#dxrlingluv

[dxrlingluv]

Can you do a Telemachus x reader where Telemachus trains is dog to run at the reader so he has chances to talk to them? Thank you

It’s cute

A/N : This is such a CUTE idea! Thank you for requesting this. Telemachus art is from duvetbox.

WARNING : Fluff, GN!Reader, Argos is a cutie

Word Count : 1.8k

The salty air of Ithaca, a familiar embrace, carried the scent of olive groves and the distant, rhythmic sigh of the sea. You often sought refuge along the less-frequented paths bordering the palace grounds. Here, with a book as your companion or simply lost in the quietude of your thoughts, you found a measure of peace. It was on one such sun-drenched afternoon, the light fracturing through the leaves into a thousand dancing diamonds, that your tranquil routine was joyfully, and rather boisterously, interrupted.

It wasn't a gentle approach. First, a sudden, firm tug at the hem of your tunic, nearly pulling the fabric from your grasp. You yelped, startled, spinning around to see a medium-sized dog, its coat the warm brown of freshly turned earth, already retreating a few paces with a playful growl rumbling in its chest. In its mouth, it proudly held not a ball, but what looked suspiciously like the corner of the linen wrap you'd brought your midday figs in.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, half-amused, half-indignant. The dog, tail now wagging like a frantic pendulum, dropped the slightly slobbered-on linen and then, as if remembering its primary mission, nudged a worn leather ball towards your feet with its nose. Its intelligent brown eyes, bright with mischief, fixed on yours.

Before you could fully process the canine whirlwind, Telemachus, Prince of Ithaca, burst through the trees, looking flustered and apologetic. His dark hair were even more dishevelled than usual, and a light sheen of perspiration covered his brow.

"Argos! Oh, by the gods, I am so sorry!" he panted, rushing forward. "He—he can be a bit of a menace when he's excited. Are you alright? Did he frighten you? Or... steal your lunch?" He gestured helplessly at the discarded linen.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and airy. "I'm quite alright, Prince Telemachus. And he only managed a corner of the wrapping, thankfully. He seems to have a flair for dramatic entrances." You bent down, picking up the ball. "Argos, is it?"

"Yes," Telemachus confirmed, a relieved smile beginning to chase away his embarrassment. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you were quickly learning was characteristic of his slight nervousness. "He's usually... well, sometimes he's more reserved. He seems to have taken a particular liking to you." The way he said it, with a hopeful glance, made your cheeks warm.

This set the tone for your subsequent encounters. Argos was not merely a fetch-playing companion; he was an agent of delightful chaos. One afternoon, as you were engrossed in a scroll, he bounded up and, instead of dropping the ball, decided your dangling hand looked far more interesting, attempting a series of playful, soft nips at your fingers. Each time you yelped in surprise, he'd back off, wag his tail, then try again, until Telemachus, feigning sternness, would call him off.

"Argos, behave!" Telemachus would scold, though his eyes often held a spark of amusement, especially when you'd dissolve into laughter. "He thinks everyone wants to play his version of 'gently gnaw the giant'."

"It's alright," you'd assure him, wiping a bit of dog slobber from your knuckles. "He's just very enthusiastic." And Telemachus would beam, clearly pleased that you weren't truly annoyed.

Another day, after a brief rain shower had left the ground muddy, Argos, in his excitement to greet you, misjudged his landing after a particularly impressive leap for the ball. He skidded, sending a spray of damp earth and grass onto your clean chiton. You gasped, looking down at the mess.

Telemachus was mortified. "Oh, no! Your clothes! Argos, you clumsy oaf!" He rushed forward, pulling a surprisingly clean handkerchief from his belt. "Here, let me try and..." He dabbed ineffectually at a muddy patch, his proximity making your breath catch slightly. His brow was furrowed with genuine concern.

"Truly, it's fine," you insisted, though you couldn't suppress a smile at his earnest efforts. "Mud washes out. And it was a rather impressive jump, wasn't it, Argos?" The dog, oblivious to the minor crisis he'd caused, barked happily and nudged the muddy ball against Telemachus's leg, leaving a similar mark. You both looked down, then at each other, and burst into laughter. The shared moment, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and Telemachus's quiet presence, felt surprisingly intimate.

The "theft" attempts also continued. Once, you'd laid aside a bright blue scarf your mother had woven for you. Argos, in a sudden burst of energy, snatched it and took off, leading you and a laughing Telemachus on a merry chase through the olive grove. Telemachus, surprisingly agile, finally cornered the triumphant dog, retrieving the scarf with a theatrical bow.

"Your rescued treasure, your highness," he playfully said, his eyes dancing, the scarf held out like a knight's favour. The playful gallantry made your heart skip a beat.

Through all these boisterous interactions, your conversations with Telemachus blossomed. Shielded by the playful antics of his furry accomplice, the initial awkwardness between you and the prince slowly melted away. You learned about his quiet dedication to his studies, his deep respect for his mother, Penelope, and the ever-present ache of his father Odysseus's absence. He, in turn, was a rapt audience for your own stories, your observations on palace life, your dreams for the future. He never seemed bored, always asking thoughtful questions, his gaze steady and sincere.

You began to anticipate these chaotic, joyful meetings. The sight of Argos, whether he was preparing to pounce, play-bite, or simply present his ball, became a signal for the arrival of the kind, earnest prince who seemed to find ever more creative, dog-assisted ways to spend time with you.

One particularly warm afternoon, Argos outdid himself. He arrived, not with the ball, nor with a stolen item, but with a small, intricately woven circlet of wildflowers held delicately in his mouth. He pranced towards you, tail held high, and deposited it at your feet with a soft whine, then looked back towards the trees with an air of great expectation.

Telemachus emerged a moment later, looking more sheepish than you'd ever seen him. He was fidgeting with the edge of his tunic, his gaze fixed somewhere near your sandals.

"Argos, um," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "He... he saw some of the handmaidens weaving those for the upcoming festival. He was quite insistent on bringing one to you. I tried to offer him the ball instead, but he was... determined."

You bent down and picked up the circlet. It was a beautiful, fragrant creation of tiny blue forget-me-nots, sunny yellow buttercups, and delicate white daisies. "It's beautiful, Telemachus. And Argos, you are a dog of impeccable taste and surprising skill." You knelt to give the proud dog a thorough scratch behind his ears, and he leaned into your touch with a contented sigh, thumping his tail against the earth.

Straightening, you met Telemachus's gaze. The afternoon sun, filtering through the canopy, haloed him in a golden light. The vulnerability in his eyes, the hopeful tilt of his smile – it was all incredibly endearing.

"He's a very persistent dog, isn't he?" you said softly, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

Telemachus blinked, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "Persistent?"

"Yes," you affirmed, your smile widening. You took a small, deliberate step closer to him. "Especially when it comes to making sure you have a reason to approach me. Whether it's retrieving a 'stolen' fig wrapper, 'rescuing' me from playful nips, apologizing for muddy paw prints, or delivering floral tributes."

The blush that crept up Telemachus's neck and flooded his face was instantaneous and quite spectacular. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a strangled sound escaping him. He looked as though he wished Argos would suddenly develop the ability to create a diversion of epic proportions – perhaps by chasing a chimera through the olive grove.

You reached out, your fingers gently brushing his arm. The contact sent a little shiver through you both. "Telemachus," you said, your voice soft and kind, "it's alright. More than alright, actually. It's... remarkably sweet."

He finally managed to speak, his voice a little hoarse. "You... you knew? All this time?"

"I started to suspect after the third time Argos 'accidentally' led you right to my favorite reading spot," you admitted, your eyes twinkling with amusement. "He's a clever dog, but his attempts to be subtle are about as effective as a Cyclops trying to tiptoe. And you, dear Prince, are not quite as skilled at masking your expressions as you might think, especially when you're watching me fend off your furry agent of chaos." You paused, then added, "Or when you think I'm not looking."

His blush, if possible, deepened further. "Oh," was all he could manage.

"It's a very charming, if somewhat chaotic, way to get to know someone," you continued, your tone a gentle tease, but your eyes full of warmth. "And for what it's worth," you added, your voice dropping slightly, becoming more sincere, "I'm incredibly glad for all his efforts. And yours."

Telemachus looked up then, his dark eyes meeting yours, and the relief that washed over his face was palpable. A hesitant, hopeful spark ignited within their depths. "You are?"

"Very," you confirmed, your heart feeling as light and bright as the wildflowers Argos had brought. You gently placed the circlet on your head, the flowers a soft crown against your hair. "So, tell me, Prince Telemachus, now that your wonderfully elaborate, dog-assisted courtship is out in the open, what exactly happens next?"

A slow, brilliant smile spread across Telemachus's face, chasing away the last vestiges of his nervousness. It was a smile that held relief, profound happiness, and just a touch of the endearing awkwardness that you had grown so incredibly fond of. He took a step closer, mirroring your earlier movement, bridging the small gap between you.

"Well," he began, his voice gaining a newfound confidence, a warmth that enveloped you. "I was hoping, perhaps, that you wouldn't object if I continued to 'coincidentally' find my way to this olive grove? And maybe, just maybe, this time I could manage it without needing Argos to tug on your tunic, or steal your belongings, or cover you in mud first?"

You laughed, a clear, joyful sound that seemed to dance with the rustling leaves. "I think," you said, your gaze locked with his, your heart soaring, "I would like that very, very much."

Argos, as if sensing the pivotal nature of the moment, trotted over and, with a soft whine, nudged his head against your joined hands, his tail thumping a happy rhythm against the ground. He looked from you to Telemachus and back again, his intelligent eyes seeming to offer his official, furry blessing.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the Ithacan sky in breathtaking strokes of fiery orange, soft lavender, and deep violet, you stood with Telemachus in the quiet sanctuary of the olive grove. A new, unspoken understanding had blossomed between you, a connection forged through laughter, shared moments, and the wonderfully chaotic, utterly lovable antics of a prince's best friend.

[creamecafe]

Season 2 Squid Game Men + Who Their Jealous of

Pairing: Squid Game x GN!Reader

Warnings: mentions of killing, murder but not yandere

Author's Note: This wasn't requested but I thought I would post something in filling for the requests I'm going to post after school and this weekend as much as I can before The Rookie season 7 comes out and I would like to write for that too. Also I'm sorry if this also sucks, because I didn't want to literally be the same for all

Squid Game Women's version will be posted soon!

Seong Gi-hun:

Is jealous of Young-il

Can't put his finger to it, but he doesn't trust him very well

He takes Young-il's silence as a threat sometimes and the way he looks at you

Before he joined the games, jealously or insecurity was never a problem for him

But after what he went through, murder isn't even a second thought for him anymore

Wants to tell Young-il off, but Young-il would know he's bluffing and even Gi-Hun thinks so too

Front Man/Hwang In-Ho/Young-il

Is also jealous of Gi Hun

Joined the games to stop Gi Hun telling the others how to win them

But after seeing you, his mission changed

Would try to get the chance to talk to you whenever he could; dormitory, breakfast or lunch time, before the games starts

But almost always Gi-Hun wants to talk to you. I mean who wouldn't

Tries to keep his composure calm but in his mind he wants to kill Gi-Hun

Thanos

Jealous of Min su and Lee Myung-Gi

He knows Min su is very quiet and probably doesn't have the courage to ask you out, but can't help he upset about it

Always watches Lee Myung-Gi to see if he's interacting with you

Hating on Myung-Gi for the crypto scam is one thing. But it's another if he's also interested in you

Always has you on his team and cusses anyone out for wanting to pair off with you or team up with you

Kang Dae-Ho

Jealous of Thanos

Hates it when he calls you señorita/señor

Wants to have the courage to just tell him off, but he's afraid of how he'll be perceived

Starts thinking he's not good enough for you

Lee Myung-Gi

Also is jealous of Thanos and hates him

Already lost Jun-Hee and can't bear the thought of losing you too

Sees Thanos tries to flirt with you and he clenches his fist so much that it sometimes hurts to hold anything afterwards

Jun-ho

Is expectionally a chill guy

Sometimes he has an off feeling about Gi-Hun

He also wants to take down the people on the island, but he's also concerned how close he might be to you or spending nights out watching the salesman

Will try to go with you every time you go out with Gi-Hun

Salesman

Is jealous of anyone that tries to get close to you, but mostly Gi-Hun

Especially that Gi-Hun has been looking after you and the salesman

Will take matters into his own hands if necessary, which he always thinks it is

Had compassion for Gi-Hun first, but knowing that he's been looking after you two, can't help but think of where to bury him

Taglist:

@hobinistaworld, @ineedsmooching, @swuzzin @magicalconnoisseurcoffee, @dxrlingluv, @ninahorikoshifr, @ikeithy, @vampiregirlxoxoxo, @sassyyoyo, @cloudysxkura, @iidontwannadiealone, @idontreallyexistyet, @hollxe1

Navigation | Main Masterlist | Squid Game Masterlist | Squid Game Men Masterlist | Join my taglist!

[girltriestowritestuff]

Hey everyone, if you've been reading Royal Arrangements, you've probably noticed I haven't posted in a while. A big part of that has been school — it's been exhausting. But there's more to it, and I want to be honest about why I’m stepping away from this story.

Some of you may know (I think maybe 3–7 of you?) that I’m a Christian. And after a lot of reflection, I’ve decided to stop writing Royal Arrangements. I’m really sorry to those of you who enjoyed the story — I truly appreciate your support — but I don’t feel right continuing it.

To put it simply: I don’t believe writing this story aligns with my faith anymore. If you’re not interested in reading the more specific reasons behind that, that’s totally okay. Thank you so much for reading Royal Arrangements. It meant a lot to me, and if someone else feels led to continue it, I’d be happy to hand it off (just DM me and I can explain more). Love you all.

For those who want to know more about why I’m stepping away. As I was writing Royal Arrangements, I found myself imagining scenes and plotlines more and more — especially when I couldn’t write them down. Over time, some of those thoughts became lustful or inappropriate, and I believe that happened because I opened a door to the enemy.

I try to keep my mind focused on Him and my mind wanders, so I write everything down, but not everything stays on the page. Some of the daydreams started to pull me away from the kind of thoughts I believe Christians should be having.

So, while it’s hard to quit something I once enjoyed, I hope you understand why I’m choosing to let go of this. Thank you again for reading and supporting Royal Arrangements. It was a joy to write — until it no longer felt spiritually healthy for me.

I love you guys, and Jesus Christ loves you even more.

@gothamsmom @barrythestrawberry041 @ricitos-de-carbon @graysw1fe @dorkyfangirl24 @woncloudie @cassielovw @nepttunesoop @lucathy4life @luckywitchsong @epichalfblood @ayaka-sakura @dxrlingluv @baizzhu @automaticpatroltragedy @incendiotriaaa

[dxrlingluv]

HELLO ODDY DEAREST!!I LOVE YOUR WORK SMM💖 i hope you've been well, mwamwaa! Your top fan, aina hereee 😝,, May I request a Jealous!Antinous x Tele's Sister!Reader smut please? :3

it could be likee,, reader and antinous are in a secret relationship after ody comes back home (bro miraculously survives), antinous learns that reader's been getting more suitorsss,, yk something like that 😭 THANK U BB !! 💖

Branded

A/N : Thank you, my love, for requesting this beautiful masterpiece. Also, if it’s not obvious enough, I have no idea how to make up a good title for my stories. If anyone could give advices, I would really appreciate it! Antinous art is from Duvetbox.

WARNING : Smut, slight angst if you squirt. Dom!Antinous.

Word Count : 2.1k

The great hall of Ithaca, once a den of boorish thieves, was a royal court once more. The scent of spilled wine and greasy smoke had been replaced by beeswax, polished wood, and the faint, salty air drifting in from the sea. Your father, Odysseus, sat upon his throne, his presence a heavy, grounding force that had finally brought order to the island. Your brother, Telemachus, stood at his side, no longer a boy but a prince who had earned his place. Your mother, Penelope, was a vision of serene grace, her weaving telling stories of triumph now, not sorrow.

Everything was perfect. A storybook ending.

Except for the ghost who haunted the palace. And the secret you held tight in your heart, a secret that would shatter this perfect picture into a thousand pieces.

Antinous.

He had survived. In a moment of political calculation your father called "mercy," the ringleader of the suitors had been spared the arrow. After a spectacle of begging, groveling, and swearing eternal fealty on the graves of his ancestors, he was allowed to live. But not to leave. He was a prisoner in all but name, confined to the palace grounds, his family's power and wealth holding him in a gilded cage to ensure the loyalty of the other nobles. He was a shadow, a whisper in the corridors, his once-blazing arrogance banked to a cold, watchful ember.

And he was yours.

