… so you might just be wandering around in them forever ;))

[dxrlingluv]

I've been binge reading your stuff and I loooooove your writing style! It catches you and won't let go until you finish reading and then crave for more! I haven't felt like this while reading in such a long while. Keep up the good work! <3

Thank you so much for your kind words!

Knowing that my writing resonates with you like this truly means the world to me. I’ll keep doing my best to create stories worth getting lost in🤍.

[dxrlingluv]

ODDYY I MIZZ YOUUUWWW PWEASE COME BACK AND FEED US. 😔 😔

Here, baby. Pick your meal 🤍.

[dxrlingluv]

ODDY ITS BEEN TWENTY HOURS I MISS YOU COME FEED US.

😔 🥀 🥀

HELPP ANOTHER ONE-SHOT IS COMING DON’T WORRY!!!

Sit your asses down and let me do the work 💪😎.

[dxrlingluv]

YOU'RE ALIVE IM GOING TO KISS YOU(platonically) EHEHEHEHEHE

Larf youuu ♥️

(you can guess who this is)

HELLO!!! HII!!!

My lips are puckered up, come on!

Also I do have an idea of who this is but im not so sure…

[dxrlingluv]

ODDY I MISSED YOUUUUUUU 😭😭😭💚💚💚💚 MY QUEEEEN

HIIII I MISSED YOU TOO AND EVERYONE ELSE!!! I’m happy to be back!

[dxrlingluv]

i miss you wifey,, ☹️ istg ima make a fic about us

Where is “Here”?

A/N : I had this crazy idea of what if we got isekai’d to epic: the musical soooo ;))

The plot happened by the time Ody just got back to Ithaca and they are planning on what to do with the suitors heh. I wanna do more of this but the plot would be during the Trojan war and so on.

The glow of Odette’s laptop screen was the only light in her room, a familiar blue beacon in the late-night hours. On the screen, a Tumblr dashboard was open, the chat window with Aina blinking with a new message.

Aina: No, but can we just TALK about the vocals in "Ruthlessness"? Like, the way Odysseus’s voice just circles the melody? PURE ARTISTRY.

Odette grinned, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She loved her late-night talks with Ina; no one else understood the obsession quite like she did.

Odette: RIGHT?! And the orchestration! It gives me chills every single time. I was just relistening to the Cyclops saga again and Jorge’s voice is just… transcendent.

Aina: Honestly, the whole thing is transcendent. I think I’ve written more fanfic for this than I have for anything else in my life. My brain is just permanently living in ancient Greece now, powered by that soundtrack.

Odette: Tell me about it. Sometimes I wish I could just fall into it, you know? Minus the whole ‘getting smited by gods’ thing.

As she hit send, a weird flicker ran across her screen. The chat window glitched, the text distorting into a string of what looked like ancient Greek letters before resolving back to normal.

Aina: Whoa, did you see that, Oddy? My screen just went crazy.

Before Odette could reply, the flicker happened again, more intensely this time. The air in her room grew strangely heavy, charged with an energy that made the hairs on her arms stand up. A low hum vibrated from her laptop, growing in volume until it was a resonant thrum that seemed to shake the very atoms in the room. A brilliant, golden light, the color of Mediterranean sunshine, erupted from the screen, engulfing her vision completely. There was a dizzying sensation of being pulled forward, a rush of wind and the smell of salt and olives, and then… nothing.

When Odette opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the blindingly bright sun. The second was the coarse, warm sand under her palms. She sat up with a groan, her head pounding. She wasn't in her room anymore. She was on a beach, a stunningly beautiful one, with turquoise water lapping gently at the shore and olive groves dotting the hills behind her.

"What in the world…?"

"Oddy?"

She whipped her head around. A few feet away, Aina was pushing herself up, looking just as bewildered. Her laptop was nowhere in sight, and her modern clothes—a band t-shirt and jeans—looked wildly out of place against the rustic scenery.

"Ina? How are you here?" Odette scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Where is here?"

Aina’s eyes were wide as she scanned their surroundings. "I have no idea. One minute I'm on Tumblr, the next… this." She pointed towards the top of a hill, where the white columns of a large, palace-like structure were visible through the trees. "Does that look familiar to you?"

Odette followed her gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. It was the kind of architecture you saw in history books, or in the countless pieces of fan art inspired by a certain song cycle. The air was warm, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. It was idyllic. It was impossible.

"No way," Odette whispered, a wild, improbable idea taking root in her mind. "It can't be."

As if on cue, the sound of voices drifted down from the path leading from the palace. Two men appeared, deep in conversation. One was young, with a worried expression that seemed etched onto his face. The other… the other was a man who carried himself with an unmistakable aura of weary command.

His voice was the first clue—a low, gravelly rumble that was so deeply familiar it sent a shockwave through Odette. It was the voice they had listened to for hundreds of hours, the voice that narrated Troy and tricked the Cyclops.

"I tell you, Telemachus," the older man said, and the name confirmed their impossible reality. "The suitors will hang themselves with their own arrogance. We just need to provide the rope."

Telemachus. Odysseus.

Odette and Aina stared at each other, their faces pale with shock. The man’s appearance—the broad shoulders, the cunning glint in his eyes, the beard streaked with gray—matched every description from the source material, every fan art rendering they’d ever reblogged. He was the living embodiment of the voice from the songs. This wasn't a dream. They had somehow, impossibly, fallen into the world of the music that had consumed their lives. They were in Ithaca.

Odysseus stopped short when he saw them, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of the sword at his belt. His eyes, sharp and analytical, swept over them, taking in their strange attire and bewildered expressions.

"And who might you be?" he asked, his tone laced with suspicion. "I don't recognize you. Are you servants of the suitors?"

Odette's mind went blank with panic. What were they supposed to say? 'Hi, we're from the future and we're huge fans of your life story, which has been adapted into a song?'

But Aina, ever the quick-witted writer, found her voice first. She dipped into a slightly awkward curtsy, pulling Odette down with her. "My lord," she began, her voice trembling only slightly. "We are… travelers. Shipwrecked and washed ashore with no memory of how we arrived." It was a weak story, but it was the best she could come up with.

Odysseus's gaze didn't soften. "Shipwrecked? There have been no storms."

Thinking fast, Odette latched onto the one thing they knew better than anyone: the story in the songs. "It wasn't a storm of water, my lord," she said, her voice gaining a bit of confidence. "It was a storm of… divine will. We were sent with a message."

That got his attention. His eyes narrowed. "A message? From whom?"

