I'm Odette, but you may call me Oddy. I'm a veterinary student pursuing my passion for animals, but I'm also deeply passionate about writing stories. This blog is where I show that part of my world, sharing my x reader (and maybe x OC) fanfics! Additional note, Iām going to focus on Epic: The Musical/Odyssey/Iliad characters on this blog, requests are always open!
DNI if you areā¦ a minor, a proshipper or anti-shipper (let's just respect boundaries), a bigot of any kind (racist, homophobic, transphobic, ableist, etc.), or if youāre here to judge or send hate.
summary: your boring, monotonous life is suddenly upturned as you find a lost god in your home. though like any other greek myth, it seemingly ends in tragedy, the gods were not built for the earth after all. watch as you bond with the greek god hermes, and how you overcome obstacles that are challenging for even the gods.
pairing: hermes x modern! gn! reader
cw: some thriller moments (the horror lover in me came out a little haha), angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending
note: I read @dxrlingluv 's modern reader x hermes (pt 1 & pt 2) and got hella inspired and wrote this in a day. So if you liked this, go check that out as well. fanart by @soomlyn (if I saw that man irl idk what i would do...)
wc: 6.7k (this was not on purpose)
Master List
The sky was melting into oranges and reds, the sun falling lower and lower past the horizon. You were on your way home, exhausted to the bone. The thought of respite, some t.v., and your fuzzy companion was the only thing keeping you going. Your shoulders relax as you pull up to your house, pulling the keys out and locking your car up as you exit. You shamble into your home, slotting the keys into the lock and opening the door. Finally. Home.Ā
Your brain is barely processing anything as you shrug off your jacket, throwing it in the same spot you always do. But then you heard something. Something strange. You pause, trying to listen further. It was a shuffling noise, barely there. You scan the living room, nothing seems too out of placeā¦except you donāt remember your blanket being thrown on the couch like that, nor did you remember that bowl being on the table.Ā
Were you just being paranoid? It couldāve been your cat that messed with your blanket, and perhaps you forgot to put the bowl away. But then there it was again, that shuffling noise, then a small clatter. Your heart is racing now, like itās about to burst from your ribcage. You try rationalizing it. Itās probably just your cat. What else could it be? You try to calm yourself.
āJinx?ā You call timidly, your nerves still on edge. Then, you see your little fuzzy friend run into the living room, her green eyes looking up at you with love and affection. You kneel down to her level as she trots up to you, rubbing her body against you any way she can. āHi love,ā You coo, scratching her cheeks and head in exactly the way she likes it. āWas that you making those noises?ā
Just as your heart finally settles, as your shoulders relax once more and you come to the conclusion that your cat was being sillyā¦you hear it. Wellā¦hear and see it.Ā
A man comes out, his strut bold and his head held high. He wore an ancient looking helmet that had wings where his ears were hidden. It rested on top of bronze curls that cascaded down his neck. Bright eyes fell onto your figure, and he wore a tunic type of clothing, something that seemed straight out of some history book and did not cover enough (not in the cold weather at least). And to top it all off, he wore sandals that wound up his calf, and wings by the ankle. You stared at him, blinked, and backed up towards your front door, ready to run for your life.Ā
āWaitāā The man who was on the other side of your room in one second, was directly in front of you the next. You gasped out loud, backing up and hitting the door. āLet me explaināā You could barely hear what he was saying, your heart was beating so erratically it was all you could hear. Your eyes darted all around, trying to find an escape, or even to create some space. You could barely comprehend the fact that he crossed multiple feet within seconds.Ā
āHow the hell did you get in my house!ā You shout, darting past a small gap the man left and creating space (but also getting farther from your best exit).Ā
āIā¦Iām not sure,ā The man replies, hands lifted up in a placating gesture. āI was trying to get to Mt. Olympus to deliver the final letter to Zeus, but something mustāve gone awry when I travelled between worlds.āĀ
You blink once, then twice, staring at the man dumbfoundedly. Was he really pretending to be Hermes? Did he really think you were that gullible and a fool? Of course you werenāt. This was a strange man, perhaps not mentally well, and your life was potentially in danger.
āYouāre claiming to be Hermesā¦ā You trail off, pulling your phone out and getting ready to dial the emergency number. āThe ancient Greek god that no oneās believed in for over a thousand years.āĀ
āAncient Greece?ā He questioned, eyebrows furrowed. āLast I checked it was still around.ā
āYeah,ā You nod. āBut that mythos was from ancient times. People donāt really believe in Zeus, Hermes, or that whole pantheon anymore.āĀ
It seems that you may have caused the man an existential crisis, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the information. So, you tried to placate him, and hopefully get him as far from your home as possible.Ā
āI mean, I really used to be into Greek mythology, itās cool, I get that,ā Your smile was strained. āBut those figures were just made to explain unknown phenomena, and to make sure kids listened to their parents.ā
āWhat year is it?ā He asked, eyes flitting across your living room, like it just clicked why your home was so strange compared to what he knew.Ā
ā2026,ā You answered, glancing down at your phone.Ā
āHowā¦ā He trailed off, looking shaken to his core. āHow have I managed to travel to such a time? Itā¦it shouldnāt be possible.āĀ
āHey,ā Now it is you raising your hands up in a placating manner, the roles having reversed. You can tell that he is being genuine, his confusion and fear real. āHow about we both relax, I can make some tea, or coffee, or get some water.āĀ
The house is silent beside the kettle boiling water. Your cat, Jinx, stares up at you curiously from under the kitchen table. The man had scared you so much that you hadnāt realized she ran and hid in the scuffle. The man was currently sitting on your couch, and while your house wasnāt big by any means, he was currently hidden from your sight by a wall.Ā
Your fingers drummed upon the countertop as you whispered to your cat, āDo you think he really is the god Hermes?ā Now that youāve had time to let your heart settle and think over everything, you couldnāt explain how he moved so quickly, and you were sure it wasnāt your fear addled brain mushing the details. Jinx merely blinked at you, watching you intensely as the kettle beeped, the water was ready. You steeped some lotus chamomile tea, hopefully it will settle both of your nerves, and poured two cups.Ā
As you reentered your living room, the man was pacing, head bowed, one hand resting on his chin in thought. You watched wearily, placing a cup on the coffee table closest to him, and sitting in the loveseat farthest away from him. You watched him pace for a few seconds more, eyeing his garb. It was so strange and well made. The cloth looked regal in a simple way, like the cloth alone cost more than all you had combined. Then you saw it, a wing on his helm, had twitched like it was alive. You stared more, refusing to pull your eyes away, and it twitched again, like his helm was itching to fly.Ā
Thisā¦this was a god, but not just any god. The ancient Greek god Hermes, the god of messages, mischief, theft, and those who have no home. And he was in your living room. Lost.