Your love had been a secret, forbidden bloom even before your father's return, born from stolen glances and whispered words in moonlit gardens. You had seen past the swaggering pride to the fierce, passionate man beneath. In the tense, strange peace of your father's new reign, that love had become a desperate, secret solace. A lifeline.

Today, that lifeline was stretched to its breaking point.

You were seated on a cushioned stool near your mother, the picture of a dutiful princess. Before you stood Philoetius the Younger, a suitor from Zakynthos. He was handsome, obscenely wealthy, and praised for his skill with a chariot. He spoke of his lands, his herds, his devotion to the gods. He was, by all accounts, a perfect match for the daughter of the King of Ithaca. And as he smiled at you, his teeth white and even, you felt nothing but a rising tide of nausea.

Because across the hall, leaning against a marble column half-hidden in shadow, was Antinous.

He was dressed simply, the fine silks and gold he once favored replaced by the plain, dark tunic of a man with no status. But it couldn't hide the coiled power in his frame, the broad set of his shoulders, or the sheer, dangerous intensity of his presence. He wasn't looking at the suitor; he was looking at you. His dark eyes were chips of obsidian, and his handsome face, the face you traced in your dreams, was a mask of such cold, possessive fury that a shiver traced its way down your spine.

He knew. He was watching this man try to court you, and the jealousy radiating from him was a palpable force, a poison that seeped into the very air between you.

You offered the suitor a tight, polite smile, your mind racing. "Your lands sound bountiful, my lord," you murmured, the words tasting like ash. "You honor our house with your visit."

As soon as protocol allowed, you excused yourself, claiming a sudden headache. You didn't dare look in Antinous's direction, but you could feel his gaze burning into your back as you fled the great hall. You didn't go to your chambers. You went to his.

His rooms were small, tucked away in a disused wing of the palace. The cage within the cage. You slipped through the door without knocking, closing it firmly behind you and leaning against the solid wood, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He was waiting for you, standing in the center of the spartan room. He hadn't moved, yet he seemed to fill the entire space with his rage.

"A headache?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft, a low rumble that promised violence. "Or did the brilliance of your new admirer simply become too much for you?"

"Antinous, please," you whispered.

"Please what?" He took a step closer, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator cornering its prey. "Please allow you to entertain the next rich lord who comes sniffing at your door? Am I to stand in the shadows and watch you smile at him, fluttering your lashes as he describes the fine sons he will give you?"

"It is not my choice! It is my father's will."

"And you are the dutiful daughter." The words were a sneer. He was in front of you now, close enough for you to feel the heat coming off his body. He braced his hands on the door on either side of your head, trapping you completely. His dark eyes bored into yours, filled with a terrifying mix of jealousy and pain. "Did you like him, Y/n? Did his talk of chariots and herds thrill you? Are you already imagining yourself as his queen?"

"You know I am not," you said, your voice shaking. "I want no one but you."

His expression wavered for a fraction of a second, the cold fury giving way to a raw, desperate vulnerability. That was the truth of it. He had lost everything—his ambition, his pride, his freedom. You were all he had left. The thought of losing you was not just a heartbreak; it was an annihilation.

"Then prove it," he growled, his voice thick with emotion. He lowered his head, his lips crashing down on yours.

This was not one of your gentle, stolen kisses. This was a kiss of pure, desperate possession. It was angry and punishing, his mouth hard and demanding, his teeth grazing your lower lip. You gasped, and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you. All the frustration, all the jealousy, all the fear he felt was poured into that kiss. And you met it with your own desperation, your hands coming up to tangle in his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer.

He broke the kiss only to press his mouth to your neck, his lips hot against your skin. "Mine," he snarled, and you felt the sharp sting of his teeth as he bit down, not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a definite, angry mark on the sensitive flesh just below your ear. "You are mine. Not his. Not your father's to give away."

His hands moved from the door to your body, gripping your waist with a bruising force. He spun you around and pressed you face-first against the rough wood of the door, hiking your chiton and peplos up with an impatient rustle of fabric. The cool air hit your bare skin, and you shivered in anticipation.

"Tell me you're mine," he demanded, his voice a guttural rasp in your ear as his hand splayed across your bottom, squeezing one cheek hard. His other hand worked at the lacing of his own trousers.

"I'm yours," you choked out, your mind already spinning. "Only yours."

"Who do you belong to?" he pressed, his hot breath ghosting across the mark he'd just made on your neck.

"To you. I belong to Antinous."

The sound of his release of breath, a shuddering sigh of satisfaction, was your only warning. You felt the thick, hot head of his cock press against your entrance. He was massive, and in his anger, he seemed even larger. He wasn't using any oil, and you were slick with arousal but tight with a nervous tension. It didn't matter. He wanted to possess you, to fill you so completely there was no room for thoughts of anyone else.

He shoved into you with a single, powerful thrust.

A sharp cry tore from your throat, a sound that was half pain, half exquisite pleasure. He was huge, stretching you, filling you to your very womb. You could feel every thick inch of him inside you. He paused for a moment, letting you feel his complete possession, his body pressed flush against your back, his hand gripping your hip to hold you pinned against the door.

"Feel that?" he whispered hoarsely, his lips against your ear. "That is me. No other man will ever feel this. No other man will ever fill you like this. You were made for me."

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were punishing, a savage rhythm driven by jealousy and fear. He slammed into you again and again, his pace fast and brutal, forcing a choked gasp from you with every deep, powerful stroke. Your head fell forward, your forehead resting against the cool wood of the door as you gave yourself over to the onslaught. This was what he needed—to fuck the thought of any other man out of your head, to brand you with his body, to reclaim you in the most primal way possible.

And gods, you needed it too. You met his desperate rhythm, tilting your hips back to take him even deeper, your own hands pressing against the door for leverage. The sound of his flesh slapping against yours filled the small room, a raw, wet, percussive sound that was utterly obscene.

"Did you smile for him?" he grunted, his pace becoming frantic. "Did you imagine his hands on you?"

"No," you cried out, your voice strained. "Only you, Antinous. Always you!"

Your confession seemed to break something in him. The rhythm of his thrusts changed, the anger bleeding away, replaced by a deep, desperate passion. The movements became slower, deeper, each one a deliberate act of love and possession. He pulled almost all the way out before sinking back into you, stretching you, stroking a secret, sensitive spot deep inside you that he knew better than you did yourself.

"Gods, Y/n," he groaned, burying his face in your hair. "What you do to me."

He reached around with his free hand, his long fingers finding your clit through your damp folds. He began to rub you with a firm, knowing pressure, perfectly in time with his deep, rolling thrusts. The dual stimulation was too much. Your vision began to starburst. The feeling of being so completely filled from behind, of his thick cock hitting your cervix with every powerful lurch, combined with the skilled attention of his fingers, was sending you over the edge.

"Antinous, I'm close," you panted, your body trembling violently.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice thick with his own impending release. "Let me feel you fall apart around me."

He sped up his rhythm, his fingers moving faster, his thrusts becoming powerful and driving again. Your orgasm hit you like a lightning strike. Your back arched, your inner muscles clenching violently around his cock, milking him. You screamed his name, a high, keening sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Your climax triggered his own. With a final, deep, guttural roar, he drove into you one last time, his body going rigid as he emptied himself deep inside you, his hot seed flooding your womb in powerful, pulsing waves.

For a long moment, he stayed there, buried to the hilt inside you, his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his release. His forehead rested on your shoulder, his breathing harsh and ragged in your ear. The rage was gone. All that was left was the man, vulnerable and trembling, clinging to the only good thing in his shattered life.

Slowly, he withdrew from you, the feeling of emptiness almost as profound as the feeling of fullness had been. He turned you around gently, his eyes, now clear of rage, searching your face. He saw the mark on your neck, his own thumb coming up to trace it with a look of regret.

He didn't speak. He simply lifted you into his arms and carried you to his narrow bed, laying you down on the rough-spun sheets. He lay down beside you, pulling you against his chest, wrapping his powerful arms and legs around you, cocooning you. He held you tightly, as if he was afraid you might vanish.

He buried his face in your hair, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your head.

"Promise me," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, stripped of all its former arrogance. "Promise me you will not let them give you to another. Promise me you are mine."

You tilted your head back, looking into his dark, desperate eyes. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin.

"I promise," you breathed, and in the quiet of his small, lonely room, it felt like the most sacred vow you could ever make. "I am yours."

[dxrlingluv]

may I request a scenario with telemachus x male reader who can play the lyre and can wield a bow? (reader is blessed by apollo:3)

male reader is also very pretty hehe

I loved you like the sun

A/N : I’m not used to writing male readers but I really enjoyed this concept so much! Thank you for requesting this, roseyrays. Telemachus art is from Gigi!

WARNING : Fluff, Male!Reader, MLM

Word Count : 1.1k

The last of the suitors' boorish laughter had long since faded from the great hall, leaving a quietude in the palace that was still a novelty. Peace was a fragile, precious thing in Ithaca, and in the golden hour of a tranquil evening, Telemachus found his own peace was not in the throne room or his study, but in the courtyard, watching you.

You stood in the center of the training grounds, the setting sun catching the highlights in your hair and turning them to spun gold. You held a bow in your hand—a magnificent thing of polished yew and horn, said to be a gift from Apollo himself. Your movements were fluid, a dance of deadly grace as you nocked an arrow, drew back the string, and released. The arrow flew, a blur of fletching and bronze, and struck the dead center of a distant target with a satisfying thwack.

It was not the first time Telemachus had seen you shoot. It was a sight he actively sought out. You never missed. It wasn't just skill; it was a divine surety, a blessing made manifest. But it wasn't the archery that truly held him captive.

It was you.

The intense focus in your eyes, the gentle curve of your lips when you were pleased with a shot, the way you seemed to hum with a light that was all your own. The gods had been generous when they made you, and Apollo, it seemed, had been particularly fond.

You let out a soft sigh, lowering the bow and turning your head slightly, as if you could feel his gaze upon you. A small, knowing smile touched your lips. "Is there something you need, my prince?" you asked, your voice as warm and pleasant as the summer air.

Telemachus felt a familiar warmth rise to his cheeks. Though he had faced down kings and sailed treacherous seas, your gentle gaze could still make his heart stumble. He pushed himself off the stone pillar he'd been leaning against and walked towards you, his own smile emerging.

"Only to admire the view," he said, his voice a low, sincere murmur. He stopped before you, his eyes drinking in the sight of you. Your skin seemed to glow in the twilight, and your beauty was of the sort poets wrote hymns about. "Your aim is as true as ever, (M/N)."

"It is a gift," you replied humbly, your fingers stroking the smooth wood of your bow. "One I am grateful for."

"Ithaca is grateful for it," he corrected softly. "And so am I."

From the arched portico that overlooked the courtyard, two pairs of eyes watched the scene with fondness. Queen Penelope stood with her hands clasped, a genuine, untroubled smile on her face. Beside her, the old nurse Eurycleia clucked her tongue, though her eyes were twinkling with affection.

"Look at them," Penelope murmured, her voice filled with a mother's pride and relief. "He has been home for months, but my son has never looked so at ease."

"It is the boy, my queen," Eurycleia rasped, her gaze fixed on you. "(M/N) has a light about him. Chases away the shadows. It's no wonder our Telemachus orbits him like the earth orbits the sun."

Penelope nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "He is a blessing to this house in more ways than one. I think... I think the time for archery is done for the day. A little music would suit this lovely evening far better."

With that, she descended the steps into the courtyard, Eurycleia following a few paces behind. "(M/N)," the queen called, her voice gentle so as not to startle you both.

You and Telemachus turned. You immediately offered a respectful bow of your head. "My queen."

"Enough with the formalities," she said, waving a hand dismissively, though her smile was warm. "The day is over. Would you do an old woman a favor and grace us with your lyre? This courtyard has not heard true music in a long, long time."

Your smile widened, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. "It would be my greatest honor, Queen Penelope."

You carefully set your bow aside and went to retrieve your other divine gift. The lyre was a masterpiece, its soundbox crafted from tortoise shell and its arms from gleaming, sun-bleached wood. As you settled onto a marble bench, Telemachus sat near you, close enough that your arms might brush, his focus entirely on you.

You didn't begin with a grand, boisterous tune. Instead, you started with a soft, melodic plucking of the strings. The notes rose into the air, weaving a tapestry of sound that was at once melancholic and hopeful. It was a hymn of quiet joy, a song of homecoming and peace restored. The music flowed from your fingers effortlessly, a pure extension of the serenity that you carried within you.

As you played, the last rays of sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky bled into shades of violet and rose. Torches flickered to life along the colonnades, their flames dancing in time with your melody. Telemachus didn't realize he had moved closer until his shoulder was pressed against yours. He was utterly captivated. He watched the way your long lashes cast shadows on your cheeks in the torchlight, the focused yet peaceful set of your jaw, and the impossibly elegant movement of your hands across the strings.

Your music washed over him, soothing the scars on his soul left by years of uncertainty and a perilous journey. It spoke of calm seas and bright dawns, of a future he had once barely dared to dream of.

When the last note faded into a reverent silence, no one moved for a long moment. The world seemed to be holding its breath. Penelope had tears glistening in her eyes, and even old Eurycleia looked softer, lost in the memory the music had evoked.

You lowered the lyre to your lap, your head bowed slightly as if coming out of a trance.

Telemachus found he couldn't speak. Words felt clumsy, inadequate. Instead, he slowly reached out and took your hand—the one that wasn't cradling your instrument. Your fingers were long and warm, and they curled gently around his. He brought your hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving your face, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. In their depths, he saw a reflection of the torchlight, of the stars beginning to prick the twilight sky, and of the profound affection that mirrored his own. A lovely blush colored your cheeks, but you did not pull away. You simply smiled, a radiant, happy thing that made his heart feel full to bursting.

In the quiet of the Ithacan night, surrounded by the gentle warmth of his family, holding the hand of the beautiful soul who had mended the broken parts of his home and his heart, Telemachus knew he was finally, truly, home.

[dxrlingluv]

The way you write Apollo,Hermes and Telemachus is so good.. anyways...

Fem!reader x Hermes.. so basically, reader is one of Apollo's muses and Hermes kinda "steals her away" from his brother & Apollo is VERY pissed that his brother is flirting with one of his muses...

Poetic dilemma

A/N : Thank you so much! Those three are my favorites(and ody). Also… Hermes and Apollo fighting for you and your attention. What a dream, isn’t it? Hermes art is from Zieru, Apollo art is from Gigi!

WARNING : Fem!Muse!Reader, Hermes and Apollo is fighting for the reader.

Word Count : 926

The golden halls of Apollo’s temple usually rang with the harmonious strains of lyres, the rustle of parchment, and the occasional, perfectly timed dramatic monologue from the god himself. Today, though, you were finding it particularly hard to concentrate on anything but the sheer joy radiating from Apollo. He was currently perched on a marble pedestal, mid-recitation of his new ode to… well, himself, mostly.

"And then, with a flourish of celestial light," Apollo boomed, striking a pose, his eyes alight with inspiration, "I, Apollo, the radiant one, did cast my golden gaze upon the slumbering earth, awakening it with my glorious warmth!"

You smiled, genuinely happy to see him so immersed in his art. "Very… illuminating, Apollo! The warmth truly comes through!"

He beamed, soaking in your praise. "Ah, your appreciation! It truly fuels my divine fire!"

Just as he was about to launch into the next stanza, a sudden, soft whoosh of air brushed past you. Before you could even register it, a strong, playful arm wrapped around your waist, and you were lifted clean off your feet. A familiar, mischievous laugh echoed in your ear.

"Time for a change of scenery, little star!" Hermes's voice chirped, and the world outside the temple became a blur of clouds and sky.

You gasped, half in surprise, half in delight. "Hermes! What are you doing?!"

"Rescuing you from… well, just a change of pace!" he declared, soaring through a fluffy cloud bank, his winged sandals a blur. He held you securely, your feet dangling playfully. "Honestly, I just thought you might like a break. Plus," he winked, slowing to a more leisurely glide, "I'm much more fun than listening to him wax poetic about his own sun chariot for the fifth time today. Though, he does make it sound good."

You couldn't help but laugh, the wind whipping through your hair. "He's going to be furious!"

"Oh, he'll get over it," Hermes scoffed, doing a mid-air barrel roll that made you squeal with laughter. "He has, what, a dozen other muses. He won't even notice one is missing. Besides," he winked, "I'm much more fun than listening to him drone on about his own sun chariot for the fifth time today."

Meanwhile, back in the temple, Apollo was still mid-pose. "…and the mortals, awestruck by my unparalleled brilliance, did fall to their knees in… wait a minute." He slowly un-struck his pose. His eyes, which had been closed in dramatic contemplation, snapped open. He looked to his left. Then to his right. His brow furrowed.