This was it. The point of no return. Odette took a deep breath, the lyrics and melodies swirling in her head. "From Athena," she said, praying she sounded convincing. "She fears your patience may waver. She wants you to remember the ruthlessness that won you Troy. She says… it's time to remind them why you are the king."

A dead silence fell. Telemachus stared at them, utterly baffled. But Odysseus's expression had changed. The suspicion was still there, but it was now mingled with a flicker of intrigue and disbelief. How could these strangely dressed girls know of his patron goddess? How could they use that specific word—a word that echoed the darkest parts of his own soul?

He took a slow step forward, his eyes boring into theirs. "You speak with a strange accent, and you wear even stranger clothes," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "But you speak words that ring with a sliver of truth."

He stood there for a long moment, assessing them. Odette held her breath, her hand finding Aina's and squeezing it tight. Finally, a slow, cunning smile spread across Odysseus's face. It was the smile of a man who saw a new, unexpected piece on the game board.

"Come," he said, turning back towards the palace. "Walk with me. Tell me more about this 'divine message.' Anyone sent by Athena is a guest in my home. For now."

As they hesitantly followed the legendary king of Ithaca up the path, Odette and Aina shared a look. It was a cocktail of pure, unadulterated terror and the most exhilarating thrill of their lives. The world they had only ever heard through their headphones was now their reality. They had no idea how they got here or how they would get home, but as the familiar silhouette of the palace grew closer, one thing was certain: their story had just begun.

[dxrlingluv]

hi wifey i missed u sooo much MWAH 😛 I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL!! I've actually been busy too 😓 BUT I'M SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU ONLINE AGAINN TEEHEE

Aina my wife!!! I missed you SO much. While I was away from tumblr for almost a month, you’re all I’ve been thinking about constantly. I cannot live without you. 💔

[dxrlingluv]

HOLY MOLY ODY HI!! This isn't a request hihi. How are you right now? And I was wondering what continent do you live in? (if its alright with you to answer!) Once again, take a break from your studies and rest 💚💚

Hii! I am doing fine, anon. Thank you so much for asking and for your worries!

To answer your question, I’m from Asia. ^_^

[dxrlingluv]

Sorry, I was just making sure

Don’t be! I wasn’t mad or anything haha.

[dxrlingluv]

Hey! Hope you're doing great. Can I request Hermes x reader smut where they haven't seen each other in a while cause they're both busy pls🙏

Make it up with you.

A/N : Hi, sorry for not posting much. Work at the pharmacy has been hectic these days.

WARNING : smut

Word Count : 2k

It had been one of those months. The kind where the sea decided to be angry for no reason at all, throwing tantrum after tantrum against the cliffs. As the keeper of the Aegis Lighthouse, it meant your days were a blur of hauling oil, cleaning salt-spray from the great glass lens, and straining your eyes into the gray, churning mist. Your nights were spent listening to the lonely howl of the wind and the percussive crash of waves that shook the very stone beneath your bed.

You were bone-tired. And you were so, so lonely.

It had been... how long since you'd last seen Hermes? You tried to count the weeks, but they all blurred together into one long stretch of work and waiting. You knew he was busy; he was always busy. The messenger of the gods didn't get days off. But this felt longer than usual. The silence had started to feel heavy, the empty side of your bed a cold, hollow ache in your soul.

Tonight, the storm had finally broken. The sea was calm, and a blanket of impossibly bright stars was cast across the sky. You'd finished your duties and were sitting at your small wooden table, nursing a cup of herbal tea, when the air in your small living quarters suddenly changed. It grew thick, tasting faintly of ozone and the clean, sharp scent of a coming rain, even though the sky was clear.

You didn't even have time to stand up.

He was just there, leaning against the doorframe as if he'd been there all along. He wasn't wearing his usual confident smirk or crackling with restless energy. He just looked... worn down. His winged helmet was askew, his chiton was dusted with the red dirt of some faraway land, and his golden-brown eyes, usually so full of mischief, were shadowed with a deep, profound exhaustion. He looked just as bone-tired as you felt.

You both stared at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching between you. It was the silence of two people drinking in the sight of something they had been desperately thirsting for. His eyes traced over your face, your messy bun of hair, the smudge of soot on your cheek you'd missed.

"Hey," he said, his voice rough and quiet.

"Hey," you breathed back.

That was all it took. The dam broke. You launched yourself out of your chair as he pushed off the doorframe, meeting in a collision in the middle of the room.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you so tight it was hard to breathe, but you didn't care. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling him—ozone, wind, distant places, and something that was just purely, uniquely *him*. He smelled like everywhere and nowhere. His hands tangled in your hair, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

"Gods, I missed you," he mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with a desperation that mirrored your own.

"It's been too long," was all you could manage, your voice muffled by his tunic.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face, and then he was kissing you. It was frantic, and messy, and desperate. It was a kiss that tasted of longing and loneliness, a starving man's feast. His lips were hard against yours, his tongue plunging into your mouth, re-learning you. Your hands were just as frantic, roaming over the solid, real planes of his back, his shoulders, reassuring yourself that he was here.

The kiss broke, and you were both panting, resting your foreheads together. The next words came tumbling out, a messy confession of shared exhaustion.

"Too long," he repeated, his voice a ragged whisper. "Zeus had me running from Tartarus to the fields of Asphodel and back. I think he forgets I have a life."

"The sea's been a beast," you replied, your hand cupping his jaw, feeling the rough stubble there. "I've barely slept."

That was it. The shared, weary admission ignited the last of your reserves, not into more energy, but into a singular, burning need. There were no more words. He lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and he carried you the few steps to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He didn't make it to the bed. He pressed you back against the rough, solid wood of the door, his mouth finding yours again.

This was no longer a reunion; it was a reclamation. His hands were everywhere, fumbling with the simple tie of your dress, his fingers grazing your heated skin. You were just as impatient, your hands working at his belt, at the fabric of his chiton, needing to feel him. Clothes were a frustrating barrier, and they were shed with a frantic haste, pooling in a heap at your feet.

The moment his bare skin met yours, a collective, shuddering sigh passed between you. It was a feeling of coming home.

"I need you," he breathed against your lips, the words raw. "Right now."

You could feel the hard, hot length of his erection pressing against your stomach, a testament to months of pent-up desire. You adjusted your legs, hooking your ankles behind him, opening yourself to him. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, as he guided himself to your entrance. He was already slick with his own need, and you were wet and aching for him.

He pushed into you with a single, powerful, almost violent thrust.