You felt a headache threatening you.Ā
It was already late, the sun had long dipped past the horizon and the moon did its best to shine through your windows that were covered by curtains. You felt the adrenalin wear off, and your eyes threatened to shut for the night as you sipped the naturally sweet tea you made. Hermes, on the other hand, was not content, anxiety thrumming through his veins as he thought about how far he will fall behind with his deliveries, how his world may fall apart without him being the thread to hold the precarious world of mortals and gods together. It was not something he had felt before, not this strongly at least. He was a god, someone who was always in control, with more power than people may realize, but nowā¦he was lost. Lost in a strange future where he was an old god that was no longer worshipped, only spoken of for the history of an ancient civilization. Lost in a world with strange objects he had never seen before.
For once, Hermes was out of his depth.Ā
āThe teaās getting cold,ā You spoke up, eyeing his untouched mug. He finally turned towards you, his pacing paused. With hesitation, Hermes picked up the mug, sniffing the flowery aromantic tea before taking a sip. With a sigh, he finally sat on your couch, holding the mug like a lifeline. It was silent for a few minutes, the both of you sipping at tea and thinking of what to say next. You swear youāve been thrusted straight into a fanfiction. You were having tea with an ancient god in your living room. You couldnāt stop the laugh that escaped you, short and breathy. Hermes watched on, confusion laced within his gaze.
āIām having tea with Hermes,ā You comment, your fried brain finding it absolutely hilarious. You laughed a bit more, trying to smother your chuckles beneath your hand, but it was no use. Hermes couldnāt help to join in, pitying chuckles falling past his lips. The tension seemed to ease, and the mugs eventually emptied.Ā
āI donāt have a spare bedroom,ā You break the silence, getting up from the comfortable chair. āBut you can have the couch. Iāll go get you some blankets, and see if I have any clothes you can use for pajamas.ā The god didnāt seem to have any objections, too weary from such strange circumstances. The rest of the night went by quickly. You had found some sweatpants you donāt even recall having, and somehow being the perfect size for Hermes, and a large shirt. He didnāt seem to be too stoked at clothing heās probably never seen nor worn before, but he put them on without much gripe.Ā
The next day, you were half sure that it was all a dream your sleep addled brain had conjured up. Yet, to your surprise, Hermes stood entranced in your kitchen, poking and prodding at all the strange gadgets you had.Ā
āGood morning,ā You yawned, portioning out enough coffee for two people and starting a pot. Hermes watched as you hit the buttons, wonder filling his eyes as the machine started to heat up water.Ā
āMorninā,ā Hermes mumbled back, eyes falling back onto you. āWhat exactly did you just do?ā
āStarted the coffee,ā You reply, pointing at the pot that was slowly filling with a dark brown liquid.
These questions continued throughout the morning. You explained the toaster, the stove, the fridge, the sink. It made you realize how easy technology had made things. It was strange to have someone hovering over your shoulder, watching you do the most mundane tasks with curiosity, and it was also strange to cook for two. As you wait for the eggs to cook, Jinx runs up to you, meowing like a madwoman and scratching at a welcoming mat you kept just for her. It seemed that Hermesā next goal was to befriend your furry companion, reaching out only for her to run towards you. He continued startling her, while her hunger for the wet can you poured in a small dish became the most important thing in her world.Ā
āYou have to let her come to you,ā You comment, bewildered that there was a pouting god in your kitchen. āSheās not the biggest fan of strangers, itāll take a while before she lets you pet her.āĀ
āIs she not charmed by my beguiling smile?ā He asked, arms crossing over his chest.
You simply raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips, āSheās a cat.ā
āYouād be surprised how many people, and animals, I have managed to charm my way out of.ā You shake your head, turning back to the stove and splitting the eggs between two plates.Ā
āDoes this mean that all those stories are true?ā You ask, Hermes following behind you as you make your way to the living room.Ā
āWhich ones?ā Hermes asks, settling onto the couch like he owns the place.Ā
āAll those myths. The greek gods, pegesus, Hercules, the minotaur. Is it all true? Is it exaggerated?ā You clarify, sitting on the portion of the couch Hermes doesnāt take up.
āOf course itās all true,ā He guffaws. āSome of it may be exaggerated, but it all stems from somewhere.ā You eye him with doubt, heās still wearing the pajamas you offered him, his curls still look nearly perfect despite sleeping on your couch, and you hate to admit that he does look like those chiseled marble statues.Ā
āYouāre telling me that a minotaur existed at one point in time,ā You deadpan, not fully believing him. āIām still wondering if youāre a hallucination from not getting enough sleep.āĀ
Hermes laughs joyously at your comment, āOf course he did. Poor PasiphaĆ«, cursed by Posidon because her husband failed the gods. Letās just say Apollo was not happy with him after that whole debacle.āĀ
Your jaw dropped, āThatās insane! Why is it always women suffering for the faults of men? Boo, tomato tomato.ā You made a throwing gesture at the end. Hermes once again looked confused.Ā
āTomato?ā
āIām throwing tomatoes,ā You explained, a smile taking over you again. The god laughed, head tilted back.
āDonāt let the other gods hear you say such things,ā Hermes smiled back. āThey donāt take kindly to any insult, even the mundane ones.āĀ
You glanced at your phone out of habit, and you felt your stomach drop as you read the time.
āShit,ā You stood up, taking your plate and rushing to the kitchen.