"My muse?" he murmured. "Where is my muse?"

A beat of silence. Then, a terrifying, earth-shaking roar. "HERMES!" Apollo’s voice thundered, shaking the very foundations of Olympus. "YOU WINGED SCOUNDREL! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY MUSE?!"

Hermes, who had just landed you gently on a particularly soft cloud, winced. "Ah, speak of the devil… or rather, the sun god. He noticed quicker than I thought."

Apollo descended upon you both, radiating pure, unadulterated indignation. His golden hair seemed to crackle with divine fury, and his lyre, usually a symbol of harmony, looked dangerously close to being used as a blunt instrument.

"Hermes! You absolute scoundrel! You snatched Y/N! My inspiration! My lyrical genius! How am I supposed to compose my ode to the perfect shade of dawn without her insightful feedback on the nuances of 'rosy-fingered' versus 'crimson-tipped'?"

Hermes put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer with a cheeky grin. "Oh, lighten up, brother. We were just... on a field trip. For creative enrichment. Very avant-garde."

Apollo's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on Hermes's arm. "Field trip? You're flirting with my muse! My property! This is an outrage! Do you know how long it takes to find a muse who truly appreciates the subtle brilliance of a well-placed caesura?"

You smiled, finding Apollo's passion endearing, even when he was this worked up.

Hermes, ever the provocateur, leaned in closer to you, whispering loudly enough for Apollo to hear, "He's just jealous, you know. My charm is simply irresistible."

Apollo gasped, a hand flying to his chest dramatically. "Jealous?! Of you?! The god of petty theft and glorified delivery services?! I am Apollo! God of music, poetry, light, and prophecy! I have no need for jealousy!" He then pointed a trembling finger at Hermes. "Release her at once, you winged hooligan! She has a symphony to inspire!"

You gently extricated yourself from Hermes's grasp, stepping forward with a smile. "Apollo, it's alright. Hermes was just... giving me a change of perspective. But I'm always happy to hear your latest works!"

Apollo softened slightly, though his glare at Hermes remained. "See, Hermes? She's too kind for your thieving ways. Now, Y/N, darling, we must return. I have a particularly challenging rhyme for 'helios' that only you can truly appreciate."

As Apollo began to lead you away, already launching into a new poetic dilemma, Hermes winked over Apollo's shoulder. "I'll be back, little star. And next time, I'm thinking a whirlwind tour of the mortal realm. Much more exciting than listening to him drone on about himself."

Apollo, oblivious, continued his monologue. You just smiled, a secret thrill bubbling inside you. Being Apollo's muse was fulfilling, and seeing him so happy was wonderful. But being the object of Hermes's playful "theft" and the subsequent divine rivalry was undeniably more entertaining. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that Hermes would indeed be back. And Apollo would be just as hilariously furious.

[dxrlingluv]

I hope you don't mind adding another Hermes x Reader fanfic to your collection...

But basically Hermes and Reader are close friends, very affectionate with each other, Hermes having very obvious feelings to the other, but neither confessed yet.

The reason you ask? Both have this lingering fear that maybe the other won't reciprocate their feelings and that they would choose/deserve someone better than they are.

Honestly driving everyone else insane at this rate.

Symphony

A/N : I felt lazy and tired so I apologize because this isn’t the best. Telemachus smut will come next ! Art of Hermes belongs to Zieru!

WARNING : GN!Devine!Reader, friends to lovers, a bit of angst?

Word Count : 1.5k

The ambrosia tasted sweeter when you shared it with Hermes. Not that you'd ever tell him that, of course. For centuries, your friendship had been a beacon in the often-stuffy halls of Olympus – a comfortable, exhilarating whirlwind of shared secrets, daring escapades across the mortal realm, and laughter that echoed through the celestial spheres. You, a divine being whose domain was the subtle currents of fate and chance, and he, the swift messenger, the trickster, the god of a thousand roles.

You were, to put it mildly, affectionate. A casual arm sling around his shoulders as you recounted a particularly amusing twist of mortal destiny, a playful nudge when he'd outdone himself with a witty remark, the way your hand naturally found his when navigating crowded Olympian feasts. These were gestures as natural as breathing, yet lately, a new, more potent undercurrent hummed beneath them.

Hermes, bless his winged sandals, wasn't subtle. His gaze would linger a fraction too long, a warmth in his eyes that went beyond mere camaraderie. He'd find any excuse to be near you, his usual boisterous energy softening into something more focused, more tender, when it was just the two of you. He'd bring you peculiar mortal trinkets he swore reminded him of you: a perfectly smooth river stone, a feather of an unknown bird, a melody plucked from a shepherd's lonely flute. Each offering felt like a whispered question, one you were too afraid to answer.

The fear was a cold knot in your divine stomach. How could Hermes, the charming, adored, and relentlessly pursued god, truly want you? You, whose powers were often unseen, whose presence was more a quiet hum than a thunderous pronouncement. Surely, he deserved someone more dazzling, more overtly powerful, someone who wouldn't dim his brilliant light. The thought of him choosing someone else, someone better, was a constant, dull ache.

And so, you both danced this agonizingly beautiful, frustratingly silent waltz.

Aphrodite had cornered you just last week, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in exasperation. "Honestly, Y/N," she'd sighed, fanning herself with a gilded feather, "the tension between you two is thicker than the fog in Hades' realm. Even Ares is placing bets on when one of you will finally crack."

Apollo, never one to miss an opportunity for drama, had composed a rather scathing, though admittedly catchy, ballad about 'Two Hearts Too Scared to Speak.' You'd pretended to find it amusing, even as your cheeks burned.

Today, you found Hermes by the edge of the reflecting pool in Hera's gardens, a place you often sought refuge in together. He was unusually quiet, tracing patterns on the water's surface with a fingertip. The usual spark in his eyes was muted, replaced by a familiar wistfulness you'd seen more and more often.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you asked softly, settling beside him, your shoulder brushing his. The contact sent a familiar jolt, comforting and terrifying all at once.

Hermes offered a small, tired smile. "Just... wondering about things, I suppose." His gaze flickered to you, then quickly away, a blush creeping up his neck that he tried to hide by adjusting the strap of his satchel. "The usual divine ennui, you know how it is."

You knew it wasn't. You knew that look. It was the same uncertainty that gnawed at you.

"You seem..." you started, then hesitated. 'Don't push it,' a voice whispered. 'You'll only scare him off. Or worse, confirm your fears.'

"Lost in thought," he finished for you, a little too quickly. "Comes with the territory of flitting between worlds, I guess. Sometimes, I just... I wonder if I'm ever truly seen. For just... me. Not the messenger, not the dealmaker." His voice was quiet, vulnerable.

Your heart ached. Oh, how you saw him. You saw the weariness behind the endless energy, the kindness that often got overshadowed by his mischievous reputation, the yearning for genuine connection that mirrored your own.

"I see you, Hermes," you said, the words escaping before you could stop them. Your voice was barely a whisper, but in the sudden stillness of the garden, it felt deafening.

He turned to you, his eyes wide, searching. The air crackled with unspoken emotions, centuries of friendship and a burgeoning love hanging heavy between you. The fear was still there, a cold serpent coiling in your gut, but for the first time, a tiny spark of hope ignited alongside it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, a rare instance of the god of eloquence being rendered speechless. His hand twitched, as if wanting to reach for yours, but he hesitated, his own anxieties likely screaming at him.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the gentle lapping of water in the pool and the frantic thumping of two divine hearts, both equally terrified, both desperately hoping. Hermes's gaze remained fixed on yours, a maelstrom of emotions swirling in their depths – disbelief, a fragile hope, and the same raw vulnerability he'd just exposed. His hand, still hovering between you, trembled slightly.

You held your breath, your own courage wavering. Had you said too much? Had you misinterpreted everything? The familiar chill of doubt began to creep back in, threatening to extinguish the tiny spark of hope.

Then, Hermes swallowed, a visible effort. The god of swift words and even swifter escapes seemed rooted to the spot, battling an internal war. He finally let out a shaky breath, the sound surprisingly loud in the quiet garden.

"You... you see me?" he finally managed, his voice rougher than usual, stripped of its customary playful lilt. It wasn't a question of understanding the words, but of daring to believe their implication.

"Yes, Hermes," you affirmed, your voice gaining a little more strength, fueled by the raw honesty in his eyes. "I see all of you. The brilliant messenger, the clever trickster, yes. But also the god who gets weary, who feels deeply, who brings me a perfectly smooth river stone because it reminded you of something quiet and constant."

A flicker of something akin to wonder crossed his face. His hand, the one that had twitched, slowly, hesitantly, reached out. It wasn't the confident, casual touch you were used to. This was tentative, questioning. He stopped just short of your own hand, which rested on the cool marble bench between you.

"And what if," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, the sound so intimate it sent shivers down your spine, "what if the god you see... what if he feels more for you than just friendship? What if, for centuries, you've been the only constant he truly craves, the quiet harbor in all his endless journeys?"

Your heart leaped, a wild, joyous thing. The fear hadn't vanished entirely, but it was drowned out by a wave of overwhelming emotion. This was it. The precipice.

"What if," you replied, your voice equally soft, your own hand lifting to meet his, your fingers finally, tentatively, lacing together, "that quiet harbor has been waiting? What if this divine being, who watches the threads of fate, has seen their own destiny intertwined with yours for longer than they dared to admit, even to themselves?"

A slow, dazzling smile spread across Hermes's face, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes and made them sparkle with a light you hadn't realized you'd been missing. It wasn't his usual charming grin; this was softer, more profound, filled with an almost boyish relief.

"Y/N," he breathed your name like a prayer, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I... I've been so afraid. Afraid you wouldn't... that I wasn't enough. That you deserved someone... grander."

"Oh, Hermes," you sighed, a laugh bubbling up, tinged with happy tears you quickly blinked away. "And I thought you deserved someone more brilliant, more overtly divine. We've been a pair of fools, haven't we?"

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and leaned closer. The air between you was no longer fraught with unspoken tension, but thrumming with a newly acknowledged truth. "The most glorious, infuriatingly slow fools in all of Olympus, perhaps." He squeezed your hand. "I love you, Y/N. More than words, even mine, can properly convey."

The admission, so direct, so heartfelt, sent a shockwave of pure joy through you. The remaining tendrils of fear dissolved completely, replaced by a radiant certainty.

"And I love you, Hermes," you confessed, your voice clear and true, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "With all of my being. For all of time."

He leaned in further, and this time, there was no hesitation from either of you. His lips met yours, a gentle, tentative exploration at first, then deepening as centuries of unspoken affection, shared laughter, and silent yearning finally found their voice. It wasn't a kiss of wild passion, not yet, but one of profound relief, of coming home.

When you finally drew apart, the sounds of the garden seemed brighter, the scent of the flowers sweeter. Aphrodite would likely be insufferable, and Apollo would undoubtedly compose a triumphant (and hopefully less scathing) sequel to his ballad. But in that moment, nestled beside Hermes, his hand securely in yours, his eyes shining with a love that mirrored your own, none of that mattered.

The echoes in your hearts were no longer unspoken. They were a symphony.

[dxrlingluv]

begging u to write more telemachus smut hes so cutie i love him sm ,,, (I LOVE UR WRITING SM)

Forgive you? Already did.

A/N : Oh. My. Gosh. I love Telemachus so much. I imagined him in Ximena’s design while writing this. HE’S SUCH A CUTIE THERE OMG AND HIS MUSCLES? Okay I’m gonna shut up now and let you enjoy this… which I hope you do cuz this is the worst thing I have ever written.

WARNING : Smut, Fem!Reader. Smut with no plot, fluff, slight angst(?), Reader and Telemachus got into an argument.

Word Count : 1.8k

The slam of the door still echoed in your ears, a harsh punctuation mark at the end of your heated exchange with Telemachus. Each of his sharp words replayed in your mind, twisting and turning like a knife in a fresh wound. You paced the length of your room, the familiar tapestries and scattered scrolls offering no comfort. The injustice of the argument gnawed at you. You'd both been under immense pressure, navigating the strange new world you found yourselves in, the weight of destiny heavy on Telemachus' young shoulders. Yet, somehow, that pressure had erupted, and you were left feeling misunderstood and bristling with a hurt you hadn't anticipated.

Finally, exhaustion forced you to sink onto the edge of your bed, the roughspun fabric scratching against your skin. The light outside shifted, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fading orange. The silence in your room was thick, heavy with unspoken words and lingering frustration. You stared out the window, the intricate network of the city lights blurring through the unshed tears that pricked at your eyes. You missed the easy camaraderie you usually shared with Telemachus, the quick wit and shared laughter that often filled your days. This coldness between you felt alien and unwelcome.

Just as a sigh escaped your lips, a soft, hesitant knock echoed through the quiet room. Your breath hitched. Telemachus. You hadn't expected him so soon, if at all tonight. A flicker of hope warred with the lingering sting of his earlier words.

He stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame, but his usual confident stance was replaced by a visible unease. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes, usually so bright with mischief and determination, held a shadow of regret. He shifted his weight, his gaze locked on the floor for a moment before finally meeting yours.

"Y/N," he began, his voice rough, laced with a vulnerability you rarely heard. "I... I've been thinking. About what happened." He stepped fully into the room, closing the door softly behind him, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. "I spoke rashly. I was... frustrated, and that's no excuse to take it out on you."

Your own anger began to ebb, replaced by a weary relief that he had come. "I wasn't exactly blameless either, Telemachus," you admitted, your voice softer than you intended. "I let my own frustrations get the better of me."

He took a step closer, his gaze searching yours, and you could see the genuine remorse etched on his face. "I value you, Y/N. More than words can say. And the thought of... of this wedge between us... it's unbearable."

He reached out a hand, his calloused fingers hovering near yours. You didn't hesitate to meet his touch, your own hand sliding into his. The simple contact sent a wave of warmth through you, melting some of the icy barrier that had formed between you. His thumb traced slow circles on the back of your hand, a familiar and comforting gesture.

"I know things are... intense right now," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, "but I don't want that intensity to spill over into how we treat each other. Especially not us."

His gaze drifted to your lips, and a spark, undeniable and potent, flared between you. The lingering tension in the room shifted, the air growing thick with a different kind of energy. The memory of the harsh words receded, replaced by the magnetic pull you always felt towards him. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

"Can we... can we forget about the argument, just for a little while?" he whispered, his voice husky.

Your own breath hitched. The desire that had been simmering beneath the surface of your anger now surged to the forefront. You nodded, your eyes locked on his.

He closed the remaining distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine. The frantic tangle of your mouths intensified, a desperate claiming that went beyond mere kissing. You tasted the lingering bitterness of your argument mingling with the raw, underlying desire that had always simmered between you. "Telemachus," you gasped, the word torn from your throat as his teeth grazed your lower lip, a possessive mark that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Y/N," he responded, his voice a low growl against your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me." His hands, now insistent and knowing, slid beneath your tunic, the rough fabric a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his touch as he cupped the weight of your breast. His gaze lingered, a spark of pure desire igniting in his dark eyes before his lips followed, leaving a trail of fire down your throat to the soft curve of your collarbone. You arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips as his mouth closed over a sensitive peak, his tongue teasing and swirling, sending shivers of pleasure through you.

"I do," you whispered fiercely, your own hands clutching at his shoulders, the muscles beneath your fingertips taut with tension and need. "More than anything. Make me forget everything else." You fumbled with the fastenings of his own tunic, eager to feel his skin against yours. The roughspun fabric gave way, and you reveled in the feel of his warm chest beneath your hands, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm against your palm. You tangled your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as his mouth trailed lower, his breath hot against your skin.

He lifted you, carrying you effortlessly to the bed, the sudden shift in position heightening the anticipation that thrummed between you. As he laid you down, his gaze never left yours, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. He followed you onto the mattress, his body pressing against yours, the hard planes of his chest and thighs a delicious weight.

His kisses grew deeper, more demanding, each touch igniting a fresh wave of sensation. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip, dipping beneath the edge of your remaining garment to explore the sensitive skin there. You gasped as his fingers found their mark, a pleasurable ache blooming deep within you.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice thick with desire, nipping gently at your lower lip before claiming your mouth again. His hands, no longer hesitant, roamed with a confident familiarity over your curves. "Gods, I've missed this," he murmured against your skin as he cupped the swell of your breast.

"And I, you," you whispered, your own hands mirroring his exploration, tracing the hard muscles of his shoulders and back. "Don't ever... don't ever let us fight like that again."