You both cried out, the sound swallowed by the small room. He filled you completely, stretching you, the feeling of him inside you after so long a dizzying mix of relief and overwhelming pleasure. The rough wood of the door bit into your back, but you barely felt it. All you could feel was him, inside you, finally.

He moved with a desperate, frantic rhythm, fucking into you with a raw need that bordered on rage. This wasn't about finesse; this was about closing the distance, about erasing the memory of lonely nights. Each of his thrusts was a hard, deep, possessive slam, a frantic affirmation: You're real. You're here. You're mine. You clung to him, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his back, meeting his chaotic rhythm with your own, the sound of your bodies slapping together a primal drumbeat in the quiet room.

It was too much, too soon, after too long apart. The friction, the fullness, the sheer emotional overload sent you spiraling. Your release ripped through you with a sudden, sharp cry, your inner muscles clenching around him violently. Your climax was all it took to push him over the edge. With a hoarse, guttural groan, he drove into you one last time, his release flooding you in hot, powerful waves.

He slumped against you, his whole weight pressing you into the door, his head buried in your shoulder. He was still inside you, unwilling to break the connection. You could feel the aftershocks of his orgasm pulsing deep within you. You held each other, boneless and trembling, your breaths coming in ragged, synchronized gasps.

Finally, he stirred. He pulled out of you slowly, a reluctant retreat, and the feeling of emptiness was an immediate, hollow ache. He looked at you, his eyes soft and hazy, and without a word, he lifted you into his arms and carried you properly to the bed.

He laid you down on the cool sheets and followed, tumbling in beside you. And now, the frantic energy was gone, replaced by an infinite, tender patience.

"Okay," he whispered, a small, tired smile on his face. "Let's try that again."

This time, it was slow. His hands and mouth became instruments of rediscovery. He kissed you with a deep, languid tenderness that felt like a prayer. His fingers traced the curve of your hip, the line of your collarbone, as if you were a masterpiece he was seeing for the first time. He moved down your body, his tongue tracing a wet, hot path over your stomach, making you shiver.

He settled between your legs, his gaze meeting yours for a long moment, a silent question. You gave a slight, breathless nod. He lowered his head, and his mouth on you was a revelation. He worshiped you, his tongue skillful and devoted, learning you all over again. He tasted your release from before, and the lingering flavor seemed to spur him on. He brought you to a slow, rolling orgasm that felt less like a crash and more like a tide pulling you out to a warm, blissful sea.

When you were still trembling, he moved back up, his body covering yours. He slid inside you again, and this time it was a slow, perfect glide. He felt impossibly thick, impossibly deep. He moved with a languid, sensual rhythm, his hips rocking against yours in a familiar dance you had both sorely missed.

"Gods, I've missed this," he murmured, his voice thick as he leaned down to kiss you, his thrusts timed with the movement of his mouth.

You looked up at him, at the way the moonlight from the window carved his face into lines of shadow and silver. You reached up, your fingers tracing his lips, his jaw. He was so beautiful, and he was here. He was yours.

He leaned down, his mouth moving to your neck, sucking a dark, possessive mark into the soft skin just above your collarbone. "So everyone knows," he whispered against the mark, "who you were waiting for."

You felt a thrill at his words, at his claim. You guided his mouth to your shoulder, silently asking for another. He obliged, leaving a trail of love bites down your chest as he continued his slow, deep rhythm. The pleasure was a deep, thrumming thing, building steadily, intensely. You could feel the tension coiling in your core, and in the tightening of his muscles.

He sank his fingers into your hair, tilting your head back as his thrusts grew deeper, heavier. "Come with me this time," he panted, his control starting to fray.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him as deep as he could go. You moved with him, for him, your bodies locked in a perfect, desperate union. The end was a shared, rising crescendo, a slow build that peaked in an explosion of light and sensation. You both cried out, your voices mingling, as you came apart together.

This time, when he collapsed, it was with a sigh of pure, boneless contentment. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your back pressed against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. He kissed your shoulder, right next to the mark he'd made.

You lay in a comfortable, happy silence, listening to the distant, gentle wash of the waves.

"How long do you have?" you asked quietly, your voice drowsy.

He sighed, the sound a warm puff of air against your neck. "A day. Maybe two if I lie about the headwinds on the way back." He paused, his hold on you tightening. "I'm sorry."

"It's enough," you said, and you meant it. You covered his hand with your own. "The main beacon was flickering last week. I had to climb out on the western ledge to fix the oil feed. In the middle of the storm. I was terrified."

He held you a little tighter. "I delivered a dream to some mortal king in the east. He was dreaming of a three-headed goose that could sing prophecies. Utterly ridiculous."

You both laughed, a soft, tired sound. And you kept talking, sharing the small, boring, beautifully human pieces of your lives that you'd missed. You talked until your voices grew soft and your eyelids grew heavy, until the loneliness of the past few months felt like a distant, half-forgotten dream. You fell asleep tangled in his arms, finally home.

[dxrlingluv]

Are you a 18+ adult so I may interact?

Hello. So many people have been asking me this, and to answer your question—yes, I am an adult. Currently employed in a pharmacy, so to everyone who keeps on telling me to get a job, please don’t.

[dxrlingluv]

hello! This is not a request yet a small admiration quote. I remember that I would stay up reading your stories because they are marvelously so beautifully written. I have recently started making stories too and I was wondering if you could give out some tips maybe? If not it’s alright!! Feel free to ignore this. good day, mwa 😼

Hi love! 💖 Thank you so much for saying this, it really means the world to me. I’m so glad my stories resonated with you—it makes me so happy to know they kept you up reading!

As for tips, I’d say:

Write what you would enjoy reading—it keeps the passion alive.

Don’t stress too much about making it perfect on the first draft, just get the words out and polish later.

Pay attention to details and emotions, they make characters feel real.

And most importantly, have fun with it—your voice and style will naturally grow the more you write.

I’m rooting for you and your stories!! Good luck, mwah!

[dxrlingluv]

Hi…

[dxrlingluv]

Hi! Saw your asks were open and wanted to request

I loved the modern skeptic reader with the big 3, can I ask for that same prompt but with apollo, hermes, dionysus and aeolus please? Love your works btw!!

You’re joking

A/N : Too lazy to post. Sorry, chat. Thank you roseinbloom for requesting this! Original idea is from here.

WARNING : GN!Reader. Scenarios. Includes Hermes, Apollo, Dionysus, and Aeolus (individually).