āWhat is the matter, mortal?ā Hermes asks, already standing behind you, his plate already in your sink.Ā
āIām gonna be late for work,ā You explain, already halfway to your bedroom. Thankfully, he does not follow you into your room. You quickly throw on some clothes that are suitable for your job, and gather important things such as your keys and wallet.Ā
āIāll be back in seven hours,ā You state, checking the time once more. āTry not to break anything and please stay out of my room. See ya.ā
Was trusting a god of mischief and thievery to your home the smartest move? No, but there wasnāt much you could do when the bureaucratic overlords deemed anyone that showed up a minute late as a replaceable cog in the work machine. Though focusing on your work was a bit of a struggle, itās not every day that one has a god waiting at home. Well, so you thoughtā¦until a strange hawk sat on a branch just outside. You stared at it, your work begging you to get done, but the hawk seemed to be watching you, its head turned and bright yellow eyes on you. You wouldāve thought you were making things up, why would a wild animal be watching you? But as you stood up to get something, its beady eyes followed you until you were out of sight.Ā
Shaking your head, you decide to just focus on your lunch break. You had been working nonstop for four hours and your stomach was rumbling. That was until you remembered that you didnāt pack a lunch. Debating if you should get some food or just suffer, the sound of a window opening makes you pause, your head turning towards the noise. Quietly, you step towards your office door, peaking through the small window. There it was, your single sad window that faced another building, a giant tree the only thing breaking the constant brick and concrete views of the city. And it was open. Nothing else seemed amiss, your desk was the same organized mess as always, the filing cabinet closed, and your computer still in sleep mode.Ā
Suddenly, someone pops into your vision, causing you to let out a scream and trip backwards. A small āoofā escapes you as you fall on your tailbone, laughter sounding throughout the hallway. You put a hand to your rapidly beating heart as Hermes opens the door, his laughter dying down.Ā
āYou shouldāve seen your face,ā He chuckled, wiping away a fake tear. āAh, that will never get old.ā
āWhat are you doing here?ā You question with a huff. āI thought I left you at my place.ā
āIt was boring,ā He shrugged, leaning against the doorway. āI was curious what people do for work, I must say, I am thoroughly confused. You have been staring at a rectangle for the past four hours, whatever could you be doing?ā
āWell,ā You reply, grasping the hand Hermes offers and pulls you up with a strength that causes you to trip straight into his arms. Your heart stutters for a completely different reason, but you do your best to brush off the encounter, taking a few steps back and continuing your sentence. āI was just going to have lunch. I get fifteen minutes of pure free time, baby.ā
āOnly fifteen minutes?ā Hermes asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. āThat is nowhere near enough time for a feast, let alone a snack.āĀ
āYou make due,ā You shrug, grabbing your keys and heading out the office. āSince youāre here with me, why donāt we expose you to the worst food youāll ever have?ā
āWhy would I want that?ā Hermes questions, nose scrunched.Ā
āāCus itās fast and cheap,ā You reply smoothly.Ā
The car ride was humorous. Yāknow those memes about showing a Victorian child something outlandish? This was exactly that, but with an even older god. Complete wonder overtook his features when he sat in the passenger seat, opening the glovebox, the center console. The radio was his absolute favorite, going between radio stations, listening with intent at the music and radio shows that played.Ā
āApollo would riot at some of these songs,ā Hermes snickered, observant eyes always trailing back to you.Ā
āThere are so many songs I would love to get his reaction to,ā You grinned, glancing at Hermes before looking back at the road, pulling into the drive thru of the nearest fast food restaurant. You quickly ordered, not wanting the god (who was still wearing the clothes you lent him) to get any funny ideas. Just like you said, the food was cheap and came out fast. Hermes peaked into the grease stained bag as you drove back to the office building. The carbonated, syrupy drinks also caused him great confusion.Ā
āJust what is this stuff?ā Hermes asks, pulling out a single fry and sniffing it.
āThat, my good sir, is called a french fry.ā
āThat answers nothing.ā
You rolled your eyes, and answered properly this time, āItās a potato that was cut thinly and deep fried.ā
āI still donāt know any of those words,ā Hermes replies, raising an eyebrow.
āYou donāt know what a potato is?ā You asked incredulously, sending him a disbelieving stare.Ā
āShould I?ā
You let out a huff as you parked your car once more, and hurrying Hermes along as you grabbed all the food.
āI shall open you up to the wonderful world of potatoes and greasy food that will kill you faster than the stress of living,ā You joke, bumping his shoulder with your own and sitting in your office.Ā
āWill this be what finally takes down the mighty Hermes?ā He jokes with you, taking the seat across from you. āBelieve me, many have tried, Iām sure mortal food will be the least of my problems here.āĀ
A mischievous grin tugs at your lips, āI wouldnāt be too sure, wing boy.ā
Hermes spluttered, āWing boy? You dare call a god āwing boyā?āĀ Ā
āJust eat your food,ā You roll your eyes at his dramatics, taking a bite of your own fries.Ā
āI wonāt forget your transgressions,ā Hermes mutters before he cautiously takes his own bite. Many emotions flash across his face at once. Confusion, awe, distaste, confusion part two, and finally acceptance. āI have eaten fruits plucked from Mt. Olympus, meats of creatures you cannot even imagine, and I have never consumed food such as this āfast foodā.ā
āOh yeah,ā You shake your head with a satisfied grin. āI donāt think you can dip any lower than this.ā
āIt tastes good, yet terrible at the same time. How do you even accomplish such a feat?ā Hermes continues to ponder, eyeing the greasy, slightly squished food that lay before him.
āHumans will always find a way,ā You shrugged, continuing to eat your meal.Ā
Fifteen minutes come and go quicker than you realize. In fact, you didnāt realize your break had long ended until you began to show Hermes how computers work and you caught the time. It has been an hour and a half since you started your break and now you only had a little over an hour left of your shift.Ā
āAh, shit,ā You cursed, pulling up your spreadsheets and data you needed to input. āYou wanted to see the jobs of the future, here ya go.ā
āWhatā¦even is this?ā Hermes questions, pulling his chair closer to you. āIt is just lines and numbers.ā
āYup,ā You grumble, already starting to get back into the flow. āIām given raw data and put it into a nice to read sheet and graphs for other people to present.ā
āHowā¦facisnatingā¦ā Hermes did not sound enthused. It didnāt take long for him to get bored. Ten minutes in and his leg was bouncing and his eyes were flittering across your office. You had a small frame of your cat next to your computer, and your desk was cluttered with loose pieces of paper and things he has learned are called pens and pencils. Your jacket was precariously thrown on the back of your chair, your trash can sat near the door and suddenly, he was curious about the rest of the building. Before you could blink he was out of sight, and who did he think you were? A babysitter of the divine? Of course not, he can do whatever he wants so long as it doesn't involve you.Ā
Four pm hits and you sign out of your computer in a flourish. As you pack your things you canāt help but wonder where Hermes may have gone. You walk around the office building, waving at coworkers as they pass, everyone more than excited to leave. Finally, you managed to find the curly haired god in the middle of a small group of people. It seems he has caught them in an outlandish taleāyou can only hope that he isnāt giving away who he truly is.Ā
āArkas,ā You call out, the name sounding vaguely familiar, something you read about Hermes at some point when you were younger. Your gut feeling seemed to be right as it caused him to perk up, a dazzling smile sent your way.Ā
āIām afraid the fun is over, perhaps we can talk another time about when I made it to the top of Mount Everest." Hermes nods, making his way towards you.
āYou were atop Mount Everest?ā You asked, falling in step with him.Ā
āIt wasnāt called that at that time, but I learn quick,ā He winked, holding the door open for you.
Time seemed to go quicker with Hermes in your life. No longer were the monotonous days of going to work, typing in numbers and coding graphs, then going home and deciding what you should sustain yourself off of. Now you had a hectic god that made even the most mundane tasks wondrous. Cleaning dishes? He was amazed that water came to your house on command. Clothes shopping? It was hilarious as Hermes tried on as many clothes as possible, even the most hideous garments. You looked forward to what every moment may bring. He had filled a lonely part of you that you didnāt even know existed.