He pulled back slightly, his dark eyes blazing into yours. "Never," he vowed, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "It tears me apart." He then dipped his head, his lips leaving a trail of fire down your throat. "You feel so good," he groaned, his breath hot against your collarbone.

You shifted beneath him, your own hands exploring his body with equal fervor. You traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the strong column of his neck. You reveled in the feel of his taut muscles, the way he shuddered beneath your touch. His body pressed against yours. "Forgive me?" he murmured, his lips nuzzling your ear.

"Already have," you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer for a deep, searching kiss. "Just… show me how sorry you are."

He obliged, his lips leaving yours to blaze a trail down your throat, each kiss a searing brand. "This is what I want," he murmured against the frantic pulse at your neck. "You. Just you."

You choked out a moan, your breath catching in your throat. "Gods, yes. Don't stop." You arched against his touch, offering yourself more fully to his touch. He moved between your legs, his gaze locking with yours, a silent question passing between you. You answered with a soft sigh and a slight parting of your thighs, an invitation he readily accepted.

As he pressed against your entrance, a gasp escaped your lips, a mixture of anticipation and a primal ache. "Are you ready for me?" he rasped, his breath hot against your thigh.

"Yes," you cried out, your hips lifting to meet his. "Please, Telemachus. Now."

The first slow slide was electric, a searing connection that stole your breath. You cried out, your body arching off the bed as he filled you completely. "Oh, gods," you choked out, clinging to his shoulders.

"So good. So tight." He remained still for a moment, allowing you both to adjust to the intimacy, his eyes locked on yours, his expression a mixture of possessiveness and pure pleasure. "Does it feel right?" he finally managed, his voice strained.

"Perfect," you whispered, your nails digging into his back. "Don't wait."

He began to move, each thrust deeper and more insistent than the last. Your bodies slapped together, the rhythmic sound echoing in the small room, punctuated by your ragged breaths and soft moans. "Say my name," he urged, his hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements.

"Telemachus," you cried out, your head thrashing against the pillow. "Oh, Telemachus, yes. Harder."

He obliged, his pace quickening, the intensity building with each stroke. "You're driving me mad," he groaned, his teeth gritting. "So hot. So wet."

You gasped, your senses reeling, the world narrowing to the feel of his cock inside you. "Don't stop… I'm so close."

"So am I," he rasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "Hold on to me, Y/N."

And then the world shattered into a kaleidoscope of sensation. Your cries mingled with his guttural roar as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, your bodies convulsing in unison. You clung to each other, every muscle in your body clenched tight, the intensity almost unbearable, yet exquisitely so.

Slowly, the tremors subsided, leaving you both breathless and slick with sweat. He collapsed against you, his weight a comforting anchor. His lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of damp kisses. "Mine," he murmured possessively. "You're mine."

You tightened your embrace, your fingers stroking the damp hair at his nape. "Always," you whispered back, the word a silent promise in the quiet aftermath. "Always."

Later, as the first rays of dawn peeked through your window, you lay tangled together, the remnants of your passionate reconciliation scattered around the room. The silence was comfortable now, filled with the soft rhythm of your breathing and the occasional contented sigh. Telemachus held you close, his arm a warm weight across your waist, his lips pressed softly against your hair. The argument felt distant, a storm that had passed, leaving behind a renewed sense of closeness and understanding. In the quiet aftermath, you knew that even amidst the chaos of your lives, the bond you shared was a constant, a fiery anchor that could weather any storm.

[dxrlingluv]

HI OMG YOU WRITE SO BEAUTIFULLY may I request a fic of telemachus? 😛 maybe one in which reader is Antinous's younger sister?🙈

You are different

A/N : This is such a beautiful concept, and thank you, anon, for the compliment. Telemachus art is from duvetbox! (Edit) Also I apologize, because I might not be able to post as much since I don’t have internet connection, but once it’s back I’ll be able to post constantly again.

WARNING : Fem!Reader, enemies to lovers, angst with comfort. Reader is Antinous’s sister.

Word Count : 3.8k

The great hall of Odysseus’s palace in Ithaca, once a place of joyous feasts and kingly pronouncements, now echoed with the boorish laughter and arrogant demands of the suitors. For years, they had been a plague, consuming the absent king’s stores, harassing his queen, Penelope, and generally making life unbearable for his son, Telemachus. Among them, Antinous, son of Eupheithes, was the most brazen, the most cruel, the undisputed leader of their parasitic band. And you, Y/N, were his younger sister.

Telemachus first laid eyes on you not in the raucous hall, but in the quieter, sun-dappled courtyard. You were tending to a pot of wilting herbs, your brow furrowed in concentration, a stark contrast to the indolent lounging of your brother and his companions. But the moment he learned your lineage, a curtain of ice dropped over his gaze. Antinous’s sister. To him, that meant you were cut from the same cloth, another viper in the nest, perhaps more subtle in your venom, but a viper nonetheless. He’d heard the whispers of your arrival, another mouth to feed from his dwindling inheritance, another soul likely to mock his mother’s grief and his own impotent fury.

“So, the jackal sends for his kin to pick at the scraps,” Telemachus had sneered, his voice loud enough for you to hear as he strode past, his young face a mask of disdain. He didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t care for one. In his mind, you were already condemned by association, a devil sent from the underworld, cloaked in a deceptively gentle facade.

Your initial days in the palace were isolating. The suitors, while acknowledging your presence with varying degrees of politeness (mostly feigned, you suspected, to remain in Antinous’s good graces), largely ignored you. They were too consumed with their revelry and their relentless pursuit of Penelope. The queen herself, ever gracious, offered you a sad, knowing smile whenever your paths crossed, a silent acknowledgment of the difficult position you were in. The servants, loyal to Odysseus’s house, were wary, their eyes holding a mixture of pity and suspicion.

But it was Telemachus’s animosity that stung the most. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid you, yet his disapproval was a palpable force whenever you were in the same space. If you offered a hesitant greeting, he would give a curt, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes like chips of flint. If you happened to be reading in the library – a refuge you quickly discovered – and he entered, he would turn on his heel and leave, as if your very presence contaminated the air.

You understood his hatred for your brother. Antinous was, to put it mildly, an acquired taste, one you yourself had never quite managed to develop. His arrogance, his casual cruelty, his utter disregard for the customs of hospitality – it all grated on you. You had come to Ithaca not by choice, but at your father’s insistence, hoping perhaps to temper your brother’s excesses, a foolish, naive hope you now realized.

One blustery afternoon, as a storm raged outside, mirroring the turmoil within the palace walls, you found yourself in the main hall, trying to stay out of the way as the suitors grew louder and more demanding with each emptied wine skin. Antinous, emboldened by drink, was mocking Telemachus, taunting him about his missing father.

“Still waiting for that ghost to return, princeling?” Antinous jeered, his companions roaring with laughter. “Perhaps he’s found a nicer island, a prettier queen!”

Telemachus stood ramrod straight, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of a sword that still looked a little too large for him. His eyes, though, burned with a fire that belied his youth, a desperate, cornered anger.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you stepped forward. “Brother,” you said, your voice quiet but firm, cutting through the boisterous noise. “That is enough.”

The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to you. Antinous looked at you, his brows raised in surprise, then annoyance. “And who are you to tell me what is enough, little sister?”

“He is the prince of this house,” you stated, your gaze unwavering. “And our guest, by a very strained definition. Some courtesy is due.”

A dangerous glint appeared in Antinous’s eyes. “Are you taking his side now?”

Telemachus watched, his expression unreadable. He expected you to falter, to shrink back under your brother’s displeasure. He expected the familial bond to assert itself, for you to align with the jackal.

But you stood your ground. “I am taking the side of decency, Antinous. Something you seem to have forgotten.”

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, surprisingly, Antinous threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Decency! My sister has become a philosopher! Very well, Y/N, for your sake, I shall spare the boy further… instruction today.” He winked at Telemachus, a look full of malice, before turning back to his wine.

The moment passed. The suitors, though surprised, soon resumed their carousing. But something had shifted. As you retreated to a quieter corner, your heart still pounding, you felt a pair of eyes on you. It was Telemachus. He was still watching you, but the outright hostility in his gaze had been replaced by something else – confusion, perhaps even a reluctant sliver of… respect?

Over the following weeks, the iciness in Telemachus’s demeanor began to thaw, almost imperceptibly at first. He no longer left a room the moment you entered. Occasionally, his eyes would meet yours across the hall, and instead of the usual glare, there would be a flicker of acknowledgment, a silent question.

One evening, you found him alone in the courtyard, staring up at the stars, a melancholic expression on his face. He looked so young then, the weight of the world pressing down on his slender shoulders.

“They are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?” you said softly, joining him by the low stone wall.

He started, surprised by your presence, but he didn’t immediately retreat. “Yes,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on the celestial tapestry. “My father used to tell me stories about the constellations. He said they were the heroes of old, watching over us.” A shadow of pain crossed his features. “I wonder if he watches over me now.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart. “I believe he does,” you said sincerely. “A father’s love is not so easily extinguished.”

He finally looked at you then, truly looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time not as ‘Antinous’s sister’ but as Y/N. “Why are you… different?” he asked, the question abrupt, almost accusatory, yet laced with a genuine desire to understand.

“Different from whom?”

“From him. From them.” He gestured vaguely towards the palace, where the sounds of the suitors’ revelry were a dull roar.

You sighed, leaning against the cool stone. “Blood ties do not dictate the heart, Telemachus. I do not condone my brother’s actions. I never have. Ithaca… it is not as I imagined. And the suffering of your mother, your household… it is a heavy burden to witness.”

A long silence stretched between you, filled only with the chirping of crickets and the distant murmur of the sea.

“He hates me,” Telemachus said finally, his voice low. “Antinous. He would see me dead if he could.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And that is a constant sorrow to me.”

This conversation was a turning point. It didn’t magically erase all his suspicions, nor did it suddenly make you allies in the eyes of the palace. But it cracked open a door between you, allowing a fragile understanding to take root.

Slowly, hesitantly, you began to seek each other out. A shared glance across the feasting table that lingered a moment too long. A quiet exchange of words in the library, discussing a scroll you were both reading. You learned of his fierce loyalty to his father’s memory, his deep love for his mother, and the crushing responsibility he felt to protect what little remained of his legacy. He, in turn, began to see past your familial connection to Antinous, discovering your intelligence, your quiet strength, your compassionate heart that ached for the injustices around you.

The sweetness of these stolen moments was always tinged with an undeniable sadness. You were, by all accounts, on opposing sides of a conflict that was rapidly approaching its boiling point. He was the son of the rightful king, destined to reclaim his birthright. You were the sister of his most ardent enemy. There was an unspoken understanding that any bond forming between you was built on precarious ground.

One afternoon, he found you by the sea cliffs, a place you often retreated to escape the stifling atmosphere of the palace. You were sketching the waves, a talent he hadn’t known you possessed.

“You draw the sea as if you understand its moods,” he commented, sitting down a respectful distance away.

You smiled faintly. “It reminds me that even in chaos, there is beauty. And that storms eventually pass.”

“Do you think this storm will pass?” he asked, his voice earnest, looking at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He wasn’t just talking about the suitors anymore; he was talking about the storm between *you*, the animosity that circumstances had dictated.

“I hope so, Telemachus,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his. “I truly do.”

He moved closer then, hesitantly reaching out to take your hand. Your fingers intertwined, a silent acknowledgment of the feelings that had blossomed in the most unlikely of gardens. His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh world you both inhabited.

“Y/N,” he began, his thumb tracing patterns on your skin, “I… I was wrong about you. So very wrong.”

“And I about you, perhaps,” you admitted. “I saw only the anger, not the pain beneath it.”

The air was thick with unspoken words, with the sweet, aching realization of a love that should not be, yet irrevocably *was*. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, a beautiful, melancholic backdrop to your fragile connection.

“Whatever happens,” Telemachus said, his voice husky with emotion, “when my father returns, or when matters here come to a head… I want you to know that what I feel for you… it’s real.”

Tears welled in your eyes. The joy of his confession was inextricably linked with the sorrow of your predicament. Antinous was your brother, however much you disapproved of him. The impending clash would inevitably place you on opposite sides, regardless of your heart’s inclination.

“And mine for you, Telemachus,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “But oh, what a cruel fate that it should be so.”

He leaned in, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. The anticipation was a sweet ache in your chest. But he hesitated, the shadow of your brother, of the impending conflict, falling between you. Instead, he gently touched his forehead to yours, a gesture of profound intimacy and shared sorrow.

“We will face what comes,” he murmured against your skin. “But for now… can we just have this? This moment?”

You closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of his presence, the impossible, beautiful, heartbreaking love that had grown from the ashes of hatred. It was a love born in adversity, sweet and poignant, a fragile bloom in a field of thorns. The future was a terrifying unknown, a path fraught with peril and the certainty of pain. But in that moment, with his hand in yours and the sound of the waves as your witness, there was only the bittersweet truth of your affection, a quiet promise whispered against the dying light. The devil he thought you were had somehow become the angel he hadn't known he needed, and the enemy he was sworn to despise had captured his heart.

The whispers started subtly, like the first rustle of leaves before a storm – a beggar at the palace gates, uncannily perceptive, bearing an aura of command despite his rags. Then, the hushed, urgent conversations between Telemachus and Eumaeus, the loyal swineherd. You, Y/N, felt the shift in the air, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. The feasting suitors, lost in their arrogance, noticed nothing. Antinous, your brother, was louder and more demanding than ever, oblivious to the doom gathering like storm clouds.

Telemachus, in the days leading up to it, was a changed man. The melancholy that often clung to him was replaced by a grim determination. His glances towards you were fraught with a new, desperate tenderness, a silent apology for what he knew was coming, a plea for an understanding he couldn’t voice. You tried to catch his eye, to seek reassurance, but he was a whirlwind of secret preparations, his jaw set, his mind clearly on a task of monumental, terrifying importance.

The return of Odysseus, when it finally happened, was not the grand, heroic entrance you might have read about in songs. It was a calculated, brutal reclaiming. The beggar threw off his disguise, and suddenly, the King of Ithaca stood revealed, arrow notched, his eyes blazing with a righteous fury that had simmered for twenty long years.

The great hall, moments before a cacophony of drunken shouts and jeers, erupted into chaos. The locked doors, the hidden weapons, the swift, deadly precision of Odysseus and Telemachus, aided by their few loyal retainers – it was a slaughter.

You were in a smaller chamber off the main hall, attempting to mend a tapestry, your fingers fumbling, your senses already on edge from the palpable tension. When the first screams ripped through the air, your blood ran cold. It wasn't the sound of a drunken brawl; it was the sound of death.

Panic seized you. Your first instinct, ingrained despite everything, was for Antinous. He was your brother. But another, equally powerful terror gripped you – for Telemachus. The boy you had come to love was in the heart of that maelstrom, dispensing death, becoming a warrior before your very eyes.

You crept to the doorway, peering through a crack. The scene was nightmarish. Odysseus, a figure of almost divine retribution, moved with lethal grace. And Telemachus… he fought with a ferocity that was both terrifying and heartbreaking. He was no longer the gentle soul who debated philosophy with you in the library or shared hesitant smiles in the courtyard. This was a prince claiming his due, his hands stained with the blood of those who had wronged his house.

Then you saw Antinous. He wasn’t laughing now. He was cornered, his usual arrogance replaced by a snarl of disbelief and fury as Odysseus confronted him.

“You cur!” Odysseus’s voice boomed, rich with condemnation. “You thought my house was yours for the taking? My wife for the wooing? My son for the slighting?”

Antinous, ever defiant, spat. “We should have killed the whelp years ago!” He lunged, but Odysseus was faster, more experienced. The arrow struck true. Your brother crumpled, a choked cry escaping his lips, his lifeblood staining the well-trodden floor of the hall he had so arrogantly dominated.

A strangled sob tore from your throat. Regardless of his cruelty, his vices, the bond of blood, the shared memories of childhood, however distant, screamed within you. Your legs gave way, and you sank to the floor, tremors wracking your body. The sounds of the continued fighting, the shouts, the clang of bronze, the screams of the dying, faded into a horrifying backdrop to the singular, stark image of your brother’s lifeless form.

When the last suitor had fallen, and a grim, exhausted silence settled over the blood-soaked hall, Telemachus, splattered with gore but standing tall beside his father, finally saw you. His eyes, still blazing with the battle-light, met yours. The fire in them flickered, then dimmed, replaced by an agony that mirrored your own.

He took a step towards you, then hesitated, his gaze falling to your tear-streaked face, then to the body of Antinous nearby. The chasm that had always threatened your fragile connection had just become a blood-filled abyss.

"Y/N," he breathed, his voice hoarse.