Word Count : 3.6k

HERMES

The coffee shop hummed with the usual morning rush, a symphony of clinking mugs, the hiss of the espresso machine, and hushed conversations. Y/N was buried in their laptop, nursing a lukewarm latte, trying to meet a looming deadline. Their brow was furrowed in concentration, completely oblivious to the world around them, until a sudden, almost imperceptible whoosh of air preceded a figure sliding into the chair opposite them.

He had a mischievous glint in his eyes, a smile that could charm the socks off a statue, and an energy that seemed to vibrate through the air, making the very molecules around him buzz. He was dressed in a surprisingly stylish track suit, complete with sleek, almost futuristic-looking sneakers.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice a smooth, rapid-fire melody, not really waiting for an answer as he set down a ridiculously oversized messenger bag that looked far too light for its size. "Every other table is a fortress of solitude, and frankly, I'm feeling rather social. Plus, I saw you wrestling with that spreadsheet, and I'm a sucker for a good challenge."

Y/N blinked, startled out of their coding trance. They looked up, a little taken aback by his sheer audacity and the sudden invasion of their personal space. "Uh, sure, I guess," Y/N managed, trying to process the blur of his arrival.

"Excellent!" he declared, already pulling out a sleek, impossibly thin tablet and a stylus. "The name's Mercury. And you are?" He extended a hand, and his grip was surprisingly firm, almost electric.

"Just... Y/N," Y/N replied, a small smile tugging at their lips despite themselves. He was undeniably charming, if a bit much. His eyes seemed to dart everywhere at once, taking in every detail of the coffee shop, the street outside, and even the tiny, almost invisible tear in Y/N's sleeve.

Mercury, as he called himself, was a whirlwind of anecdotes and observations. He talked about his "delivery job" that took him all over the world in impossibly short times – "One minute I'm in Tokyo, the next I'm delivering a very important document to a remote village in the Andes! Time zones are a nightmare, but you get used to it." He then segued into his "side hustle" as a tech guru who could fix any device with a flick of his wrist – "Oh, your Wi-Fi's acting up? Probably just needs a little... nudge. I've got a trick for that. Trust me, I'm practically the patron saint of lost signals." And then his "hobby" of mediating disputes between... well, he just said "difficult individuals," with a knowing smirk. "You wouldn't believe the squabbles I have to sort out. It's like herding cats, but with more shouting and occasional lightning bolts."

Y/N found themselves laughing more than they had all week. His stories were outlandish, yet he told them with such conviction and a twinkle in his eye that Y/N couldn't help but be entertained. He had an answer for everything, and his logic, while convoluted, somehow made sense in his rapid-fire delivery.

"You know," he said, leaning back with a grin, a stray lock of golden-brown hair falling across his forehead, "sometimes I feel like I'm just a glorified messenger. But someone's got to keep things moving, right? The world would grind to a halt without me. Imagine the chaos! Packages stuck, messages undelivered, deals falling through... it's a nightmare scenario."

Y/N chuckled, taking a sip of their now-cold latte. "Sounds like a lot of pressure for one guy. You must be really important. Like, the CEO of Global Logistics and Tech Support."

He winked, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "More important than you know, Y/N. I'm practically indispensable. I'm the reason your packages arrive on time, your internet connects without a hitch, and sometimes, even why you find that last, perfect parking spot right when you need it. It's all about flow, you see. I ensure the flow."

Y/N rolled their eyes playfully, a genuine smile now firmly in place. "Right, and I'm the Queen of England. You're just a very efficient delivery driver with an overactive imagination and a caffeine addiction."

Mercury threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, booming sound that turned a few heads at nearby tables. He clapped his hands together, a sound like two small thunderclaps. "Oh, Y/N, if only you knew. I am the messenger. The divine messenger, to be precise. Hermes, at your service. And yes, sometimes I do have winged sandals, though they're more for special occasions these days. Too much attention, you know."

Y/N stared at him, their smile slowly fading, replaced by a look of utter disbelief. A beat of silence hung in the air, broken only by the gentle hum of the coffee shop. Then, Y/N burst out laughing, a loud, uncontrolled peal that made more heads turn. "Hermes? Seriously? What, did you just step out of a mythology textbook? And winged sandals? Next you'll tell me you hang out with Zeus and ride a chariot made of clouds!"

He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. "Wouldn't you like to know? Zeus is quite the character, let me tell you. Always stirring up trouble."

Y/N just shook their head, still chuckling, trying to catch their breath. "You're hilarious, Mercury. A real character. You should try stand-up comedy. But seriously, what's your actual job? Are you a performance artist? A method actor?"

He sighed dramatically, a playful pout on his lips, though his eyes still danced with mirth. "And here I thought I was being so subtle. The truth is often stranger than fiction, Y/N. Fine, you win. For now. But don't come crying to me when your next online order gets lost in the ether, or your phone decides to spontaneously combust."

Y/N just grinned, shaking their head. "Deal. Now, about that coffee... you buying? You did invite yourself to my table, after all."

He snapped his fingers, a small, almost imperceptible gust of wind rustling the papers on Y/N's laptop. "Consider it done. Anything for my darling. Perhaps one day, you'll see the light. Or rather, the speed."

APOLLO

The open mic night was in full swing at "The Muse's Den," a dimly lit, slightly sticky-floored venue known for its eclectic mix of performers. Y/N was regretting their decision to attend. The poetry was... earnest, the comedy was... trying, and the music was... well, let's just say it was an experience in experimental noise. Y/N was nursing a flat soda, mentally preparing their polite applause, when a man stepped onto the small stage, bathed in the dim, smoky spotlight.

He had a shock of golden hair that seemed to catch the light even in the gloom, eyes that sparkled with an almost unnatural, crystalline light, and a well-worn acoustic guitar that looked like it had seen better days, yet somehow felt ancient and revered in his hands. He wore a simple, white linen shirt that seemed to glow faintly.

He strummed a few chords, and the entire room seemed to quiet, as if the very air held its breath. His voice, when it came, was pure liquid gold, rich and resonant, filling the space with a melody that was both ancient and utterly modern, like sunlight breaking through clouds. He sang about sunsets and starlight, about the quiet power of art, about the beauty of the human spirit, and the fleeting nature of joy. His lyrics were profound, his delivery flawless, and his presence commanded attention without being overbearing. Y/N found themselves completely captivated, forgetting their lukewarm soda and the awkward silence that had plagued the previous acts. It was like listening to the sun itself sing.

After his set, which earned him a thunderous standing ovation and shouts for an encore, he gracefully bowed and then, to Y/N's surprise, found them at the bar. "Enjoy the show?" he asked, his voice just as captivating up close, a warm, golden timbre that sent a shiver down Y/N's spine.