You would bring him out and show him different scenes that even you normally wouldnāt go to, like bars, karaoke, and clubs. Hermes was having a blast. At first he was apprehensive, the thought of failing his duties weighed heavily on his heart, but as you guided him through this complete foreign world, he couldnāt help but let loose. He was no longer a god constantly on the run, he was just another man, living amongst fellow men. It was strange, to have a taste of a mortal life. Something no god can truly experience. Even now, Hermes could run so fast he disappears, morph into an animal to disguise himself, but he did that less and less often, unless it was to follow you somewhere he was not allowed (he loved to watch you present, though he could only due so as a hawk looking through a window).Ā
The one thing any Greek myth should tell you, is that once you grow complacent, everything goes to tartarus. Just as a routine befell you both, months of living around the other, inside jokes, knowing smiles, and eyes filled with feelings that wished to burst free, a portal opened in your living room. It blocked your t.v., where you both were watching the Five Nights at Freddyās movie, a generational monument you had claimed. Hermes was laying in the corner of the couch, arm wrapped around your shoulder as you leaned against him with a bowl of popcorn in your lap, Jinx laying by your feet.Ā
A booming voice rang through the brilliant, glowing portal, āHermes, you have abandoned your duties for far too long. Come back, or else.ā
You sat up, eyes falling onto the beautiful man next to you. You had nearly forgotten that he wasnāt just anyone. He was a god, with duties that had fallen out of time. He was never going to stay, he didnāt belong in your world, no matter how much he fit in.Ā
The god looked torn, eyes widened in shock, many emotions held within. His gaze fell on you, mouth opening and closing. His stomach twisted and he felt sick, it was cruel for his father to make such a demand, but he had been overstepping his duties for far too long, and he was afraid that his father would take it out on you. He stood from the couch, his legs felt like jelly as he couldnāt look away from the hurt clear in your expression.Ā
āIāll find my way backā¦ā He tried to reason, his hands clenching by his sides.Ā
āDonāt lie,ā You shook your head. Trying to be strong, you smiled painfully. āIām glad for the time we shared together, I wouldnāt change it for the world. Even though it was scary to find a strange god in my house.ā A pained laugh escaped him, and he kneeled in front of you, holding your hands to his forehead, almost like a prayer.Ā
āThank you,ā He muttered, squeezing your hands. āYou have changed me in ways that I didnāt know was possible. Taught me things that no one will believe. You will always live inside my heart, I promise you that, my dearest.āĀ
It was like he grabbed your heart and squeezed as hard as he could, tears threatened to fall from your eyes and you found it hard to continue looking at him.Ā
āGo,ā You choked, your throat tightening at the weight of the moment. āBefore I do something stupid.ā
āI wouldnāt mind,ā Hermes joked, eyes wet. Was he really going to cry over you? Was it wrong that the thought comforted you? That you werenāt the only one in pain over this.Ā
āIā¦ā He trailed off, standing up slowly. āThank you, really.ā With that, he took one last look at you before entering the portal, which flashed a bright light before disappearing.Ā
It was hard. Trying to get back into a routine that didnāt feel like a hollow void filled your heart. Jinx would lay by you more often, sensing the emotional decay you were currently feeling. It didnāt help that nearly everything reminded you of him. How he didnāt like coffee, but always wanted to make you a pot so he could use the machine. How heād always steal your hoodies and pretend like he didnāt know where they were. In fact, even now you wouldnāt be able to find sweaters you swore you owned (you wondered if he took them with him). The couch was too big when it was just you, and you found yourself sitting in the loveseat more often than nought.Ā
Oh, and work was absolutely awful. He had managed to liven it up so much, even your coworkers would ask where he went, until they saw the bags under your eyes and the distant look that haunted your features, and they figured it was a rough break up. The numbers blurred together, and youād catch yourself looking out the window, only to be met with songbirds and squirrels. You tried to get out more, to move on. You were foolish to think it would last forever, to forget who he truly was and what he represented. Who he was to this world.Ā
Nothing felt the same though. No matter how much your heart grew distant, how many people you tried to relight your heart with, to forget. But once months turned to years, your heart finally settled. Jinx would steal your attention, and it warmed your heart at how much she loved you, cared for you even when you struggled to be a great owner. Work was still a blur, but going out with your coworkers seemed less of a distraction and more endearing. Listening to Max ramble about his newest project, and how Dave was terrible at his job and nitpicked the smallest thing. Jessica swooned over every word, and you couldnāt help but cringe at the possible office romance (everyone knows when those end, they end poorly).Ā
Things were finally looking up. While the god will always hold a piece of your heart, you knew you couldnāt let this hold you down for the rest of your life.Ā
Itās funny, isnāt it? That your world will always turn upside the second you make peace? Just as you accept everything that has happened, that your futures have separate endings, the fates decide to have one more laugh at you.Ā
The sky is dark, even though itās only noon, rain pelting the hood of your car as you gather as many of your groceries as possible. You glanced at the house, calculating how fast youād have to run to not get soaked, but you did a double take as a light shown through the window of your house. Your stomach dropped. Then, the door opened, and the god you never thought you would see again ran to your car door.
A torrent of emotions overtook you as he yanked the car door open. Grief, anger, relief, hurt, love, happinessā¦so much swirled through you, and it was hard to think as Hermes swept you into a bone crushing hug. The familiar scent of lemons and honey washed over you, and you felt your composure crack. It was like tearing open a healing wound, and you werenāt sure if it felt good or if it hurt. Tears mingled in the rain, you couldnāt tell if it was his tears or yours. His arms kept you close as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.Ā
āHermes,ā You choked, the rain nearly drowning you out. His grip only tightened, pulling you so close that it felt like he was trying to merge you both together.Ā
āI missed you,ā He whispered, his voice sending chills down your spine. The water was starting to soak through your jacket, but you found it hard to care.Ā
āHowā¦ā You pause. āWhy?ā
āI couldnātā¦I couldnāt live knowing what I left behind,ā He explained, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. āI felt like I had been cursed, cursed to continue on like you hadnāt radicalized my entire world, like you hadnāt shown me a reality where I wasnāt feared or cherished as a god, but loved as a man, a mortal. And to go back to my old life? It was tormenting.āĀ
āButā¦I thought you couldnāt stay?ā You asked, eyes searching his own.Ā
āI was such a miserable mess, my siblings convinced father to let me go,ā Hermes replied, his thumb tracing patterns into your hip. āHe declared that I was no longer worthy of the title of god, and that I had brought disgrace upon the family, to wish to be with a mortal forever. Apparently that had crossed a line too far.ā
āWhat an idiot,ā You huffed, and thunder crackled in the distance. He looked up at the sky wearily before he grabbed your bags of food and ushered you inside. You were soaked to the bone, and you couldnāt stop shivering, which led Hermes to fuss over you. Bringing you towards your bathroom and starting to run hot water.