You couldn't speak. You could only look at him, at the blood on his hands – the blood of men, yes, but indirectly, the blood that tied you to this place, to this tragedy.

Odysseus, his gaze sweeping the hall, assessing every detail, noticed the exchange. He saw your crumpled form, your evident distress, and his son’s torn expression. His eyes, wise and weary, narrowed.

“Who is this girl, Telemachus?” Odysseus asked, his voice devoid of its earlier fury, now holding a measured, kingly tone.

“She is… Y/N, Father,” Telemachus said, his voice strained. “She is Antinous’s sister.”

A heavy silence descended. The few loyal servants who had aided in the fight looked at you with suspicion. To them, you were the kin of their chief tormentor.

“Antinous’s sister,” Odysseus repeated, his expression unreadable. He had just orchestrated the death of every man who had sought to usurp him, including the man whose blood you shared. What mercy could you expect?

“Father,” Telemachus interjected quickly, stepping forward, placing himself subtly between you and Odysseus’s scrutiny. “She is not like him. She… she spoke out against Antinous’s treatment of me, of Mother. She showed kindness. She is not our enemy.”

Odysseus looked from his son’s earnest, pleading face to your terrified one. He had heard of your quiet presence, your difference from your boorish brother, even in the disjointed tales brought to him in his disguise. Penelope, too, when he had revealed himself to her in secret, had mentioned you, a flicker of sympathy in her own grief-worn eyes.

“The sins of the brother do not always stain the sister,” Odysseus mused, more to himself than to anyone else. He was a man of strategy, of judging character. He saw not a threat in your tear-filled eyes, but profound grief and perhaps, a reflection of the innocence lost in his own son. “But her presence here is… complicated.”

The days that followed were a blur of grim necessities. The bodies were removed, the hall cleansed, order painstakingly restored. You were confined to your chambers, not as a prisoner, but not free either. A guest whose welcome had been drowned in blood. Your grief for Antinous was a raw, aching wound, complicated by your feelings for Telemachus and the horror of what you had witnessed.

Telemachus came to you a few days later. He was clean, dressed in the simple tunic of a prince at peace, but his eyes were haunted. The shadow of the slaughter still clung to him.

“Y/N,” he said softly, standing awkwardly in your room. The easy camaraderie you had shared felt like a distant dream.

“He was my brother,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of unbearable fact.

“I know,” Telemachus said, his voice filled with a pain that told you he understood, as much as he could. “And I am sorry for your pain. Truly. But Y/N… they would have killed us. They would have destroyed everything my father built, everything I am sworn to protect. There was no other way.”

“I understand the necessity,” you managed, looking at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “But understanding doesn’t lessen the horror, or the loss.” You finally looked up at him. “What becomes of me, Telemachus? I am the sister of the man your father killed, the man who would have killed you. Where do I fit in this new Ithaca, built on the graves of my kin?”

His face contorted with sorrow. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the honesty raw and painful. “My father… he is a just man, but he is also a king who has reclaimed his throne through bloodshed. He sees you, I think. He sees that you are not Antinous. But…”

“But the blood remains,” you finished for him.

He nodded, his eyes pleading for you to understand. “I have spoken to him. To my mother. They know of… us. Of what was beginning between us.”

A flicker of hope, fragile and faint, stirred within you. “And?”

“My mother… she has a gentle heart. She remembers your quiet courtesies. My father… he listens. He is considering.” Telemachus took a hesitant step closer. “Y/N, I will not abandon you. I cannot. What I felt for you, what I *feel* for you… that hasn’t been washed away by the blood. If anything, it’s become clearer, more precious, in the face of all this.”

He reached for your hand, and this time, you didn’t pull away. His touch was a small anchor in the turbulent sea of your emotions.

“But can it survive this?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “Can *we* survive this? Your people will see me as the sister of their enemy. My own grief… it is a shadow between us.”

“Shadows can fade when light is brought to bear,” Telemachus said, his grip tightening gently. “It will not be easy. There will be distrust, perhaps resentment from some. And your sorrow… I will not ask you to forget your brother, only to see that my actions, my father’s actions, were born of a desperate need to reclaim what was stolen, to bring justice.”

The future stretched before you, uncertain and daunting. The sweetness of your burgeoning love was now deeply intertwined with the bitterness of loss and the grim reality of their violent reunion. There would be no simple path forward. Forgiveness, if it came, would have to be earned, on both sides. Understanding would be a slow, painful process.

Odysseus, in his wisdom, eventually decreed that you were free to leave Ithaca, to return to your father’s house with a suitable escort and dowry, should you choose it. Or, you could remain, under his protection, though your position would always be delicate.

The choice was yours. And as Telemachus stood before you, his heart in his eyes, offering not an easy solution but a steadfast promise to face the complexities with you, you knew that the love that had blossomed in the enemy’s shadow was too strong to relinquish easily. It would be a love story etched with sadness, forever marked by the tragedy that brought them together and tore their worlds apart. But perhaps, just perhaps, it could also be a testament to the resilience of the human heart, a love that chose to build a future even amidst the ruins of the past. The path would be long, and the sweetness forever tinged with sorrow, but the hope, however fragile, remained.

[dxrlingluv]

idk i just imagine funny scenario w antinous

okay imagine him w fem s/o who's like so oblivious and doesn't get when ppl trying to hit on her

antinous getting jealous after seeing her talking with someone or one of the suitors and gets moody all day and she's not understanding why he's mad but she's trying to make him feel better and asking him like

"are you mad at me?" "i am not mad at you.." "but you look and sound mad-" "I've said I'm not mad at you." "but-" "I SWEAR TO HADES IF YOU ASK ONE MORE TIME!" "..." "so you are mad at me ;("

Are you mad at me?

A/N : Nothing much to say but I had fun writing him! Antinous art is from duvetbox.

WARNING : Antinous, Female requested reader, Antinous x Reader.

Word Count : 612

Antinous was having a week. Being one of Penelope's many suitors was a special kind of torture. Especially when you, the object of his affections, seemed utterly oblivious to the subtle power plays and peacocking that filled the palace halls.

Today's source of Antinous' inner turmoil? You were showing off your juggling skills with apples pilfered from the royal kitchens. And your audience? Eurymachus, the buffoon of the suitor crowd, who was laughing so hard he nearly choked on a stray apple core.

Antinous scowled from his corner, meticulously polishing his sword. He'd tried the broodingly handsome stare. He'd attempted the casually impressive flexing of his biceps while "stretching." He'd even offered you the choicest cut of roasted boar at dinner last night, only for you to thank him sweetly and then share it with Telemachus' dog.

Now, juggling apples with Eurymachus. It was almost a personal affront.

Finally, an apple bounced off Eurymachus' head, and your juggling act dissolved into giggles. You turned, your eyes landing on Antinous.

"Oh, hey Antinous!" you called out cheerfully. "Did you see that one? I almost had five!"

Antinous grunted, trying to maintain his air of aloof disinterest. "Indeed."

You bounded over to him, missing the way Eurymachus' gaze followed you. "You're awfully quiet today. Usually, you're... well, you're usually very opinionated about the quality of the wine or the way Melantho braids her hair."

"Perhaps I am simply lost in profound thought," Antinous said stiffly.

You peered at him, your brow furrowed. "About what? The best way to win Penelope's hand?"

He nearly choked on his own spit. "What? No! Absolutely not!"

"Oh," you said, then brightened. "Are you thinking about the new fishing nets? Philoetius was saying they're a revolutionary design!"

Antinous stared at you. Fishing nets? Was this woman for real?

"Are you... mad at me?" you asked, reaching out to touch his forehead.

He flinched slightly at the contact. "No."

"You sound mad at me," you observed, your hand now resting on his arm.

"I don't," Antinous replied, his voice a low growl.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" you pressed, your eyes searching his.

"Not." He ground out.

"Yes, you are," you insisted, a small smile playing on your lips.

"FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS IF YOU REPEAT THAT AGAIN I WILL-" Antinous bellowed, causing several nearby suitors to jump.

You blinked, your smile widening. "So you ARE mad at me!"

Antinous stared, speechless. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "..."

"...Are you?" you prompted, your expression a picture of innocent curiosity.

Antinous' shoulders slumped in defeat. He massaged his temples. This was going nowhere. He was surrounded by scheming, self-serving men, engaged in a constant battle of one-upmanship for a queen's hand, and the one person who truly captured his attention was blissfully unaware of the green-eyed monster currently residing in his chest.

You patted his arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, Antinous. Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be alright. Maybe you just need a nap? You get awfully grumpy when you don't get enough sleep."

He just groaned and buried his face in his hands. Being a suitor was bad enough. Being a jealous suitor whose affections were met with such charming obliviousness was a special kind of hell. And yet... the way your smile crinkled the corners of your eyes... the way you genuinely seemed concerned...

He peeked through his fingers as you skipped off to find more apples, leaving a bewildered Eurymachus in your wake. Maybe, just maybe, this oblivious charm of yours was more potent than any calculated flirtation. He just had to figure out how to navigate it without losing his mind (or his very limited patience lol).

[dxrlingluv]

Bound for Eternity

A/N : Imagine if someone draws my writings to life. Imagine……… Anyway! I had to redo this like 7 times because it keeps on saying error whenever I put it to drafts. Hermes art belongs to Zieru from YT! Heart divider credits to @cafekitsune. Thank you for requesting this, Nisha!

WARNING : Fem!Princess!Reader, angst with happy ending(?), friends to ???, bad father.

Word count : 2.5k

Princess Y/N was a vision, a beacon of strength and grace that shone even brighter under the weight of her royal duties. Hermes had seen many beautiful beings in his travels across realms, goddesses and nymphs whose allure was undeniable. But Y/N was different.

She possessed a fire that captivated him, a fierce determination that resonated with his own restless spirit. He was drawn to her not just by her beauty, but by the quiet power she held, the way she carried the weight of her kingdom with such dignity.

He pursued her, in his own chaotic yet charming way. He'd appear in her court with gifts – a shimmering scarf woven from captured starlight, a melody plucked from the lyre of Apollo himself – each offering a testament to his growing infatuation. He'd try to make her laugh with his witty banter, to steal a moment of her time amidst her endless responsibilities.

But Y/N was a princess, bound by duty. Her kingdom was a prize, and suitors came from afar, their intentions as polished as their armor. Powerful dukes with vast lands, charming princes with promises of alliances, and wealthy merchants with coffers overflowing with gold – they all sought her hand, their eyes fixed on the power she represented.

The pressure mounted, culminating in a grand ball where Y/N was expected to choose a husband. It was a gilded cage, a beautiful spectacle masking a heartbreaking decision. Hermes watched from the periphery, his usual confidence replaced by a gnawing anxiety. He saw the strain in Y/N's eyes, the forced smiles, the way her spirit seemed to dim under the weight of expectation.

He tried to express his feelings, weaving them into songs he performed at court, hoping she would hear the truth in the lyrics, a truth veiled in metaphor and melody. But Y/N, ever gracious, ever composed, would simply offer a polite smile, her gaze filled with a distant sadness that mirrored his own.

The night of the ball was a cruel spectacle. Y/N, adorned in a gown that shimmered like captured moonlight, moved through the throng of suitors like a marionette, her every step dictated by duty. Hermes, disguised as a humble bard, watched her from the shadows, his heart ached with a love that felt both boundless and utterly hopeless.

He saw the way the suitors looked at her, not with love, but with calculation, their eyes gleaming with ambition, and hearts filled with desire that makes his skin crawl from anger. He heard their empty promises, their boasts of power and wealth, and a wave of despair washed over him. He was a god, capable of moving between worlds, of bending time to his will, yet he was powerless to change her fate.

As the night wore on, the gilded cage tightened around Y/N. The King, her father, beamed with pride as powerful alliances were offered, vast dowries discussed. Y/N felt like a prize, a commodity to be traded, her own desires and dreams irrelevant.

In a stolen moment, she found herself in a quiet corner of the ballroom, the music and laughter a distant hum. Hermes, abandoning his disguise, appeared before her, his face etched with a pain that mirrored her own.

"Y/N," he said, his voice raw with emotion, "I can't bear to watch this. To see you forced into a loveless marriage, your spirit crushed under the weight of duty..."

Y/N turned to him, her eyes filled with a sadness that pierced him to the core. "What choice do I have, Hermes?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the music. "My kingdom needs this alliance. My people need the security these marriages offer."

"But what about you, Y/N?" Hermes pleaded, his voice cracking with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. "What about your happiness? Your heart?"

He stepped closer, his gaze searching hers, his hand reaching out to gently cup her cheek. "Every time I see you smile at those suitors, a smile that doesn't reach your eyes, it tears me apart. Every time I hear them speak of you as if you were a possession, a prize to be won, it feels like a knife twisting in my gut. I know I'm a god, and you're a princess, and there are worlds between us, but Y/N, I love you. More than words can say."

The music of the grand ball swirled around them, a cruel counterpoint to the turmoil in their hearts. Y/N, trapped between the gilded cage of her duty and the wild freedom offered by Hermes's love, felt as though she were being torn in two. His words, filled with such raw emotion, such desperate longing, resonated with a part of her soul she had long since buried beneath layers of royal expectation.

He had spoken of love, of a life beyond the confines of her kingdom, a life where she could choose her own destiny. And a part of her, the deepest, most secret part, yearned for that life with an intensity that frightened her. To be free, to be with Hermes... it was a dream more intoxicating than any ambrosia.

But the weight of her crown, the fate of her people, pressed down on her with an unyielding force. She was not just a princess; she was the linchpin of her kingdom's stability, the key to alliances that would ensure its prosperity and safety. To abandon her duty, to choose her own happiness over the well-being of her people... it was unthinkable.

Tears streamed down her face, a torrent of grief and despair. She reached out to touch Hermes, her fingers trembling as they brushed against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the strength of his jaw. It was a touch of longing, a silent farewell.

"No, Hermes," she whispered, her voice choked with sobs. "I can't. You ask the impossible of me. I cannot simply abandon my people, my kingdom. I am bound by oaths, by responsibilities that I cannot break."

Her words were like shards of ice, each one piercing Hermes's heart. He stared at her, his expression a mixture of disbelief and agony. "But Y/N..." he pleaded, his voice hoarse with pain. "There has to be another way. We can find a solution, a compromise..."

Y/N shook her head, her tears falling faster now. "There is no other way," she said, her voice firm, though her heart was shattering with every word. "My duty is clear. My path is set. And you... you must leave, Hermes. You must go away. Forever."

The words hung in the air between them, a death sentence to their love. Y/N felt as though she had just ripped her own heart out of her chest and offered it to him, bleeding and broken. The pain of saying those words, of condemning herself to a loveless future, was a physical ache, a wound that felt deeper and more irreparable than any mortal injury.

Hermes recoiled as if struck. His face, moments before filled with such desperate hope, now crumpled with a grief that mirrored her own. His eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were now dark pools of despair. He stared at her, searching for any flicker of hope, any sign that she didn't mean what she said. But all he saw was the unwavering resolve in her gaze, the heartbreaking certainty of her decision.

"Forever?" he whispered, the word a broken plea. "You want me to... to forget you? To erase you from my heart?"

Y/N turned away, unable to bear the pain in his eyes. "It's for the best," she said, her voice muffled by her tears. "For both of us. You are a god, Hermes. Your life stretches out before you, an eternity of possibilities. I am a mortal, bound to this kingdom, to this duty. We cannot be together. It was a beautiful dream, but it was just that... a dream."

She felt as though she were dying inside, withering away with every syllable. To tell Hermes, the god who had shown her such tenderness and passion, to leave her life forever, was an act of self-inflicted cruelty. But she believed, with a chilling certainty, that it was the only way. The only way to protect her kingdom, the only way to fulfill her duty, the only way to prevent a love that could never be from tearing both their worlds apart.

Hermes stood there for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with unspoken grief. He looked at Y/N, at the princess he loved more than words could say, and saw not the radiant beauty that had first captivated him, but a woman trapped, a prisoner of her own responsibilities. And he knew, with a heart-wrenching certainty, that he had lost her.

Without a word, he turned and vanished. Not with his usual flash of speed and light, but slowly, painfully, as if each step tore a piece of his soul away. He left Y/N alone in the shadows, the echoes of her cruel words ringing in her ears, the weight of her decision crushing her spirit.

Y/N stood there for what felt like an eternity, the tears streaming down her face blurring her vision. She wanted to call him back, to beg him to stay, to tell him that she didn't mean it. But the words remained trapped in her throat, choked by duty and despair. She had sacrificed her happiness, her heart's desire, for the sake of her kingdom, and the price was a loneliness that stretched out before her like an endless desert.

Time passed, each day a slow, agonizing march for both Hermes and Y/N.