"More than I expected, honestly," Y/N admitted, a blush creeping up their neck. "You're incredible. Seriously, where did you learn to sing like that? What's your name?"

"Just Leo," he said, offering a dazzling smile that seemed to brighten the entire bar. "And you're Y/N." He seemed to know Y/N's name without them telling him, which was a little unsettling but also... intriguing. Y/N wondered if they'd been introduced by a mutual friend, but couldn't recall.

Y/N spent the next hour talking to Leo, and he was utterly fascinating. He spoke about his "passion for healing," which involved volunteering at a local clinic, claiming he had a "knack for knowing what ails people, even before they say it." He then moved on to his "love for the arts," which included not just music, but painting, poetry, and even sculpting. He mentioned a strange "side gig" where he sometimes helped people "find their path" or "see the future," which he dismissed as just being good at reading patterns and human nature. "It's all about observation, Y/N," he'd said with a knowing look. "And a little intuition." He even mentioned a knack for "foretelling the weather," which he dismissed as just being good at reading atmospheric pressure and cloud formations.

"Sometimes," he mused, gazing into his drink, the ice clinking softly, "I feel like I'm meant for something more. Like I have a purpose beyond just... being Leo. A grander calling, perhaps. It's a heavy burden, but a beautiful one."

Y/N nodded, understanding the sentiment. "I think everyone feels that way sometimes. Like there's a bigger picture we're missing, or a destiny we haven't quite found yet."

He looked at Y/N, his eyes intense, seeming to peer right into their soul. "Oh, there's a bigger picture, Y/N. And I'm a pretty significant part of it. I bring light, healing, and inspiration to the world. I guide the sun across the sky, you know, ensuring the days turn into nights and the crops grow. It's a full-time job, really."

Y/N blinked, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across their face. "You guide the sun? Wow, Leo, that's quite the job description. So, you're like, a celestial traffic controller? Or maybe a very dedicated astrophysicist with a flair for the dramatic?"

He chuckled, a warm, melodious sound that resonated deep within Y/N's chest. "Something like that, but far more ancient and far less reliant on technology. I am Apollo, god of the sun, music, healing, and prophecy. And yes, sometimes I do ride a magnificent chariot pulled by fiery steeds."

Y/N burst out laughing, a genuine, hearty laugh that made their shoulders shake and drew a few curious glances. "Apollo? Seriously? You're telling me you're a Greek god? And here I thought you were just a really talented musician with a flair for the dramatic and maybe a slight delusion of grandeur." Y/N wiped a tear from their eye, still chuckling. "That's a good one, Leo. You almost had me there for a second."

He sighed, a hint of amusement in his voice, but also a touch of weary resignation. "The skepticism is strong with this one. But it's true, Y/N. I've been doing this for millennia. The sun doesn't just 'rise' on its own, you know."

Y/N shook their head, still grinning. "Okay, 'Leo,' you're good. Really good. You've got the whole mysterious, ancient vibe down. But I think you've had a few too many of those fancy craft beers. Let's get you some water, or maybe a taxi home."

He just smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages. "Perhaps. But remember this night, Y/N. You met a god, and you laughed in his face. It's not every day that happens."

"And I'd do it again," Y/N retorted, still grinning. "Now, tell me, do you have any more of those amazing songs? Because 'celestial traffic controller' or not, your music is divine."

DIONYSUS

The underground club, "The Bacchanal," pulsed with the relentless beat of the music, a kaleidoscope of strobing lights and bodies moving in sync, a heady mix of sweat and cheap perfume. Y/N was trying to navigate the crowded dance floor, feeling a little out of place amidst the uninhibited revelry, when a hand suddenly grabbed their arm, pulling them into the swirling vortex of dancers.

Y/N spun around, ready to apologize or scold, and came face to face with a man who seemed to embody the very spirit of the club. He had wild, dark curls that framed a face alight with an almost unhinged, joyous energy. His eyes sparkled with an intoxicating mirth, and his laugh, when it came, was a booming, infectious sound that cut through the thumping bass.

"You look like you need to loosen up!" he shouted over the music, his voice surprisingly clear and resonant, almost as if the sound waves parted for him. "Come on, Y/N, let's dance! The night is young, and inhibitions are for squares!"

Before Y/N could protest, he pulled them deeper into the swirling mass of people, his energy utterly contagious. He moved with a primal grace, his movements fluid and uninhibited, a dance that seemed to predate modern choreography. Y/N found themselves laughing and dancing along, forgetting their self-consciousness and inhibitions, caught up in his magnetic aura.

His name was Dion, and he was a force of nature. He talked about his "family vineyard" that produced the most exquisite, mind-altering wines – "It's not just grapes, Y/N, it's... an experience. A journey for the soul!" He spoke of his "travels" to remote villages where he taught people how to "celebrate life" and "embrace the wildness within," often involving impromptu festivals and a lot of very good wine. He even mentioned an "unusual talent" for making everyone feel completely at ease, dissolving their worries and bringing out their true selves. He seemed to embody pure, unadulterated joy, a living, breathing party.

"Life's too short to be serious all the time, right?" he yelled, spinning Y/N around, his grin wide and carefree. "You gotta embrace the madness, the ecstasy! Let go! Feel the rhythm, feel the freedom!"

Y/N grinned back, breathless from the dancing and the sheer force of his personality. "You're definitely one of a kind, Dion. I've never met anyone quite like you."

He winked, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Oh, I am. I bring the party, the revelry, the unbridled passion. I am the spirit of liberation, the one who frees you from your worries, who lets you taste true joy. I ignite the spark of life!"

Y/N laughed, shaking their head. "Sounds like you should be a life coach, or maybe a cult leader. You've got a real knack for getting people to let loose."

He threw his head back, a booming laugh echoing through the club, momentarily overpowering the music. "Something like that, but much, much older. And with a lot more grapes involved, and a few more... interesting followers. I am Dionysus, god of wine, revelry, madness, and ecstasy. And yes, sometimes I have maenads, but they're mostly chill these days."

Y/N stopped dancing, staring at him, their laughter dying in their throat. The strobing lights of the club seemed to swirl around him, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N almost believed him. His eyes held an ancient wisdom, and his presence seemed to fill the entire space. Then, Y/N scoffed, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up. "Dionysus? Seriously? Are you on something, Dion? Or did you just have a little too much of your 'family vineyard's' finest? Because you're sounding a little... unhinged."

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes, completely unoffended. "A little of both, perhaps. The wine is divine, after all. But the truth remains, Y/N. I am the god of the vine, the one who brings joy and chaos in equal measure. I am the spirit of freedom."

