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lauvesong · 1 month ago

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FIRST [1/?]

ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving only / mutual virginity / heavy fanservice / soft dominance ) word count: 6.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: y'all i don't know why but i've been SO embarrassed about this lil fic just sitting in my docs 😭😭 like i fully forgot i'm grown (20) and can post what i want??? even then i guess it's just the lil-nerd in me who just giggles/squirms when faced with my own smut 💀💀 but yeah this is a oneshot that started as a silly thought (aka virgin!telemachus with virgin!reader and then turned into a whole thing and now i'm in love with telemachus and maybe crying a little?? anyway. pls enjoy this soft, heated, reverent mess of a fic. (also someone come get Peisistratus for being a menace) 💀🩷✨✨ idk might do part 2 if i can get over this block 😭😭

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.

Laughter clanged like armor. Mugs slammed against wood. Someone was playing a lyre too fast, too off-key, but the crowd didn't care—they were drunk on peace, drunk on wine, drunk on finally.

And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.

He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.

So why couldn't he?

"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."

Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.

He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."

"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"

"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."

Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"

"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"

"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"

"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."

"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.

Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.

☆

The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—

"Hey." You flinched.

One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.

"You're up."

"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.

"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."

She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."

Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.

One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.

"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."

"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."

You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"

The girls exchanged a look.

"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."

You swallowed hard.

"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You followed the madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.

Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.

His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.

Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.

You took one step. Then another.

Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.

But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.

You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.

He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.

"...Me neither," he said quietly.

There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.

You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.

You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"

"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."

That made him pause.

He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."

You blinked.

The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."

He held your hand a second longer than he had to.

" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."

He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.

You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.

He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."

He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.

"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.

"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."

That confused you. "Back?"

"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."

You swallowed.

Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."

"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."

He blinked.

You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."

He was quiet.

You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."

When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."

Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"

"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."

"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."

"...Do you?"

His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.

He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."

Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.

You both smiled, small and unsure.

He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"

You nodded.

The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.

It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.

When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.

"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.

"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"

You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."

You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—

His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.

A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.

And gods, once he had it... he took it.

His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.

Your mind raced.

He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.

You barely remembered to breathe.

His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:

If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.

But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."

"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."

The words came in flashes.

You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.

But none of it came naturally.

Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.

You clutched his shoulders instead.

Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.

Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.

His eyes, though...they were the worst part.

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.

You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.

Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.

He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.

Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—

But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.

You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.

He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.

His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.

You swallowed. "Why...?"

He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.

"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."

You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."

It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.

He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.

The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.

Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—

Telemachus moved.

He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.

Not beneath you. But before you.

His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.

"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."

His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.

You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.

Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.

The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.

His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.

You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.

From how huge his hands felt.

The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.

Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.

You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.

"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.

It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.

You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.

He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.

"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.

His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.

The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

You didn't scream. You didn't cry.

You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.

Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.

He looked... wrecked.

His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.

He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.

Eventually, you found your voice.

"Should I... should I... help you?"

He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.

"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.

Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.

"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"

You nodded.

He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.

You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.

You let him.

He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

You whispered, "...You're still hard."

You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."

"I can—"

"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"

He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.

"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."

And so you did.

With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.

For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.

But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.

You could feel him.

Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.

You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"

His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?

But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."

Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.

"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."

You looked at him.

He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."

That made your cheeks burn.

You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.

You turned. "What?"

"I mean—" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You blinked.

He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."

And then he was gone.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

The madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."

You blinked. "What?"

"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."

Your lips parted. "Why?"

She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.

"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.

You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"

The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.

You chased the madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."

You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."

She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"

"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.

The madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."

You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"

She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.

"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Menelaus' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."

You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"

"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."

You stopped walking.

The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.

And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.

You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.

The return of King Odysseus.

And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—

"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.

But the madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.

You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.

You looked down at it again.

The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.

The madam didn't stop walking.

She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.

"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."

And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.

You looked back down at the parchment.

Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

He'd choose you again.

#this is amazing actually #i love this #this is how i like my nsfw / smut fics

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