Hermes, despite his divine nature, found himself unable to simply move on. The memory of Y/N's tear-streaked face, the echo of her heartbreaking words, haunted him. He wandered through Olympus with a heavy heart, his usual energy and playful spirit dimmed. He neglected his duties, his laughter was absent from the halls, and even the other gods noticed the change in him. He was a shadow of his former self, a god in mourning for a love he believed he had lost forever.

Y/N, on the other hand, was living a life that was a beautiful lie. She fulfilled her royal duties with grace and composure, attended to her people's needs, and even smiled at her suitors. But inside, she was withering. The vibrant princess who had once captivated Hermes was now a pale reflection, her laughter forced, her eyes filled with a perpetual sadness. She had made her choice, the "right" choice, but it had cost her everything.

The kingdom prospered under her rule, alliances were forged, and peace reigned. But Y/N found no joy in her achievements. Every success was a reminder of what she had sacrificed. She would often find herself in the quiet corners of the palace, gazing at the stars, wondering if Hermes was looking at the same stars, if he ever thought of her.

One evening, as Y/N stood on her balcony, the cool night air caressing her face, a familiar melody drifted towards her. It was a song Hermes used to sing to her, a song of longing and devotion, a song that spoke of a love that transcended worlds.

Her heart leaped with a desperate hope. Could it be? Was he here?

Following the sound, she found herself in the royal gardens, bathed in the soft glow of the moon. And there he was, Hermes, standing beneath the ancient olive tree, his lyre in his hands, his face filled with a mixture of sadness and a fierce determination.

Y/N rushed towards him, her heart pounding in her chest. "Hermes!" she cried, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy.

Hermes lowered his lyre, his eyes widening as he saw her. He looked different. Still achingly handsome, but there was a depth to his gaze now, a maturity that had been forged in sorrow.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "You... you came."

"You came back," Y/N corrected, her tears flowing freely now, but tears of happiness. "I thought I would never see you again. I thought I had lost you forever."

Hermes stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup her face. "I could never stay away," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I tried, Y/N. I tried to forget you, to move on. But you are in my heart, in my soul. I belong with you."

Y/N threw herself into his arms, holding him tight, burying her face in his chest. "Oh, Hermes," she sobbed, "I've missed you so much. Every day has been an eternity without you. I was wrong. I was so wrong to let you go."

Hermes held her close, stroking her hair, his own tears mingling with hers. "I know," he murmured. "I know the burden you carry, the weight of your duty. But Y/N, you don't have to carry it alone. And you don't have to sacrifice your happiness for the sake of your kingdom."

He pulled away slightly, his gaze searching hers. "I've been talking to the other gods," he said, a hint of his old mischievous spark returning to his eyes. "And I've been doing some... negotiating."

Y/N looked at him, her expression a mixture of confusion and hope. "Negotiating?"

Hermes grinned, a genuine, heartfelt grin that lit up his face. "I've found a way, Y/N. A way for you to be both a princess and to be with me. It won't be easy, and it will require some... changes. But it's possible, thanks to my father."

He explained his plan, a daring, audacious plan that involved a complex web of alliances, a renegotiation of ancient pacts, and a little bit of divine intervention. He had convinced the other gods that true happiness, true love, was worth fighting for, even if it meant bending the rules a little.

Y/N listened, her eyes widening with each revelation. It was a plan that defied tradition, that challenged the very foundations of her world. But it was also a plan that offered her everything she had ever dreamed of: the chance to rule her kingdom with wisdom and compassion, and the chance to be with the man she loved.

[dxrlingluv]

Not me, but Her.

A/N : I have been feeling very sad again, so I decided to let it out with this one-shot. Telemachus art is from Ximena.

WARNING : Angst with no comfort, un-requited love. GN!Reader

Word Count : 1.6k

The torchlight in Odysseus's grand palace didn't just cast shadows; it painted them onto your very soul, each flicker a reminder of the silent, unlit corners of your devotion. You were Y/N, a servant, yes, but your heart had long forgotten its station when it came to Telemachus. He was the pulse of your world, the silent prayer on your lips, and you, you were the dust mote dancing in the beam of his sun, mostly unseen, entirely inconsequential.

The worry for him was a constant, physical ache in your chest, a tightening band around your ribs. The suitors' brazen revelry was a sacrilege, and Telemachus bore its weight with a young man's forced stoicism, a sight that tore at you daily. Offering comfort felt less like a duty and more like a desperate need of your own – a need to alleviate not just his pain, but the echo of it that resonated so sharply within you.

Each attempt to reach him, to offer even the smallest solace, became a small death.

There was the morning you'd found him on the balconies, a lone silhouette against the pre-dawn gloom, the weight of the world etched into his young shoulders. You had dared to hope that a carefully prepared tray – warm honeyed bread that perfumed your hands as you carried it, figs bursting with sweetness, milk still bearing the warmth of the goat – might coax a flicker of life back into his eyes. You'd approached his father's study, each footstep a hesitant prayer.

"My lord Telemachus," your voice was a breath, afraid to break the fragile morning air. "You barely ate. I thought... I hoped this might please you."

He'd looked up, his eyes like ancient stones, holding old sorrows. "Ah, Y/N." A pause, just long enough for your hope to inflate, before it was pricked. "Food. Yes. Thank you." He waved a hand, a gesture of such profound dismissal it felt like a physical blow. "Just leave it. Over there. Anywhere." His gaze was already sinking back into the abyss of his scrolls.

"Shall I pour the milk, my lord?" you'd whispered, a desperate, foolish plea for one more second of his notice, one sign that you were more than the hands that served.

"No. Later." The word was a door slammed shut. "I have matters of true import to attend to."

True import. And you, with your tray of carefully chosen comforts, were not among them. You'd retreated, the scent of the honey bread suddenly cloying, the figs an obscene splash of color in a grey world. The food would grow cold, a monument to your futile care, and the hollowness inside you would grow a little larger, a little colder.

Then came the day the merchants spoke of Pylos. News of his father, a kind word from King Nestor – it felt like a divine offering, a spark you could carry to him. You'd found him in the stables, his hands wrestling with stiff leather, his face a mask of frustration that mirrored the turmoil within the palace.

"My lord," you'd rushed the words out, your heart pounding like a trapped bird. "News from Pylos! King Nestor... he speaks with great fondness of your father!"

For an instant, a breathtaking instant, his eyes had cleared. You saw the boy he once was, the son who yearned. And then the shutters slammed down. "Old news, Y/N," he'd said, his voice devoid of inflection, each word a careful measure of distance. "Kind words butter no parsnips, nor do they bring a ship home. They are whispers for the hopeful, and hope is a luxury I cannot currently afford." He'd turned away, leaving you standing amidst the scent of horses and old leather, your precious news shriveling into dust. *A luxury I cannot afford.* And your attempts to offer it felt like an ignorant extravagance he had no patience for. "Forgive me," you'd choked out, the words tasting like ash.

These were not isolated incidents. They were the beads of a rosary of rejection, each one counted in the quiet despair of your heart. Each time you extended a hand, you were implicitly begging: See me. Let me share this. Let me ease your burden, just for a moment. And each time, he gently, unknowingly, pushed that hand away.

So, when that sweltering afternoon arrived, the air thick enough to drown in, and you found him by the fig tree, the discarded bow a symbol of his dejection, your approach was heavy with the weight of all those prior failures. Your offering of water, your suggestion of archery practice, was more than a servant's duty; it was a quiet, desperate plea from a heart that was perilously close to breaking.

"My lord Telemachus," you'd murmured, the waterskin cool against your trembling palms. "The sun is fierce. Water, perhaps? Or... the yew bow? I could retrieve arrows... I could simply stand guard, ensure your peace..." The words trailed off, thick with unspoken longing.

His eyes, when they met yours, were so distant, so unseeing. "Thank you, Y/N," he'd said, the politeness a thin veneer over a vast indifference. "But I am not in the mood. And I require nothing." Then, the words that would echo in the desolate chambers of your heart: "I prefer to be alone."

Alone. As if your presence was a burden, your attempts at companionship an intrusion. You'd nodded, a sharp, painful lump forming in your throat, making it impossible to speak. "As you wish, my lord." The waterskin felt like lead.

Days later, polishing the bronze fittings of the megaron doors, the scent of beeswax doing little to soothe the raw ache inside you, you heard it. Laughter. Not just any laughter. His laughter. Free, light, unburdened – a sound so foreign, so painfully beautiful, it drew you like a moth to a flame that would surely consume you.

Peering from the doorway, your heart constricting with a terrible premonition, you saw him. The same fig tree. The same practice ground. But Telemachus was transformed. The bow was alive in his hands, and Lyra, the new maid with sunshine in her hair and laughter in her eyes, was beside him.

He nocked an arrow, his movements an effortless grace you'd only dreamed of witnessing up close. It struck true. Lyra's applause was like a shower of sparks in the golden afternoon light. "A magnificent shot, my lord! Your father's own skill, reborn!"

Telemachus beamed. A genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes and lit him from within. "Perhaps a touch of it, Lyra," he'd chuckled, and the sound ripped through you. "Here, would you care to try?"

And so began the tableau of your deepest agony. He guided her stance, his hand brushing hers with an easy intimacy that made your own hands clench until your nails bit into your palms. "Like this, see?" his voice was honeyed, patient. "You have a good eye!" he'd praised when her arrow wobbled towards the target. He'd fetched her arrows himself, his earlier pronouncement of wanting solitude a cruel, forgotten joke. They'd shared her wineskin, heads bent together, their murmurs and laughter a symphony of shared joy that excluded you as surely as if a chasm had opened at your feet.

The water you offered, he'd refused. The practice you'd suggested, he'd shunned. The companionship you'd yearned to provide, he'd dismissed. And here he was, lavishing it all on Lyra, so freely, so willingly, so joyfully.

This wasn't just heartbreak. This was a revelation of your own utter insignificance. It was the agony of having begged, in your own quiet, desperate way, for the crumbs from his table, only to watch him lay out a feast for another, without their even having to ask. The world swam before your eyes, the polished bronze reflecting a distorted, tear-blurred face that you barely recognized as your own. A silent scream built in your chest, so powerful you feared it might tear you apart, yet no sound escaped your lips.

You stumbled back from the doorway, the vibrant scene searing itself onto your memory. Back in the dim corridor, you leaned against the cold stone, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle a sob that threatened to betray the hurricane raging within. The beeswax, forgotten, slipped from your numb fingers and clattered softly to the floor.

Later, when the lamps cast their deceptive warmth and the palace settled into its evening rhythms, you passed him. His step was light, the ghost of that easy smile still gracing his lips. He saw you. He nodded. "Good evening, Y/N."

The casual greeting, so utterly devoid of any awareness of the ruin he had wrought within you, was the final, unbearable straw. "My lord," you managed, the words a ragged whisper. You could not meet his eyes. To do so would be to let him see the raw, gaping wound, and that was a vulnerability you could not bear, a final shred of dignity you clung to. If you looked at him, the tears you were desperately blinking back would surely fall, and the sound of your heart shattering would echo in the sudden silence.

He walked on, oblivious, content. And you were left standing there, a statue of sorrow in the growing gloom. The heartbreak was a cold, heavy stone in the pit of your stomach, a chilling certainty that for all your devotion, all your quiet offerings, all your silent pleas, you were nothing. Less than nothing. You were the shadow he didn't see, the whisper he didn't hear.

This, you understood with a clarity that felt like shards of ice piercing your soul, was the true face of desolation. Not a grand, tragic ending, but the slow, inexorable realization of your own complete and utter unimportance to the one person who meant everything. And the tears finally came, silent and hot, tracing paths down your cheeks in the lonely, indifferent darkness.

[dxrlingluv]

So uhhhhhh

Apollo with siren!reader who's mad at him because he agreed to release Odysseus so easily?👉👈

(maybe the reader can grow human legs like ariel too, but too traumatized to swim in the ocean again for sometimes lol)

Not so sunny now, is it?

A/N : I have been feeling very sad lately so Angst for everyone. Apollo art is from Gigi.

WARNING : Fem!Siren!Reader, Angst with no comfort.

Word Count : 2.7k

The salt spray felt like a cruel mockery against your skin, each droplet a phantom echo of the waves that had once carried your sisters' laughter. Now, those waves only whispered of their screams, their terror, their silence. Odysseus. The name was a venomous serpent coiling in your heart, its fangs dripping with the ichor of your stolen family. He was miles away, trapped on Calypso's isle, yet his shadow stretched even here, to the gleaming halls of Olympus.

You had come seeking solace, a sliver of justice, your grief a tempestuous sea crashing against the shores of divine indifference. And Apollo... oh, Apollo. Your Apollo. His light had once been a beacon, a warmth that promised understanding, a shared passion, a love that transcended the boundaries of god and siren. You had clung to that hope, a drowning mariner to a piece of driftwood, because he was your driftwood, your guiding star.

Then came the moment that shattered everything.

Athena, her voice echoing with the authority of wisdom and the weight of a long-held alliance, stood before the assembled gods. Odysseus was not present, a prisoner of a different kind on a distant shore, but his fate was being debated nonetheless. Athena, ever his champion, spoke as if he were there, her words a shield around him. "He was trying to escape a terrible fate himself," she reasoned, her gaze sweeping across the divine council, finally settling with particular weight on Apollo. "They were trying to do him worse, all he did was reimburse them. Now they thread with caution first, to live another day and sing another verse."

Your breath hitched. Sing another verse? Your sisters, whose songs were the very essence of their souls, whose melodies could lure gods and mortals alike, would never sing another note. Their verses were brutally, irrevocably silenced. And this... this was their justice? To be a cautionary tale for a butcher, a man whose freedom was being argued for by a goddess while he remained leagues away, oblivious to the pain his actions had sown here?

Your gaze flew to Apollo, pleading, desperate. Your Apollo. Surely, he, the god of music, of poetry, of truth, would see the obscenity of it. Surely, his light would pierce through Athena's cold, calculated defense of her absent favorite. He knew your song. He knew them.

But then he spoke, his voice, usually so resonant with passion for you, now carrying a detached finality that chilled you to the bone. "If that's true," he declared, his eyes not meeting yours, seemingly looking past you to some distant horizon where Odysseus's plight perhaps seemed more pressing than the fresh graves of your kin, "release him." The words were a decree, a divine judgment that sealed your despair.

The words struck you with the force of a physical blow. The golden light of his presence seemed to dim, to curdle into something suffocating. Betrayal, cold and sharp, pierced through the already gaping wound of your grief. It was a pain so profound it stole your voice, the very tool of your power and your lament, the voice he claimed to cherish above all others.

He hadn't even looked at you. He hadn't seen the devastation in your eyes, or perhaps he had, and it simply hadn't mattered. Your sisters, your kin, your loss, your song... dismissed. Weighed against the convenience of a mortal hero—a hero not even present to account for his deeds—and found wanting. By him.

The world tilted. The marble floors of Olympus felt like sinking sand beneath your feet. You wanted to scream, to unleash a torrent of sound so potent it would crack the very foundations of this place, force them to acknowledge the sacrilege. But all that emerged was a choked gasp, a sound more broken than any dirge.

He had ordered Odysseus's release, a pardon granted in absentia. The man who had slaughtered your family, who had stolen their voices, would eventually walk free, his path smoothed by the gods themselves, orchestrated by Athena's unwavering advocacy and sealed by Apollo's decree. And Apollo, your Apollo, the sun god who you had foolishly, naively, believed loved you, might understand the sanctity of a song, had been the one to effectively unlock his chains from afar.

The warmth you once felt in his presence was gone, replaced by an icy desolation. His light no longer offered comfort; it burned, searing your already raw wounds, illuminating the depths of his betrayal. How could he, who cherished music above all, condone the silencing of such unique, irreplaceable songs? How could he, who had held you in his arms, who had whispered promises of forever, stand by as the murderer of your sisters was exonerated through such a detached, impersonal judgment?

The word "love" felt like ash in your mouth. Had any of it been real? Or were you just another fleeting amusement, your siren nature a curiosity, easily discarded when it became inconvenient, or when the pleas of a more favored goddess held more sway? You remembered the stolen moments, the secret trysts in hidden coves, the way his golden eyes had seemed to devour you whole. Lies? All lies?

You turned, stumbling away from the golden hall, from the gods, from him. The vibrant colors of Olympus seemed garish, offensive to your mourning. Each step was an agony, not just for the loss of your sisters, but for the death of a trust you hadn't realized you'd so completely given. You had given him your heart, your soul, your voice. And he had thrown it away.