Y/N shook their head, a wide, amused smile still playing on their lips. "You're absolutely insane, Dion. But in the best possible way. You're the most entertaining person I've met all year. Come on, let's get another drink. You can tell me more about your 'divine' family and your 'maenads'."

He clapped his hands together, his eyes gleaming. "Now you're talking! To madness and beyond! And trust me, my family gatherings are legendary." He pulled Y/N back into the dance, the music seeming to swell around them, and for a moment, Y/N felt truly free.

AEOLUS

The annual city kite festival was a vibrant spectacle, the sky a shifting canvas of colorful, soaring creations, from intricate dragons to whimsical cartoon characters. Y/N was struggling with their own flimsy, store-bought kite, which seemed determined to nosedive into the nearest puddle despite Y/N's most frantic efforts. The wind, or lack thereof, was proving to be a formidable adversary.

Y/N sighed in exasperation, their arms aching from trying to coax the stubborn fabric into flight, when a man with windswept, almost perpetually disheveled hair and eyes the color of a stormy, distant sky approached them. He had a quiet intensity about him, and an almost imperceptible hum seemed to emanate from him, like the faint sound of distant wind chimes. He wore a simple, well-worn leather jacket, despite the mild weather.

"Having some trouble there?" he asked, his voice soft but carrying a surprising resonance, like the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze.

Y/N sighed again, letting the kite string go slack for a moment. "Understatement of the year. This thing hates me. Or maybe the wind hates me. I think it's personal."

He smiled, a gentle, almost wistful expression that softened the intensity in his eyes. "Perhaps it just needs a little guidance. A whisper in the right direction." He reached out a hand, his fingers long and slender, and as his fingertips brushed ever so lightly against the kite string, a sudden, strong, yet perfectly controlled gust of wind caught Y/N's kite, sending it soaring gracefully into the sky. It danced and dipped, then climbed higher and higher, a perfect arc against the blue.

Y/N gasped, utterly stunned, their jaw dropping. "Whoa! How did you do that? That was incredible! It was just... dead still a second ago!"

"Just a knack," he said, his gaze fixed on the now-dancing kite, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I have a way with the air, you could say. It tends to listen to me. My name is Zephyr."

Zephyr, as he introduced himself, was a man of few words, but his presence was powerful and calming, like the eye of a storm. He talked about his "work" in meteorology, predicting storms with uncanny accuracy – "It's all about feeling the currents, sensing the shifts, you know. The models are just a guide." He then spoke of his "hobby" of sailing, claiming he could always find the perfect breeze, even on the calmest days. He even mentioned a "family business" that involved managing global air currents and weather patterns, which he vaguely described as "complicated logistics" and "keeping things balanced."

"The wind," he murmured, watching a distant cloud formation slowly shift shape, "it has a will of its own. It can be fierce, gentle, playful. But it can be guided. Directed. It listens to me. It's like a symphony, and I'm the conductor."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a skeptical smile playing on their lips. "So you're saying you control the wind? Like, you're a weather wizard? Or maybe you just have a really good app on your phone?"

He turned to Y/N, his expression unreadable for a moment, then a small, genuine smile touched his lips, a rare sight that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Something like that. More ancient than a wizard, and certainly more powerful than an app. I am the keeper of the winds, the one who commands the breezes and the gales. I am Aeolus. And no, I don't have a giant bag of wind, though the myths are rather persistent on that point."

Y/N stared at him, then burst into a fit of giggles, clutching their stomach. "Aeolus? You're telling me you're the Greek god of wind? That's rich! Oh my god, Zephyr, you're hilarious! What, do you have a secret wind tunnel in your backyard? Or do you just stand on a hill and shout at the clouds?"

He looked at Y/N, his expression unreadable for a moment, then his smile widened, a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes. "Not a tunnel, no. And shouting is rarely effective. It's more about... persuasion. But yes, I am he. I've been guiding the winds since before your ancestors learned to sail."

Y/N shook their head, still laughing, tears pricking the corners of their eyes. "You're a riot, Zephyr. A total charmer. You've got a great imagination. But seriously, that kite trick was amazing. You should work for a circus, or maybe become a professional kite flyer. You'd win every competition."

He chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Perhaps I should. But for now, I'll stick to my current profession. Though, I must admit, it's always entertaining to see the look on a mortal's face when they realize the truth. Or, in your case, when they refuse to believe it."

"Keep dreaming, 'Aeolus'," Y/N said, still grinning, nudging him playfully. "Now, can you make my kite do a loop-de-loop? And maybe spell out my name in the sky?"

He winked, a rare, playful gesture. "For you, Y/N, anything is possible. Just watch the sky."

[dxrlingluv]

Got an ideas for Telemachus x reader (preferably fem reader)

A fluffy one where Y/N cries over a nightmare she had about Telemachus getting killed and chopped up by the suitors (basically hold them down)

I also had a freaky one in mind but nahhh anyways 🫶🏻

Nightmares and Dreams

A/N : Since you didn’t send me your freaky request, I made this one freaky(only in the end tho).

Summary : Y/N wakes from a terrifying nightmare where Ithaca’s suitors plot to kill Telemachus and hurt her. Shaken and afraid, she finds comfort and safety in Telemachus’s arms. Through his love and gentle reassurance, her fear fades, and they share a tender moment that reminds her she’s truly safe with him.

WARNING : graphic language, implied sexual violence (threat), smut, nightmare, threats of murder. Fem!Reader.

Word Count : 3k

The great hall of Ithaca reeked of stale wine and unwashed bodies, a stench as oppressive as the suitors' presence. Y/N watched from the deep shadows of a grand pillar, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The men, a bloated, insolent horde, sprawled across the palace, their laughter coarse, their eyes constantly roving, their voices grating on her nerves.

Today, however, a different kind of tension crackled in the air. The Queen, her face a mask of weary resolve, had set a challenge: the bow of Odysseus. Whoever could string it, whoever could shoot an arrow clean through twelve axe-heads, would win her hand.

"Whoever can string the old king's bow," Antinous bellowed, his voice cutting through the din like a rusty blade, "And shoot through twelve axes cleanly, will be the new king, sit down at the throne, Penelope as his queen!"

One by one, they tried. Muscles strained, faces reddened, veins bulged, but the mighty bow remained unyielding, a cruel, mocking curve of dark wood in their hands. Hours bled into one another, the sun dipping lower, casting long, impatient shadows across the marble floor. Frustration simmered, then boiled over into a dangerous rage.