āSo youāre staying?ā You asked so softly it was nearly drowned out, but the god still heard you. āYouāre really choosing this over being a god?ā
āI have lived as a god for a millennia, I have traveled the world and held power for so long,ā He spoke somberly, finally deeming the water warm enough and filling your bath. āYou had given me a taste of something I had never experienced before. I had always watched the lives of mortals, their impossibly short life span and all the do before I carried them to tartarus. Yet actually living it was what finally opened my eyes. I understand now, why mortals live, why they wake up another day despite the end always being the same.ā
Turning the faucet off, Hermes began to inch his way towards the exit, āNow warm yourself up, Iāll bring you clean clothes.ā
āYouāre stayingā¦ā It was less of a question and more a revelation. Hermes watched you with fond eyes, approaching you and leaving a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.
āWarm up, we can talk more once youāre not shivering to death.ā
You discarded your clothes when the door closed. Your brain was struggling to keep up with the situation. He had come back. He had given up his divinityā¦for you. To live a life with you, to live in a world that he was not familiar with, but has learned to love.
The warm water embraced your body, softening knots you didnāt even know existed behind your shoulder blades. Once the shock and disbelief finally wore off, giddiness soon spread throughout you. He was back! He was staying! He had hugged and kissed you like you were something precious to him. You were precious to him. When the water started to cool, you pulled yourself out of the water, drained the tub and dried yourself off. You thought that Hermes may have forgotten to bring you your clothes (a nagging in the back of your head was doubting the fact that Hermes was even here, that you had finally lost it). Your fears were quickly diminished as a pile of clothes were stacked in front of the door.Ā
You quickly change, not wanting to spend any more time away from the one that has been driving you mad. He stood in the kitchen, masterfully using the equipment to make some meals that were common during his time (and they always tasted divineā¦pun intended). You approached his figure, and he sent you a soft smile. It was so warm and fond that it nearly sent you into a tizzy all over again.Ā
āDid you have a good bath, dearest?ā Hermes asked, the vegetables cooking in a white wine. It was strange. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you always thought that was lovesick drivelā¦perhaps there was more truth to that saying than you thought. You both had fallen back into a routine so distant yet familiar, one that was stronger than before, less abashed to show fondness for the other.Ā
āYouāre staying,ā You reply, your smile nearly blinding the man who stood next to you.
āIām staying,ā He echoed, putting an arm around your figure and keeping you close. It seems you really werenāt the only one that longed to be close. You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him close and resting your head on his chest.Ā
āDoes this mean youāve actually lost your powers?ā You question, pulling away enough to look at his face. āThat youā¦ā
āI will live by your side, and die by your side,ā Hermes admits, eyes tracing your features. āI will grow old with you, and hold you closely till the end.ā His thumb traces your cheekbone as he takes you in. āMy only wish is that you do not tire of me.ā
āI could never,ā You shook your head, nuzzling further into his touch. āIf anything, that should be my fear. Youāre always described as moving from one place to the next, never staying in one spot for too long. Wonāt you grow tired of me?ā
āOf course not,ā He scoffs, looking you in the eyes with determination. āI wish to take you across the world, visit sights that have dulled with all my travels and reveal them in a new light. One that only you can bring to my life.ā
āIf you keep buttering me up like that I fear I may do something I regret,ā You warn, your traitorous eyes falling down to his lips.Ā
āIām betting on it,ā Hermes whispers back, face inching closer to yours. āAnd I hope you donāt regret it.ā
A short laugh escaped you, and he looked particularly smug, which made you want to wipe that look off his face. So, you do the unthinkable (aka what you couldnāt stop thinking about since you both became close), and close the gap between you. It starts out hesitant, your lips barely touching the other, until the desperation of years of yearning and distance takes over. Hermes tilts your head just so, giving him the best angle to kiss you passionately. You find yourself lost in his touches, his kisses, his pants as he goes back in for just a few more seconds. Your body feels like itās molten in the best of ways, every touch is like a jolt of electricity and all your brain can comprehend is him.Ā
ā¦Then the fire alarm blares, causing you both to jump apart, Jinx quickly scrambling to your room in respite from the loud noise. Smoke then fills your nose and you point to the veggies that are starting to burn in the pan, shouting incomprehensibly as Hermes quickly pulls it off the stove and under the faucet. You both break out into laughter, your hearts warm and gooey with love.Ā
āAre you trying to burn my house down?ā You smile, showing that you werenāt angry at all.Ā
āI canāt help that thereās a beautiful distraction right in front of me,ā His silver tongue works at full speed, it seems he hasnāt lost all his powers.Ā
āDonāt think flattery will save you now mister,ā You pretend to huff. āIāve had a long day, and Iād rather not lose my house. Do you know how awful the market is?āĀ
āDonāt worry,ā Hermes smiles, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, then another, and another. āIāll make you the best meal ever, and then we can talk about everything I missed when I was away.ā
That missing warmth had made it back to your house, one you nearly forgot the feeling of. Things may not have been perfect, and there would be troubles youād both have to figure out together, but in that moment, when he held you and cherished you, you knew you both would make it through heaven and hell. He had stripped himself of his divinity to live a normal life with you, and it was a sacrifice you would not let go to waste.Ā
āLetās finish that movie,ā Hermes mentions, arm wrapped around your shoulders as you sat on the couch.Ā
āThereās a second one now,ā You grin, leaning into his embrace.Ā
Feel free to ignore this if you don't know the characters or don't feel like looking them up to make this!
Hermes x God of Judgement!Fem!Reader who has features of a dragon(horns, wings, claws, stuff like that) and a personality like V from Murder Drones and Jinx from Arcane. Only notes are Reader is sadistic asf except to her adorable man and Hermes is an absolute simp, also I'm thinking Reader is all around bigger and stronger(and taller) then Hermes.
Verdict of the Void
A/N : I hope I got the personality right. Iām not really used to something like this.
WARNING : GN!Reader, a bit of abuse(?), author does not know how to put warnings.
Word Count : 1.6k
The Spire of Verdict was not a place gods went willingly. It was a jagged splinter of obsidian floating in the gray expanse between Olympus and the Underworld, a place where the laws of the cosmos were enforced not with a gavel, but with teeth.
You satāor rather, perchedāatop the high throne of twisted iron, your massive, leathery wings draped over the back like a shroud. Your tail, thick with armored scales and tipped with a wicked barb, twitched rhythmically, cracking the stone floor with every heavy thump.