A strange, aching magic had bloomed within you amidst the chaos of your grief – the ability to walk on land, your powerful tail traded for unsteady human legs. It was a cruel irony. You had gained a world, yet lost your own. The ocean, once your sanctuary, your home, the very blood in your veins, now felt like a vast, watery grave. The thought of submerging yourself, of feeling those currents that once cradled you, now brought only a fresh wave of terror, the phantom sensation of your sisters' final struggles. You were a creature of the deep, marooned on the shore, your true form a reminder of all you had lost, your new one a constant, aching vulnerability. And he knew what you sacrificed.

This new, fragile body only amplified the sting of Apollo's betrayal. When you were a siren, powerful and feared, his indifference might have been a slight. But now, as this... thing, this half-formed creature caught between two worlds and belonging to neither, his dismissal felt like a condemnation. He had not only abandoned your grief, but he had abandoned you, in this strange, terrifying new existence, an existence you embraced for him.

The sea called to you, its voice a mournful echo of your own silenced song. But you couldn't answer. The waves that once promised freedom now whispered of drowning, of loss, of the cold, dark depths where your sisters lay. You were trapped on the land, with legs that felt alien and a heart shattered by a god's careless words. His betrayal was not just a wound; it was a chain, binding you to this dry, desolate earth, far from the solace of your true home, a home you were now too terrified to reclaim. And the sun, his sun, beat down relentlessly, a constant, burning reminder of the light that had failed you.

The days bled into a monotonous cycle of grief and fear. You haunted the edges of the land, your new, clumsy legs a constant reminder of your stolen home and your profound loss. The sun, his sun, felt like a personal affront, each ray a golden barb picking at your wounds. You avoided places where his influence was strongest, where his worshipers gathered, but Olympus was vast, and the gods, infuriatingly, were everywhere.

It was on a desolate stretch of coastline, where jagged rocks wept into a turbulent sea – a sea you could no longer bear to touch – that you saw him. Apollo, radiant and serene, was observing the crash of waves against the shore, a lyre held loosely in his hand, as if contemplating a new melody. The sight of him, so peaceful while your world was a maelstrom of agony, ignited a fury so potent it momentarily eclipsed your fear. He looked as if he hadn't a care in the world.

This was it. The dam of your carefully contained anguish finally broke.

"You!" The word tore from your throat, raw and hoarse, no longer the melodious call of a siren, but the jagged cry of a wounded animal.

Apollo turned, his golden eyes, usually so warm when he looked at you, widening slightly in surprise before settling into a look of placid inquiry. "An unexpected encounter," he said, his voice as smooth and unmarred as polished marble. "What troubles you, little siren?"

Little siren? The casual endearment, once a spark of your affection, now felt like a diminutive insult, a dismissal of the enormity of your pain.

"What troubles me?" you echoed, a hysterical laugh bubbling in your chest. You stalked towards him, your steps uneven on the rocky terrain, each movement a testament to your unnatural state. "My sisters are dead! Slaughtered! Their songs silenced forever by the man you deemed fit to release!"

His brow furrowed, a flicker of something – annoyance? Pity? – crossing his perfect features. "The judgment concerning Odysseus was complex. Athena presented a compelling case. Justice, in the eyes of the gods, is not always simple vengeance."

"Justice?" you shrieked, the sound sharp enough to make the gulls startled into flight. "You call that justice? He butchered them! He ripped their voices from the world! And you, the god of music, of song, my Apollo, you nodded and agreed! Were their lives, their art, so worthless to you? Was I so worthless to you?" Your voice began to tremble, not just with rage, but with the burgeoning power that grief had twisted within you. The air around you grew heavy, charged with an unseen energy.

"Their loss is regrettable," Apollo stated, his tone still maddeningly calm, though a sliver of divine power now underscored his words, a subtle warning. "But mortal lives are fleeting. Odysseus acted to preserve his own, and the lives of his men. It was a harsh necessity of their world."

"A harsh necessity?" Tears streamed down your face, hot and furious. "They were not warriors, Apollo! They were singers! They were my family! Your family, if you had truly cared for me!" You gestured wildly towards the churning ocean. "That sea, the one you gaze at so placidly, it's their grave! And I... I can't even return to it! I walk this cursed land on legs I never asked for, terrified of the only home I've ever known, because of him! Because of you! Because I loved you!"

A low thrum began to emanate from you, the air vibrating with unsung, grief-stricken notes. It wasn't a song of luring, but of pure, unadulterated pain, a sound that could shatter stone and soul. "Did you ever care? Was any of it real? Or was I just another melody to you, easily forgotten when a more powerful voice, like Athena's, called your attention? Was I just a pretty song, a fleeting fancy, a siren to be used and discarded?"

Apollo's golden aura intensified, a defensive shimmer against the rising tide of your anguish. "You presume too much, Y/N. My decisions are not made on whims or fleeting affections. There are balances to maintain, cosmic scales you cannot comprehend. You were...more than that."

"Balances?" you spat, the word tasting like poison. "Is that what my sisters were? Weights on a scale? Easily tipped and discarded? Is that what I was? A balance? A cosmic thing?" The grief-fueled power surged. Small pebbles around your feet began to tremble. The waves behind Apollo seemed to recoil slightly, their roar momentarily subdued by the dissonant chord of your despair. "You speak of comprehension, but you comprehend nothing of this! This pain! This betrayal! You spoke of love, of forever! What was that? Another fleeting balance?"

You raised a trembling hand, pointing it at him. "You, who claims to cherish every note, every verse! You let their symphony be silenced and then sanctioned their murderer's freedom! You are a hypocrite, Apollo! A false god of a stolen art! A liar! You are my liar."

For the first time, a true fissure appeared in his divine composure. His eyes narrowed, and the golden light around him blazed, no longer just defensive, but radiating a dangerous heat. "Be wary of your words, Y/N. Grief does not grant you license to insult the divine. Especially not after everything we shared." His voice was no longer smooth; it held the rumble of distant thunder, the promise of a storm. The lyre in his hand seemed to hum with suppressed power.

"Or what?" you challenged, reckless in your agony. "Will you strike me down too? Add another silenced voice to your tally? Is that your divine justice? Is that how you repay love?"

The air crackled between you, your raw, untamed siren grief clashing against his controlled, immense divine power. It wasn't a physical fight, but a battle of wills, of sorrow against detachment, of mortal agony against immortal decree. His light pressed against you, heavy and suffocating, trying to quell the storm of your emotions. Your pain pushed back, a tidal wave of despair threatening to engulf everything.

But you knew, even as you raged, that this was a fight you couldn't win. He was a god. You were... broken. And he was the one who broke you.

The energy receded from you, leaving you gasping, trembling, and utterly spent. The brief, furious strength drained away, replaced by a desolation so profound it felt like the bottom of the coldest, darkest ocean trench.

Apollo's light softened, the harsh edges of his anger fading, replaced by a complex mix of emotions. He saw you standing there, broken and trembling, the raw grief etched on your face, and a pang of regret pierced through his divine composure. He realized, with a sickening lurch, the full weight of his words, the casual cruelty with which he had dismissed your pain.

He wanted to reach out to you, to pull you close and offer comfort, to whisper apologies and try to mend the shattered pieces of your heart. He wanted to explain, to justify, to make you understand the impossible choices he faced, the cosmic forces that bound him. He wanted to tell you that you were more than a song, more than a fleeting fancy, that his feelings for you were real, and deep, and enduring.

But pride, that ancient, unyielding pride that defined him as a god, held him captive. He couldn't bring himself to fully retract his words, to admit he was wrong, to show such vulnerability before a creature of the sea. He feared that any attempt at comfort would be misconstrued, that it would diminish his authority, his divine image. He was a god, and gods did not grovel, did not beg for forgiveness.

And so, he settled for a hollow, distant tone. "Your grief is a tempest, siren. But it blinds you. You are being irrational. There is nothing more to be said."

He turned his back on you, the golden radiance of his form a stark contrast to the gray desolation of the shore, and your heart. He began to walk away, leaving you there, on your unsteady legs, with the ghosts of your sisters and the fresh, gaping wound of his final, dismissive words. He left, and a part of him, the part that truly loved you, wept.

The fight was over. And you had lost more than you thought possible. He hadn't just let Odysseus go. He had, in that moment, let you go too. The chasm between you was no longer just a matter of differing perspectives; it was an unbridgeable abyss, carved by his indifference and your shattered heart. The angst wasn't just a feeling anymore; it was the very air you breathed, cold, sharp, and unending. The love you thought you had was dead, and he, in his pride, had killed it.

[dxrlingluv]

hihi, can I have Hermes x reader where reader outricks and suprises him half of the time(I have no idea how reader does that) and he's just there with shock pikachu face but at the same time with the heart eyes and he's DEFINITELY going to get the reader back next time

A Challenge

A/N : Eek! Now this is something. Heart dividers belongs to @cafekitsune ! Hermes art belongs to Zieru, from yt ! Thank you so much for requesting <3 Lemmie tell ya’ll a little secret. I don’t know where I’m going with this especially since there’s no major plot(like a series fic) so I literally just went like- “Yeah whatever, throw this, throw that… Yeah good enough.”

WARNING : Remember, I imagine Hermes’s design as Zieru’s but I don’t think I’ll ever be mentioning his appearance in my fics other than what he wears so this should be a warning! You are still free to imagine him as anything you desire. GN!Reader implied but no gender was mentioned. This is platonic, but if I were to make a part two, that’s where I will establish their rs.

The halls of Olympus were alive, as they always were, with a symphony of divine activity. Gods and goddesses rushed about their business, celestial music drifted through the divine halls, and the scent of ambrosia wafted from unseen kitchens. Among this vibrant chaos, you moved with an air of quiet confidence, a subtle smirk playing on your lips.

You were a divine being of considerable power and even greater cunning, a fact well-known – and perhaps slightly dreaded – by some of your more mischievous counterparts.

Especially Hermes.

The messenger god, with his lightning-fast speed and even faster wit, considered himself the trickster par excellence. He reveled in elaborate schemes, cunning deceptions, and the sheer thrill of outsmarting anyone who dared to challenge him. But you, with your own unique brand of subtle manipulation and unpredictable strategies, had become his favorite — and most frustrating — opponent.

It had started small, a playful game of one-upmanship that had quickly escalated into a full-blown divine rivalry. Hermes would devise an intricate plan to, say, "borrow" your prized artifact — perhaps a celestial object of immense power, only to find you several steps ahead, having replaced it with a remarkably convincing replica made of enchanted stardust.

Or you might "accidentally" redirect his deliveries, sending a shipment of ambrosia to the Underworld or switching the lyrics of his latest bardic composition with a series of increasingly absurd limericks.

The best part? You always managed to maintain an air of innocent detachment, a serene composure that drove Hermes absolutely wild. He'd be left sputtering in disbelief, his golden eyes wide with a mixture of shock, grudging admiration, and a healthy dose of competitive fire.

Today's challenge involved the theft of his Caduceus, the symbol of his authority. He'd been particularly smug about its security, boasting of layers of enchantments and a particularly nasty sphinx guarding its resting place.

You had, of course, taken that as a personal invitation.

The plan had been meticulously crafted, a delicate dance of misdirection and illusion. It involved a fake distress call, a strategically placed illusion of yourself, and a rather persuasive argument with the sphinx — who, it turned out, had a soft spot for riddles about particularly dense clouds.

Now, you stood before him, the Caduceus casually resting on your shoulder, its twin snakes hissing a greeting. Hermes, predictably, was a picture of stunned disbelief.

His jaw hung slightly open, his usually sparkling eyes wide with an expression that could only be described as a "shocked Pikachu face" if such a mortal concept could be applied to a god.

He stared at the Caduceus, then at you, then back at the Caduceus, his mind clearly struggling to process the sheer audacity of your actions.

"H-How..." he finally managed to stammer, his voice a bewildered croak. "But... the sphinx... the enchantments... I even put a self-replicating ward on it!"

You tilted your head, your expression the picture of innocent inquiry. "Oh, that? I found a loophole in the ward's temporal displacement matrix. And the sphinx was quite reasonable, once I offered her a riddle about the migratory patterns of thunderclouds."

Hermes blinked, his brain clearly overheating. A faint blush began to color his cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and something else... something that made his heart pound a little faster than usual.

"You... you outsmarted me," he said, the words slowly dawning on him. It was a statement, not a question, and it was laced with a strange combination of annoyance and awe.

You inclined your head in a gesture of acknowledgement. "It would appear so."

A slow grin spread across Hermes's face, replacing the stunned expression with something much more... mischievous. His eyes sparkled with renewed determination, and there was a definite glint of... dare we say, affection in them.

"Alright, Y/N," he said, his voice regaining its usual playful lilt, though with a slightly husky edge. "You win this round. But mark my words, this isn't over. I'm DEFINITELY going to get you back next time."

He took a step closer, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than strictly necessary. There was a warmth in his eyes, a spark of genuine admiration that transcended the usual competitive fire.

"In fact," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I've already got a few ideas brewing..."

He didn't elaborate, but the look on his face promised a challenge of epic proportions. And you, with a matching smirk, knew that you would be ready for him. After all, the thrill of the game was only half the fun. The other half was the undeniable pull you felt towards the infuriatingly charming, endlessly inventive, and surprisingly captivating messenger god.

“Alright, Hermes,” you challenged with a chuckle, “Let’s see what you have in mind.”

[dxrlingluv]

Hermes x Modern Reader pls! Gn is fine but can reader be like totally Gen Z coded?

If I’m stuck here with you

A/N : Oh well. Hermes getting the view of what the future would be like with the help of the Reader? Count me in. Hermes art is from Zieru!

WARNING : Mordern!Reader, Hermes doesn’t know how to get back to his own time. Generally Platonic.

Word Count : 2k

The first sign that your Tuesday was about to go completely off the rails wasn't the ominous rumble of thunder from a cloudless sky (you lived in a city, weird weather was basically a bi-weekly subscription). No, it was the fact that there was a dude. In your living room. A dude who definitely did not have a key, and whose fashion sense screamed "lost my way to a Renaissance Faire, but make it ✨divine✨."

You were mid-scroll on TikTok, a half-eaten bag of spicy chips balanced precariously on your chest, your brain pleasantly numb from a curated stream of capybara videos and questionable life hacks. One minute, it was a golden retriever struggling with a lime, the next, a faint shimmer of gold light near your IKEA Kallax shelf, and then him.

He was tall, lean, and exuded an aura of someone who probably thought "running errands" meant literally running. His chiton (you vaguely remembered the term from a history class you mostly slept through) was an impractical shade of white, edged with gold, and he had these little winged sandals. Like, actual wings. On his shoes. And a staff thingy – a caduceus, your brain helpfully supplied, probably from the same dusty mental archive as "chiton."

You blinked. The capybara video was still playing silently on your phone.

"Uh," you started, eloquently. "Did my landlord finally decide to hire a really extra singing telegram to tell me my rent's overdue? 'Cause my guy, the gold lamé is a choice, but the message could've been an email."

The man turned, his movements fluid and impossibly fast, like a hummingbird on an espresso bender. His eyes, a startling shade of gold, widened slightly as they took in your state: pajama pants with a questionable stain, an oversized band t-shirt, and the aforementioned chip situation.

"A... singing telegram?" he repeated, his voice smooth and melodic, like wind chimes but with more bass. He had a slight accent you couldn't quite place, but it definitely wasn't from around here. "I am Hermes, messenger of the gods, son of Zeus, herald of Olympus!" He struck a pose, staff held aloft. It would have been impressive if he wasn't standing next to your wilting houseplant, Bartholomew.

You slowly sat up, chips cascading onto your duvet. "Okay, werk. And I'm Y/N, purveyor of lukewarm takes and existential dread, child of... well, my parents. We good?" You paused. "Wait, Hermes? Like, the Hermes? Greek mythology Hermes? Bro, are you for real?"

He frowned, a slight furrow appearing between his perfectly sculpted brows. "You address a god, mortal. And yes, the Hermes. Though I confess, this realm is... unfamiliar. One moment, I was delivering a decree to Hades—a rather tedious affair, he’s been so broody since Persephone started her ‘self-care season’ topside—and the next, a blinding flash, and… this." He gestured vaguely at your collection of Funko Pops. "Is this a new wing of the Underworld? It's surprisingly... cluttered. And smells faintly of artificial cheese."

"Rude," you muttered, brushing chip dust off your shirt. "This is my humble abode. My crib. My legally-distinct-from-a-cardboard-box apartment. And you're telling me you, like, actually yeeted yourself from ancient Greece into my living room?"

Hermes tilted his head. "Yeeted?"

"Teleported. Poofed. Arrived unannounced like my Aunt Carol when she smells free food."