"To Hades with this competition! We've wasted half the day!" Antinous roared, flinging the bow down with a frustrated snarl that echoed through the hall. "None of us can string this cursed thing! We don't have the power! This is a trick, a delay! Can't you see we're being played for fools?"

A guttural chorus of agreement rose from the other suitors. Their faces, once flushed with wine, were now contorted with a chilling, predatory anger. Y/N felt a shiver trace down her spine, colder than any winter wind. This wasn't just about the bow anymore. This was something far more sinister.

"This is how they keep us," Antinous snarled, his voice dropping to a menacing growl that sent a fresh wave of terror through Y/N. "This is how they hold us down while the throne gets colder! Hold us down while we slowly rot here! Hold us down while that boy grows bolder! Where in the hell is our pride? Our rage?"

The words echoed, a chilling, venomous mantra. Y/N pressed herself further into the deep shadows, her breath catching in her throat, a silent scream trapped behind her lips. She knew who "the boy" was. Telemachus. Her Telemachus.

"There's a chance for action, here and now!" another suitor, Eurymachus, snarled, slamming his fist on a table, making the goblets jump. "Here and now, we can take control! Here and now, burn it all to ashes! Channel the fire inside your soul!"

Y/N's blood ran cold. This wasn't just talk. This was a plan, festering in the dark corners of their minds, now brought to light.

Antinous's eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned the hall, a cruel glint in their depths. "Haven't you noticed who's missing?" he purred, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Don't you know the prince is not around? I heard he's on some fool's errand, a diplomatic mission, and I heard today he comes back to town, so..."

He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air, a suffocating weight. The other suitors leaned in, their expressions eager, their eyes gleaming with a terrifying, bloodthirsty anticipation. Y/N's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the silence of her terror.

"I say, we gather near the beaches," Antinous whispered, though his voice carried clearly in the suddenly hushed hall, each word a hammer blow to Y/N's soul. "I say, we wait 'til his ship arrives. Then, when he docks, we breach it! Let us leave now, today we strike and..."

His voice rose, joined by the eager, hungry shouts of the other men, a horrifying chorus. "We'll hold him down 'til the boy stops shakin'! Hold him down while I slit his throat! Hold him down while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, his very bones! Cut him down into tiny pieces! Throw him down in the great below! When the crown wonders where the prince is, only the ocean and I will know!"

Y/N clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a terrified gasp, her body trembling uncontrollably. No. Not Telemachus. Never Telemachus. Her vision blurred, hot tears stinging her eyes. She wanted to scream, to warn him, to run, but her voice was trapped, a silent plea in her throat, her limbs frozen in terror.

Antinous turned, his gaze sweeping over the hall, and for a horrifying moment, his eyes seemed to pierce the shadows, locking onto her hiding place. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, a chilling promise of what was to come.

"And when the deed is done," he purred, his voice dripping with venom, his eyes fixed on her, "The queen will have no one. No one to stop us from breaking her bedroom door. No one to stop us from taking her love and more." He paused, his gaze lingering on Y/N, a cruel, possessive glint in his eyes. "And then, my sweet Y/N, when the boy is gone, and the queen is broken... we'll come for you. You won't have your prince to protect you then. We'll take our fill, and you'll learn what it means to truly serve."

Y/N felt a cold dread seep into her very bones. Her. They meant her, too. They would come for her, just as they planned to come for Telemachus. The thought was a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs, making her vision swim.

"And then we'll," the suitors chanted, their voices a horrifying, guttural chorus, "Hold her down while her gate is open! Hold her down while I get a taste! Hold her down while we share her spoils! I will not let any part go to waste!"

The words twisted into a grotesque parody of a song, a hymn to their depravity. Y/N felt a suffocating pressure, as if the very walls of the palace were closing in on her, crushing her. Hands, unseen but felt, seemed to reach for her, to hold her down, to tear at her clothes. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of fear and malevolent intent, pressing down on her, stealing her breath.

"Here and now, there's a chance for action!" they roared, their faces contorted into monstrous masks, their eyes burning with a terrifying hunger. "Here and now, we can take control! Here and now, burn it down to ashes! Channel the fire inside your soul and—"

The shouts grew louder, closer, a terrifying crescendo. "Hold 'em down, hold 'em down! Hold 'em down, hold 'em down! Hold 'em down, hold 'em down! Channel the fire inside your soul, and—"

Y/N gasped, a strangled, guttural cry tearing from her throat as she shot upright in bed, her body drenched in a cold sweat. The familiar roughspun sheets tangled around her, and the comforting darkness of their bedchamber slowly replaced the oppressive gloom of her nightmare. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage, and her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps. The chilling echoes of the suitors' voices still reverberated in her ears, their leering faces burned behind her eyelids, Antinous's cruel smile a vivid, terrifying image.

"Y/N? My love, what is it?"

Telemachus's voice, thick with sleep, was a sudden, jarring sound, yet a profound relief. He stirred beside her, his hand immediately reaching for her, warm and solid against her trembling arm. She flinched, a residual terror making her pull away instinctively, before she registered his touch, his scent, his presence. It was him. He was here. He was safe.

"Telemachus," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper, raw with fear. Tears, hot and stinging, welled in her eyes and streamed down her temples into her hair, soaking her pillow. "Oh, Telemachus, it was... it was awful. They were... they were going to..."

He pulled her gently into his arms, his strong, familiar scent of sea salt and olive oil enveloping her. He held her close, pressing her head against his chest, his palm stroking the back of her head, then moving to rub soothing circles on her back.

"Shh, my heart. It's alright. You're shaking," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear, a steady anchor in her storm of fear. "Tell me, what was it? A nightmare?"

She clung to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the icy grip of the dream. "The suitors," she sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush, disjointed and desperate. "They were planning... they were going to kill you. On the beach, when you returned. And then... then they were coming for me. For Mother. Antinous... he said he would 'take his fill' of me. He said... he said I wouldn't have you to protect me."

His arms tightened around her, a protective cage. He didn't laugh, didn't dismiss it. He simply held her, letting her fear spill out, absorbing it. His fingers threaded through her damp hair, gently pulling her head back so he could look into her eyes, his own filled with a deep, tender concern, a fierce protectiveness.

"My brave Y/N," he whispered, his thumb brushing away a tear from her cheek. "It was only a dream, my love. Just a terrible, terrible dream. I am here. You are here. We are safe. No one will touch you, not while I draw breath. And no one will touch me either. They are fools, but they are not so bold as to openly attack the prince of Ithaca. Not yet. Not while I stand."