Below you, a minor river deity was trembling. He had flooded a village he wasnāt supposed to. A boring crime. A boring little man.
"So..." you drawled, your voice a melodic, glitchy hum that sounded like two jagged rocks grinding together. You tilted your head, your long, curved horns scraping against the iron of the throne. "You thought... splash, splash... drown the little mortals... fun? Fun!"
You grinned. It was a wide, terrifying expression that showed far too many teeth, some of them serrated.
"It was an accident!" the river god squeaked.
"BOOOOOORING!" you shrieked, the sound echoing violently off the walls. You launched yourself from the throne, landing in front of him with a tremor that shook the entire Spire. You stood a full three heads taller than him, a towering monolith of divine judgment and draconic hunger.
You loomed over him, your shadow swallowing him whole. Your claws, long and black as void-glass, clicked together. "Accidents are for people who don't know the rules. I hate rule-breakers. Unless theyāre cute. You?"
You grabbed him by the front of his tunic, lifting him effortlessly into the air until his feet dangled helplessly. You brought his face close to yours, your eyes glowing with a manic, violet neon light.
"You are ugly when you're scared."
You were just about to decide whether to strip him of his divinity or just toss him into the Tartarus pit for a few centuriesāhonestly, flipping a coin sounded funāwhen a familiar sound cut through the gloom.
The flutter of feathered wings. The smell of fresh rain and expensive cologne.
"Am I interrupting the sentencing? Because I can wait. Watching you work is... whew. Is it hot in here? Or is it just the impending doom?"
You dropped the river god. He hit the floor with a wet thud and scrambled away into a corner.
You spun around, the sadistic snarl instantly melting off your face, replaced by a wide, unnervingly fixated beam. The chaotic static in your brain quieted down to a single, happy hum.
"Bug!" you chirped.
Hermes hovered near the entrance of the Spire, his winged sandals fluttering to keep him aloft. He looked so small compared to youāso soft, so golden, so breakable.
And he was looking at you with eyes that held zero fear and 100% unadulterated adoration.
"Hey, tall, dark, and scary," Hermes grinned, drifting closer. He ignored the terrified river god and the ominous atmosphere entirely. He floated right up to your face level, though he had to hover quite high to match your towering height.
"You're late," you pouted, crossing your arms. The movement made your scales rattle. "I was gonna eat that guy. Well. Maybe just a leg. He looked soggy."
"I know, I know," Hermes cooed, reaching out. His hand, warm and calloused, cupped your cheek. The contrast was ridiculousāhis golden skin against your pale, scaled complexion; his human fingers resting near your jawline. "Zeus had me running messages to the North Wind. Boreas is a windbag. Literally."
You leaned into his touch, a low, rumble starting in your chest. It was a purr, though it sounded more like a growling engine. "Should I kill him?"
"Boreas?" Hermes laughed, a bright, chiming sound that made your tail wag involuntarily. "Maybe next week. But look what I brought you."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a golden apple. Not the Discord kindājust a really, really good one from Hesperides' private stash.
"Shiny," you whispered. Your pupils dilated, swallowing the color of the iris until your eyes were black pools.
"For my favorite terrifying judge," Hermes said softly.
You snatched the apple with your hand, carefulāso incredibly carefulānot to nick his fingers. You crunched into it, core and all, looking at him with intense, possessive delight.
"You're staring," you mumbled, juice running down your chin. You wiped it away with the back of a clawed hand.
"Can't help it," Hermes sighed, floating a little closer until his chest bumped against your armored breastplate. He wrapped his arms around your neck, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. He loved the smell of youāozone, old parchment, and brimstone. "You look so good when you're towering over everyone. So big. So strong."
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his eyelids heavy with affection. "I walked in, saw you holding that guy by the throat... gods, I nearly fell out of the sky."
You giggled, a sound that was manic and high-pitched. "I like it when you fall. I catch you."
"You always do."
"Ahem."
The noise came from the corner. The river god, apparently mistaking this domestic moment for weakness, had stood up. "If... if the Messenger is here, perhaps I can appeal toā"
Your head snapped toward him. The transition was instant. One second you were nuzzling Hermes; the next, your neck elongated, your horns flared, and a hiss escaped your throat that sounded like steam escaping a high-pressure valve.
"DID I SAY YOU COULD SPEAK?" you shrieked.
You lunged. You didn't just step; you blurred. You slammed a clawed hand into the stone wall inches from the river god's head. The impact sent a spiderweb of cracks shooting up the pillar.
"I am talking," you whispered, your voice dropping to a distorted, static-filled growl, "to him. You are dust. You are nothing. You are the gum on the bottom of my boot."
You loomed over the smaller god, your shadow sprouting deeper shadows. "Interrupt him again, and I will peel your immortality off you like skin from a grape."
The river god fainted. Just dropped cold.
"Oops," you said, blinking. You poked him with a claw. "Broken."
"He'll be fine," Hermes' voice came from behind you. He hadn't flinched. He had just watched, captivated.
You turned back to your little messenger. He was hovering closer to the ground now. You walked over to him, your heavy tail sweeping aside the unconscious body as if it were trash.
You stopped in front of Hermes. You were huge, a monster of myth and nightmare, capable of judging the souls of titans. And he stood there, looking up at you like you hung the stars.
"Up," you commanded.
Hermes obeyed instantly, fluttering his sandals to rise up. But instead of stopping at eye level, you grabbed his waist with your hands. Your grip was iron-tight, possessive. You lifted him higher, effortless as if he weighed nothing more than a feather.
"My turn," you hummed.
You buried your face in his chest, inhaling deeply. He smelled like freedom and sunlight. It calmed the constant, scratching static in your brain. He was your anchor. Your shiny thing.
"You're tense," Hermes murmured, his hands moving to massage the base of your hornsāyour absolute weak spot.
Your knees nearly buckled. Your wings flared out wide, encompassing both of you in a tent of leather and darkness, shutting out the rest of the Spire. In the dark of your wings, it was just you and him.
"Idiots," you grumbled into his tunic. "So many idiots. Breaking rules. Lying. I want to bite them."
"I know, baby, I know," Hermes soothed, scratching that perfect spot right where the horn met the skull. "They're awful. But you're so good at scaring them straight. The best in the pantheon."
You looked up at him, your chin resting on his chest. From this angle, his legs dangled against your stomach. He looked so fragile. If you squeezed too hard, heād snap. The intrusive thought was thereāthe urge to breakābut it was drowned out by the overwhelming urge to hoard him.
"You're mine," you said. It wasn't a question. It was a judgment. A verdict.
Hermes smiled, that dazzling, blinding smile that made him the darling of Olympus. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, right between your horns.