"Ah. Then yes, I suppose I 'yeeted'." A faint smile played on his lips, and you had to admit, even if he was completely delulu, the guy had charisma. Like, an unhealthy amount of it. The kind of rizz that could convince you to invest in beachfront property on Mars.

"No cap?" you pressed, narrowing your eyes.

"Have you not seen my cap, mortal?" Hermes said, looking genuinely confused while tapping his winged cap. “Though I have seen some... interesting headwear in my travels through the ages.”

"It means 'no lie,' my dude. For real?"

"For real," he confirmed, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I am as bewildered as you are, perhaps more so. This… technology." He gestured to your phone, which was now showing a makeup tutorial. "It glows. Does it contain an oracle?"

"Nah, fam," you said, picking up your phone. "It contains crippling social anxiety, cat videos, and the definitely not useless knowledge of humanity, mostly used for arguing with strangers. Same diff as an oracle, basically." You swiped away the tutorial. "So, you're a god. A literal, actual god. From the myths. Currently chilling in my less-than-mythical apartment."

Hermes nodded, his golden eyes scanning your room with a mixture of curiosity and faint disdain. "Precisely. And you, Y/N, are my first point of contact in this… vibrant, yet perplexing era."

"Vibrant is one word for it," you snorted. "So, what's the tea, Hermes? Why are you here? Did Zeus get lost on his way to another 'swan-related incident' and send you to find him?"

Hermes winced. "Father's… avian escapades are a subject best avoided. As for my presence, I believe it to be an accident. A magical mishap, perhaps. Or maybe Loki’s pranking me across pantheons again. That guy owes me big time."

You processed this. A god. In your apartment. Because of a magical oopsie. Your Tuesday was officially off the leash and running wild in a field of pure, unadulterated chaos. And honestly? Low-key, you were kind of living for it.

"Okay, so, Mr. Messenger God," you began, swinging your legs off the bed. "First things first: wardrobe. No offense, but the chiton and winged kicks are a bit… much for a trip to the bodega. You're gonna get so many weird looks. People will think you're doing some avant-garde performance art."

Hermes looked down at his attire. "Is it not… fashionable?"

"Buddy, it's iconic, it's a serve, it's giving 'legendary artifact chic.' But for blending in? Not so much. Unless you're trying to start a new trend, in which case, go off, king." You rummaged through your closet, which was a chaotic explosion of band tees, thrift store finds, and at least three hoodies you'd "borrowed" indefinitely. "Right, let's see. You look like a medium? Or are gods, like, universally sized?"

He watched, bemused, as you pulled out a pair of dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. "These… simple garments?"

"Trust the process," you said, handing them over. "The bathroom's over there. Try not to smite my rubber ducky, he's emotionally fragile."

While Hermes was wrestling with the concept of denim, you frantically tidied up, shoving stray socks under the couch and stacking dirty mugs in the sink. If a god was going to be your unexpected roommate, even temporarily, the least you could do was make the place look less like a goblin's nest.

He emerged a few minutes later, looking… surprisingly normal. The modern clothes fit him well, though he looked slightly uncomfortable, tugging at the hem of the t-shirt. The winged sandals were still on, though. Baby steps.

"Okay, not bad," you said, circling him. "The shoes are still a statement piece, but we can work on that. You clean up nice, Speedy Gonzales."

"Speedy Gonzales?"

"Never mind. Pop culture reference. You'll pick it up. Or not. It's fine." You grabbed your keys. "Right, mission one: acquire sustenance that isn't artificially cheese-flavored. And maybe figure out how to un-yeet you back to Olympus before Zeus starts blaming me for his missing messenger."

The trip to the local grocery store was an experience. Hermes was fascinated by everything. Automatic doors: "Sorcery!", the sheer variety of packaged foods: "So many choices! Do mortals truly consume these brightly colored squares?", and the self-checkout: “A mechanical servant that demands tribute! Astounding!". You had to physically restrain him from trying to "liberate" a pineapple he claimed was "too majestic to be confined."

"Dude, chill," you hissed, pulling him towards the cereal aisle. "You can't just 'liberate' produce. That's called shoplifting. And trust me, the mortals who run this place? Way scarier than Hades on a bad day when it comes to their five-finger discount policy."

He looked genuinely contrite. "My apologies. Old habits. On Olympus, if one desires a golden apple, one simply… acquires it."

"Yeah, well, here, acquiring gets you a talking-to from a guy named Kevin who peaked in high school and takes his job way too seriously. Now, do you want Froot Loops or existential dread in a box, aka Raisin Bran?"

Back in your apartment, Hermes watched, captivated, as you made instant ramen. "You boil water… with lightning trapped in a metal box?" he asked, peering at your electric kettle.

"It's called electricity, my divine dude. Kind of our version of Zeus's party trick, but less likely to incinerate you." You handed him a bowl. "Slurp carefully. It's hotter than Hephaestus's forge."

He took a tentative bite, his eyes widening. "Remarkable! Such complex flavors from a desiccated brick and powder!"

"That's the magic of MSG, baby."

As the day wore on, you found yourself in the bizarre position of explaining modern life to an ancient god. You showed him how to use your laptop: "This glowing tablet… it shows me the world! And so many cats!", introduced him to the concept of memes: "So, these are… illustrated jokes? Often self-deprecating? Mortals are a curious species.", and even tried to explain TikTok trends, which mostly resulted in him looking utterly bewildered but gamely attempting a few dance moves with a grace that was frankly unfair.

"Your 'vibes'," he said at one point, after you'd used the term for the fifth time, "are they a form of emotional aura?"

"Basically, yeah. Like, your vibe right now is 'ancient deity trying to understand a modern gremlin.' It's a whole mood."

He chuckled, a genuine, warm sound. "And your vibe, Y/N, is… surprisingly patient and amusingly irreverent."

You felt a weird warmth spread through your chest. "Hey, someone's gotta keep the gods humble, right? Can't have you all thinking you're the main characters all the time." Though, you had to admit, Hermes had some serious main character energy.

Later, as dusk settled, painting your small apartment in hues of orange and purple, a comfortable silence fell between you. Hermes was staring out the window, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"This world is… loud," he said softly. "And fast. And filled with so many fleeting things. Yet, there's a certain… tenacity to it. To your kind."

"We're stubborn little weirdos, that's for sure," you agreed, leaning against the doorframe. "We make a lot of noise, collect too much stuff, and spend way too much time looking at glowing rectangles. But, y'know, we try."

He turned to you, a soft smile on his lips. "You, Y/N, are more than just 'trying.' You navigate this chaos with a strange sort of… grace. And an unending supply of peculiar phrases."

"It's a gift," you said with a shrug, though your cheeks felt a little warm. "So, any closer to figuring out how to get you back to your regularly scheduled god-duties? Or are you stuck being my platonic, mythological roommate for the foreseeable future?"

Hermes sighed, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair (how did he do that?). "I confess, the way back eludes me. The energies here are… different. Scrambled. It's like trying to find a specific whisper in a hurricane." He looked at you, his golden eyes surprisingly earnest. "But, if I am to be… stranded, for a time… I cannot think of a more… entertainingly perplexing guide than you."

You grinned. "Aw, Hermes, you old softie. Don't worry, we'll figure it out. Or we'll just teach you how to play Mario Kart and order pizza. Either way, it's gonna be an adventure." You paused. "Just, uh, try not to accidentally smite anyone, okay? The paperwork would be a nightmare."

He laughed, the sound echoing pleasantly in your small living room. "I shall endeavor to restrain my divine impulses, [Y/N]. For now, at least."

Maybe having a god crash on your couch wasn't the worst thing that could happen on a Tuesday. It was definitely going to make your next "what I did this summer" story a lot more interesting. And who knew? Maybe you'd even get him to ditch the winged sandals eventually. Or, better yet, get a matching pair. That would be a lewk.

No cap.

[dxrlingluv]

I will come back, always

A/N : Reposted because I forgot to put tags, so for that, I will be posting another one-shot later! This was requested, but I forgot to take a screenshot of the ask, so I apologize. Hermes art is from Zieru.

WARNING : Slight angst if you squint really really really hard. GN!reader, protective!hermes.

Word Count : 1.8k

The air in the hidden meadow always tasted of sunlight and wild honey. It was a place tucked away from the world, a forgotten fold in the fabric of the Earth that mortals had long since erased from their maps and their memories. But you remembered. It was your sanctuary, your studio, your quiet kingdom. And, for the past few blissful months, it had become a secret shared with a god.

A blur of motion, a zip of displaced air that rustled the bluebells, and he was there. Hermes, the messenger of the gods, herald of Olympus, and patron of thieves, landed before you with the grace of a feather and the harried energy of a hornet trapped in a jar.

"I'm late, I'm sorry, I know," he said all in one breath, his winged sandals, the Talaria, giving a final, impatient flutter before settling. He ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair, his eyes, the color of a stormy sky, scanning your face with a mixture of adoration and anxiety. "Zeus had a sudden craving for ambrosia tarts from Hebe's personal kitchen and decided it was a matter of cosmic importance. Then Hera needed a message delivered to Iris that was so passive-aggressively coded it took me ten minutes just to decipher the proper intonation."

You couldn't help but smile, setting aside the charcoal pencil and sketchbook you'd been using to capture the dance of light on a spider's web. "Trouble in paradise?" you asked, your voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to his divine flurry.

"You have no idea," he sighed, but the tension in his shoulders instantly melted away as he sat down beside you on the picnic blanket you'd laid out. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your temple in a greeting that was both fleeting and electric. "The only paradise I'm interested in is right here." He looked at your sketchbook. "What masterpiece were you creating today?"

"Just trying to draw the impossible," you said, gesturing to the intricate, dew-kissed web.

"The impossible is my specialty," Hermes grinned, his charm as bright and effortless as the sun. He reached into a small, unassuming leather pouch at his hip—a bag that defied mortal physics—and pulled out a nectarine. It wasn't an ordinary fruit; it glowed with a faint, golden light, and its skin was so perfect it looked spun from sunset. "For you. Picked it myself from a tree on the sun-facing slopes of Mount Pelion. The nymphs there guard them jealously, but I'm very persuasive."

You took the offered fruit, its warmth seeping into your palm. This was your life now: quiet moments of art and solitude, punctuated by the sudden, dazzling arrival of a being who moved faster than thought and stole fruit from mythical guardians just to see you smile.

"Thank you," you said softly, taking a bite. The flavor was explosive, a cascade of sweetness and warmth that tasted of summer days and ancient magic. It was nothing like the pale, earthly fruits you were used to.

Hermes watched you, a genuine, unguarded softness in his gaze, as he whispered, "Anything for you." He leaned back on his elbows, the very picture of leisure, but you could see the way his eyes kept flicking towards the sky, the way one foot tapped a restless rhythm against the ground. He was meant to be somewhere else. A hundred somewhere elses. Delivering decrees, guiding souls, overseeing the endless, chaotic commerce of gods and men. Yet, he was here, with you. The weight of that choice was a constant, shimmering presence between you.

"Tell me about your day," he prompted, eager to anchor himself in your world. "Tell me something slow."

And so you did. You spoke of the stubborn goat you'd seen on the path to the meadow, of the melody a finch had been singing, of the way the clouds were shaped like a great, lumbering beast. He listened with an intensity that made you feel like your small, mortal stories were the most important messages in the entire cosmos. For him, in these stolen moments, they were. He would laugh, his voice a rich and melodic sound, and tell you a story in return—of a squabble between Ares and Aphrodite, or a prank he'd played on a pompous minor river god.

He was in the middle of describing how he'd convinced Demeter's disciples that turnips were the new fashionable accessory when he suddenly went rigid. His head snapped up, his playful expression vanishing, replaced by the sharp, focused alertness of a wild animal.

"What is it?" you whispered, your own heart beginning to beat faster.

"Shh," he commanded, his voice low and urgent. He placed a finger on your lips, his eyes locked on the northern horizon.

You heard it a moment later. A faint, impossibly beautiful sound drifting on the wind. It was music, the clear, resonant plucking of a lyre, a melody so perfect and pure it made the leaves on the trees tremble in reverence.

"Apollo," Hermes breathed, his name a curse. He was on his feet in an instant, pulling you up with him. "My ever-so-righteous, all-seeing, golden-boy of a brother. He's looking for me. Zeus must have sent him."

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to grip you, but Hermes's hand was firm in yours. His usual breezy confidence was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency. This was the other side of him—not just the charming god of wit and speed, but the cunning god of thieves, the one who knew how to hide in the shadows.

"He can't find you here," Hermes said, more to himself than to you. "He can't know about you. They wouldn't understand." He scanned the meadow, his mind working at divine speeds. "The waterfall. Come on!"

He tugged you towards the far end of the meadow, where a small, brisk stream tumbled over a rocky ledge into a deep, clear pool. Behind the curtain of cascading water was a shallow cave, slick with moss and smelling of damp earth and stone. He pushed you gently inside, the roar of the water instantly muting the world. He followed, pressing you back against the cool rock wall.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered, his body shielding yours. Through the shimmering sheet of water, the meadow was a distorted, wavering painting of green and gold. The lyre music grew louder, closer. It was so achingly beautiful it felt like a physical pressure, a demand for truth and revelation.

Apollo's voice, as golden as his music, echoed across the meadow. "Hermes! Brother! The All-Father grows impatient! Your duties await. Cease your aimless wandering and show yourself!"

You held your breath, your cheek pressed against the rough fabric of Hermes's chiton. You could feel the frantic thrum of his heart against your own. He was a god, powerful and immortal, but here, hiding in a damp cave, he seemed terrifyingly vulnerable.

"I know you delight in your games of concealment," Apollo's voice continued, closer now. He sounded amused, as if this were just another one of Hermes's childish pranks. "But a message of great import must be carried to the Underworld. A king has died. The shades grow restless at the banks of the Styx. It is no time for truancy."

A king had died. Souls were waiting. And Hermes was here, with you, hiding from his sacred duty behind a waterfall. The reality of it settled in your stomach like a cold stone.

Through the water, you saw a flash of brilliant gold as Apollo stepped into the meadow. Even distorted, his radiance was undeniable. He surveyed the clearing, his head tilted. "A peaceful place. Quaint. Not your usual style, brother. I expected to find you haggling in a mortal market or dicing with satyrs."

He took a few steps, his gaze sweeping the area. For a terrifying second, his eyes seemed to linger on the waterfall. You squeezed your eyes shut, certain you were discovered. Hermes's arm tightened around you, a silent promise of protection.

Then, with a sigh of divine boredom, Apollo turned away. "Very well. Have your fun. But the wrath of Zeus is not so easily placated as I. I shall tell him I could not find you."

The lyre music began again, slowly fading as he departed. For a long time, neither of you moved. You just stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, listening to the roar of the water and the fading echo of divine power.

Finally, Hermes let out a shaky breath and sagged against you. "That was... too close."

He pulled back, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. His eyes were dark with the aftermath of fear and a raw, fierce emotion that stole your breath.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.

You could only nod, your throat tight.

"I'm sorry," he said, his forehead resting against yours. "I never wanted to bring this danger to you. For them, a mortal..." He trailed off, but you understood. To the eternal, unchanging gods, your fleeting, fragile life was a curiosity, a plaything. They wouldn't understand why Hermes would risk so much for it.

"You're worth it," he whispered, as if reading your thoughts. "Risking Apollo's search, Zeus's anger... all of it. This time with you is the only thing that feels real anymore. The only thing that's truly mine."

The setting sun cast long shadows across the meadow, painting the water in front of you in hues of orange and deep purple. The danger had passed, but it had left something new in its wake: a profound understanding of what you meant to each other. This wasn't just a dalliance, a god's whim. It was a rebellion.

"You have to go," you said softly, your hand covering his on your cheek. "The king. The souls."

He closed his eyes, a flicker of his burden returning. "I know."

He didn't leave immediately. He leaned in and kissed you, a kiss that was nothing like his earlier, playful greeting. It was deep and desperate and full of the day's stolen joy and terror. It tasted of sun-warmed nectarines and cool, ancient stone. It was a promise and a goodbye, all at once.

When he pulled away, he reached down and plucked a single, impossibly small feather from the wing on his ankle. It shimmered with an iridescent light, catching the last rays of the sun.

"So you know I'll come back," he said, pressing it into your palm. "Always."

And then, with another whisper of displaced air, he was gone.

You were alone again in your quiet kingdom, the roar of the waterfall a constant companion. You stood there for a long time, the cool, magical feather a tangible weight in your hand. The meadow was silent, save for the crickets beginning their evening song. It was peaceful once more, but it was a different kind of peace now—one filled with the lingering warmth of his presence, the echo of his heart against yours, and the aching, hopeful certainty of his return.