He kissed her forehead, then her eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears. "It's over now. The sun will be up soon. See? Just a dream." He pulled her closer again, rocking her gently. "I'm right here. Always. You are safe. I promise you."

His reassurance, so calm and unwavering, slowly began to chip away at the terror. The phantom hands receded, the chilling chants faded. She could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, a comforting rhythm that grounded her back to reality. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, chasing away the lingering chill, replacing it with a profound sense of relief.

As her sobs subsided into soft sniffles, she became acutely aware of their bodies pressed together. The thin shift she wore was damp with sweat, clinging to her skin, and his own tunic was rumpled from sleep. The fear, though still a faint echo, was being replaced by a different kind of heat, a familiar ache that began to stir deep within her, a desperate need for affirmation, for life, for him.

She lifted her head, her gaze meeting his. His eyes, usually so bright and full of youthful determination, were now soft, heavy-lidded with concern, yet held a spark of something else, something tender and undeniably hungry.

"Are you truly alright now?" he asked, his voice a low murmur, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, his gaze never leaving hers.

She nodded, a small, shaky breath escaping her lips. "Yes," she whispered, her voice still a little hoarse, but gaining strength. "Now that you're here. Now that I know you're real."

(Smut starts here so you can leave if you’re not here for that)

A soft, tender smile touched his lips, and he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to hers. It was slow, tender, tasting of comfort and relief, a profound promise of safety that transcended words. Her lips parted slightly, inviting him deeper, and he accepted, his tongue gently tracing the seam before delving inside, exploring the soft warmth within.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more passionate, a desperate affirmation of life and connection after the brush with terror. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, then tangled in his soft, dark hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel every inch of him. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, as his hand slipped from her jaw to the nape of her neck, tilting her head to deepen the angle of their kiss, claiming her mouth completely.

His other hand, warm and firm, slid down her back, tracing the curve of her spine before settling on her hip, pressing her flush against him. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal against her belly, a comforting weight that chased away the last vestiges of the nightmare, replacing them with a thrilling anticipation. This was real. This was alive. This was him.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged against her lips. His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers, filled with a raw, undeniable desire. "My Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with passion. "Let me show you how safe you are. How real this is. Let me chase away every last shadow."

She didn't need words. Her fingers fumbled with the ties of his tunic, eager to shed the fabric that separated them. He understood, his own hands moving deftly to untie her shift, the soft linen falling away to pool around her waist. The cool night air brushed her skin, quickly replaced by the warmth of his touch as his hands roamed freely over her bare shoulders, down her arms, sending shivers of exquisite pleasure through her.

He pushed her gently onto her back, his body following, hovering over her. The moonlight, filtering through the open window, cast a silver glow on his strong shoulders, the defined lines of his chest, the taut muscles of his abdomen. He was magnificent, a beacon of strength and safety, and he was hers.

His lips trailed down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She arched into his touch, her fingers digging into the firm flesh of his biceps, urging him closer. He found the sensitive hollow of her throat, then the pulse throbbing at the base of her neck, and she moaned, a soft, helpless sound, her body already anticipating his next move.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered against her skin, his voice rough with desire, his words a balm to her soul. "So perfect. So utterly mine."

His kisses continued their descent, over her collarbones, to the soft swell of her breasts. His tongue flicked out, teasing, before he took one aching peak into his mouth, suckling gently, drawing a gasp from her. A wave of pure sensation washed over her, and her hips instinctively lifted, seeking more, craving his touch. He responded, his hand sliding between her thighs, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, making her gasp again, a delicious tremor running through her.

She whimpered, her body trembling not from fear, but from a burgeoning, desperate need. He moved lower, his hand finding the damp heat between her legs, his fingers gently parting her, his thumb circling, teasing, bringing her closer and closer to the edge of a precipice.

"Telemachus," she pleaded, her voice breathless, her body arching desperately, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with passion, a triumphant glint in their depths. "Soon, my love. So very soon. Let me make you forget."

With a swift, practiced movement, he shed his own tunic and breeches, revealing his magnificent body. He was all lean muscle and youthful power, honed by the sea and the sword, a testament to his strength. He positioned himself between her legs, his hard arousal pressing against her entrance, a hot, insistent promise.

She reached for him, her hands guiding him, eager for the release, the profound connection that would banish the nightmare forever. He met her gaze, a silent question passing between them, and she answered with a fervent nod, her eyes shining with desire and trust.

He entered her slowly, carefully, allowing her body to adjust to his fullness, to the glorious invasion. A soft sigh of pure pleasure escaped her lips as he filled her, stretching her, completing her, making her feel whole again. He paused, letting them both savor the moment, their bodies perfectly aligned, breathing as one.

Then, he began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly picked up pace, becoming a powerful, urgent dance. Each thrust was a powerful affirmation, a forceful expulsion of the nightmare's lingering shadows. He moved with a primal grace, his body a testament to his strength and passion, his love. She met his every movement, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer, desperate for more.

Her cries mingled with his grunts, a symphony of pleasure that filled the quiet room. The bed creaked beneath them, a testament to their fervent movements, their desperate need. Her nails raked lightly down his back, leaving faint red marks, a testament to her complete abandon, her surrender to him. The world narrowed to their entwined bodies, the friction, the heat, the exquisite tension building between them, spiraling higher and higher.

He pressed his lips to her ear, whispering words of love and devotion, promising her safety and pleasure, over and over again. "My Y/N... always safe... always mine... I will never let them touch you... never..."

The build-up was intense, a relentless climb towards the peak. Her body convulsed around him, her muscles clenching, as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over her, shattering the last remnants of fear. She cried out his name, her voice hoarse with ecstasy, her body arching into his.

He followed moments later, a deep groan tearing from his chest as he buried his face in her neck, his body shuddering with release. He collapsed onto her, heavy and sated, his breath hot against her skin, his weight a comforting anchor.

They lay there for a long time, entangled, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths slowly evening out. The first faint rays of dawn began to peek through the open window, painting the room in soft hues of grey and rose, chasing away the last of the night's darkness.

Telemachus shifted, pulling the sheet up over them, then wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her close against his side. He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering, a silent promise.

"No more nightmares, my love," he murmured, his voice thick with contentment and a deep, abiding love. "Only dreams of us. Only peace. You are safe, my heart. Always."

She snuggled deeper into his embrace, feeling utterly safe, utterly cherished. The horrors of the dream were gone, replaced by the comforting reality of his arms around her, the lingering warmth of their shared passion, the profound sense of belonging. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her soul, that with him, she was truly safe.