"Yours," he agreed breathlessy. "Completely yours. Now... are we going to finish sentencing the wet guy over there, or can I convince you to fly me somewhere high? I love it when you carry me."
You grinned, sharper than a knife.
"Fly," you decided.
You turned, grabbing the unconscious river god by the ankle and casually tossing him through a portal back to the mortal realm. "Guilty! Sentence: Be wet somewhere else!" you yelled after him.
Then, you scooped Hermes up properly, cradling him against your chest like a dragon guarding its gold. He snuggled in immediately, wrapping his arms around your neck.
"Hold on tight, Bug," you cackled, your powerful legs tensing. "I'm gonna go fast."
"I'm counting on it, darling," Hermes sighed happily, resting his head on your shoulder as you launched yourself into the void, leaving a sonic boom of laughter in your wake.
I was wondering if you could wright maybe an Antinous x reader or Eurymachus x reader. But Antinous or Eurymachus are gods with a mortal s/o? I honestly love that idea
The Golden Yoke
A/N : I think Iāll pause the requests for now until i finish half of them, especially the oldest ones (spoiler it reached a hundred š). Art is from Gigi on YT!
WARNING : Fem!Reader but honestly anyone can read this.
Word Count : 1.5k
The temple was quiet, save for the rhythmic, hollow dripping of water into the ceremonial basin. It was the hour before dawn, the "wolfās hour," when the boundaries between the waking world and the divine were said to be thinnest.
You were on your knees, the marble cold enough to bite through the fabric of your chiton. Your hands were red and raw from scrubbing the altar steps with rough wool and lye. Being the High Priestess of Antinous was not about glory; it was about labor. It was about maintaining the splendor of a god who demanded perfection, a god who represented the very height of arrogance and the hunger for more.
Antinous. The God of Avarice, of Unyielding Pride, of the Feast.
Most people prayed to him for wealth. They slaughtered fatted calves and poured expensive vintage wines onto the burning braziers, begging for their competitors to fail or their treasuries to overflow. You didnāt pray for those things. You prayed for the strength to endure the weight of his presence.
You stood up, your joints popping in the silence, and picked up the heavy gold pitcher to pour the final libation of the night. The wine was dark, almost black in the dim light of the oil lamps.
"For the Hunger that is never sated," you whispered the ritual words, tipping the pitcher. "For the Pride that holds the sky."
You watched the wine hit the hot coals. Usually, it hissed and turned to steam.
Tonight, the smoke didn't rise. It sank.
The wine didn't evaporate; it seemed to pool, defying the heat, turning into a thick, viscous substance that looked disturbingly like bloodāor perhaps molten gold. The air in the temple suddenly grew heavy, the atmospheric pressure dropping until your ears popped. The scent of burning myrrh vanished, replaced by a smell that was sharp, metallic, and overwhelmingly masculine: musk, expensive oil, and the ozone of a gathering storm.
You froze. You knew this feeling. It was the crushing weight of a star collapsing into a room.
"You poured less than usual tonight," a voice said.
It didn't come from behind you. It came from everywhere, vibrating in your teeth and the marrow of your bones.
You turned slowly toward the massive statue of the god that dominated the sanctum. It was a masterpiece of marble and gold leaf, capturing the sneering beauty of Antinous. But now, the statue was merely stone. The being lounging on the steps of the altar was very real.
Antinous sat there, casually sprawled across the white marble you had just scrubbed. He was larger than a mortal man, his proportions perfect and terrifying. His skin seemed to radiate a faint, internal luminescence, and his eyes were not human; they were pools of liquid amber, glowing with an ancient, predatory intelligence. He wore the finest silks that defied the laws of physics, draping over his musculature like water.
"My Lord," you breathed, dropping immediately to your knees and bowing your head. "Forgive me. The harvest was thin, the vintageā"
"Stand up," he commanded. The voice was lazy, but underneath the languor was the snap of a whip.
You stood, trembling slightly. You kept your eyes lowered to his chest. To look a god in the eye was hubris; to look Antinous in the eye was often a death sentence.
"Look at me," he said.
You forced your chin up. His face was devastatingly handsome, a cruel kind of beauty that made your chest ache. He was smirking, a goblet of wineāyour offeringātwirling in his massive hand.
"You work yourself to the bone for me," Antinous mused, his gaze raking over you. It felt physical, like a hand sliding down your silhouette. "You scrub my floors. You polish my gold. You chase away the rats and the beggars. And yet, when you pray... you ask for nothing."
He stood up. The movement was so fluid it was unsettling. He towered over you, the heat radiating from him smelling of spices and summer storms.
"Why is that, little mortal?" He took a step closer. "Everyone wants something from the God of Greed. Why do you starve yourself at my banquet?"
"I serve because I am yours, my Lord," you managed to say, your voice shaking. "Service is its own reward."
Antinous laughed. It was a dark, rich sound. "Lies. Piety is boring. I chose you because you are not pious. You are obsessed."
He reached out, his hand cupping your jaw. His skin was incredibly hot, scorching against your cool flesh. He tilted your head back, forcing you to endure the full intensity of his amber gaze.
"I hear your heartbeat," he murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "It doesn't beat for the temple. It beats for the entity residing within it. You don't love the stone, my sweet thing. You love the monster."
Your breath hitched. He was right, of course. He was the God of Desire; he knew what you wanted before you even admitted it to yourself. You had spent years tending to his image, falling in love with the cruel curve of his mouth and the silent power he wielded.
"Is it a sin?" you whispered, the confession torn from you. "To want the God I serve?"
Antinous smiled, and it wasn't the benevolent smile of a protector deity. It was the possessive grin of a dragon looking at its hoard.
"Sin?" He scoffed. "I am sin. I am the want that breaks empires."
He leaned down, his face inches from yours. The aura of divinity washed over you, making your knees weak. He smelled of ambrosia and danger.
"I have watched you," Antinous said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I watch you when you sleep in the rectory. I watch you when you dress. I watch you defend my name against those who call me cruel. You are a jewel I have allowed to go unpolished for too long."
He moved his hand from your jaw to the back of your neck, his grip firm, possessive. He pulled you flush against him. The contrast was starkāyour soft, fragile mortality against his immutable, eternal form. You could feel the hum of power beneath his skin, a reactor core of divine energy.
"You are not just a priestess," he declared, the words sealing your fate like a decree carved in stone. "You are my consort. My favorite offering."
"Antinous..." you gasped, overwhelmed by the proximity.
"Say it again," he commanded, his eyes narrowing with pleasure. "Say my name without the titles. Forget 'Lord.' I am your lover now. I want to hear it on your tongue."
"Antinous."
He groaned, a sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Delicious."
He kissed you then. It wasn't a gentle, human kiss. It was an assault on the senses. It tasted of wine and gold, electric and overwhelming. It felt as though he were breathing life into you and stealing your soul simultaneously. His lips were demanding, bruising, claiming ownership over every breath you would take for the rest of your short life.
When he pulled back, you were breathless, clinging to his biceps to keep from falling. He looked down at you, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.
"You belong to me," he said, and the air in the temple shimmered as reality bent around his decree. "No other man will look at you without feeling my wrath. No sickness will touch you. You will walk in my shadow, and you will wear my gold."
He raised a hand, snapping his fingers.
Instantly, the weight around your neck changed. You looked down to see a heavy, intricate collar of solid gold forming around your throat, studded with gems that glowed with an inner fire. It was beautiful, and it was a shackle.
"A mark," he whispered, tracing the gold with a finger. "So the other gods know not to touch what is mine."
He stepped back, his form beginning to blur, shifting back into the realm of the divine. The heavy pressure in the room began to lift, but the heat of his touch remained burned onto your skin.
"I will return tonight," Antinous promised, his voice fading into the echo of the temple walls, though his amber eyes burned bright until the very last second. "Prepare the sanctum. And prepare yourself. I have an eternity of hunger to satisfy, and you, my love... you are the feast."
He vanished, leaving you standing alone in the silent temple.
But the silence was different now. It wasn't empty. The shadows felt protective, curling around you. You reached up, your fingers brushing the cold, heavy gold around your throat. You were no longer just a servant wiping stone. You were the possession of the God of Pride.
And as the first light of dawn struck the statue's face, you could have sworn the marble sneer had softened, just a fraction, into a smile meant only for you.
ODDY! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU DID A POSIDON STORY, YOU DID 16,...16!!! TELEMACUS STORY'S, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ZEUS DO AT LEAST ONE POSEIDON ONE
Insert amazing title here (sorry not sorry :P)
A/N : Okay, I can't believe I wrote that many Telemachus fics. I can't help it, though; I love him so much, haha. Anyway, you deserve this Poseidon fic. Sorry for not posting for a month (?) I have been busy.
WARNING : Fluff, a bit of angst if you squint. GN!Reader.
Word Count: 1.3k
The sea usually had a rhythmāa predictable breathing pattern you had come to understand over the years. Even on the stormiest days, the waves carried a quiet honesty, a way of saying āI am here, and I am alive.ā But tonight, the ocean wasnāt breathing. It was seething.
The shoreline roared as waves slammed against the rocks with a ferocity usually reserved for hurricanes. The seafoam churned thick and white, curling around your ankles like frantic hands desperately tugging you closer. The spray hit your cheeks sharp and cold, each drop stinging like the ocean was trying to shake words into you.
āOkay, okay,ā you muttered under your breath, holding your palm out in a calming gesture like one might use on an overexcited animal. āSomething made him mad. Something big. I get it.ā
A towering wave rose in front of you, crashing dramatically across the sand.
āā¦Something really big.ā
The wind howled suddenly, dropping in pitch, swirling into a vortex that made the hair on your arms stand on end. Youād seen Poseidon angry before ā gods knew he was dramatic by divine nature ā but this was different. This was a divine tantrum. This was a storm that felt personal.
The sky darkened, thick clouds boiling in from the horizon. Lightning rippled across the sky in jagged streaks that cracked open the heavens. The air vibrated with divine energy, taunting and unpredictable. And then, from the heart of the chaos, a golden glow rose from the sea, splitting the water cleanly like a sacred curtain being yanked aside.
Poseidon appeared.
He stepped from the waves with all the grace of a god and all the attitude of someone who had stubbed their toe on the corner of a coffee table. His movements were sharp, tense, laced with raw fury. The trident in his hand pulsed with angry light, each spark dropping into the water like fire.
His face was carved from a stormājaw rigid, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, eyes burning a blue so electric you swore the world dimmed around him.
Then he saw you.
And instead of softening, he somehow became even angrier.
āHE. BLINDED. MY. SON!ā
The sky answered him with a crack of thunder so loud your teeth rattled.
Your shoulders sagged. āOh godsā¦ what now?ā
Poseidon stomped toward you, water parting at his feet in perfect dramatic synchrony, because of course it did. He was incapable of having an emotion without nature backing him like hype men.
āTHAT MORTAL PIECE OF SHIT- THAT LITTLE PATHETIC HUBRIS-INFESTEDāā He waved his trident wildly, nearly decapitating a passing fish. āODYSSEUS!ā
You winced as the wind buffeted you. āRight. Him. Got it.ā
Poseidon threw both arms in the air with such theatrical despair that the clouds spun above him in sympathy. āHE DARES HARM MY CHILD AND THEN LAUGHS ABOUT IT?! LAUGHS!ā
āHe laughs because heās stupid,ā you muttered. āYou know that.ā
Poseidon ignored you, stalking forward until he stood right in front of you ā towering, radiating enough divine rage to power a city, and still somehow managing to look like a kicked puppy beneath all the fire.
You opened your mouth to speak.
And then he collapsed.
Not on the ground.
On you.
One second you were staring up at a furious god, and the next you were being tackled by a wall of divine muscle, saltwater, and emotionally charged thundercloud energy. Poseidon buried his face in your shoulder with the force of someone trying to headbutt his problems away.
āMY. SON.ā His voice was muffled and miserable against your neck. āMY SWEET BOY.ā
You patted his back awkwardly with both hands, half to comfort him and half to stop him from crushing you. āI know, I know. Polyphemus didnāt deserve that. What Odysseus did was awful.ā
Poseidon tightened his arms around your waist like he expected the world to rip you away too. āHE TALKED ABOUT IT LIKE IT WAS A PARTY GAME.ā
āOkay, yeah, thatās terribleāā
āHE MADE JOKES.ā
āOh godsāā
āHe MADE JOKES ABOUT MY CHILD!!!ā
āPOSEIDON, STOP SHAKING ME.ā
He froze, muscles stiffening, and then pulled back slightly, though his hands stayed anchored on your hips. His expression had shifted only slightlyāfrom full murder to murder + emotional devastation.
āI introduced myself to him,ā Poseidon said, voice trembling with outrage. āI made an entrance. A very good entrance. The waves were perfect. The crew nearly passed out.ā
āIām sure they did,ā you said, brushing hair from his face.
He continued, unaware of your amusement. āI showed him the fury of the sea! The power of the gods! I literally made the ocean glow!ā
āSounds dramatic.ā
āIT WASNāT DRAMATIC ā IT WAS PERFECTLY JUSTIFIED.ā
You sighed. āAnd what did you do next?ā
He straightened, nostrils flaring. āI threatened him.ā
āUh-huh.ā
āWith everything.ā
āā¦Poseidon.ā
His grip on you tightened. āā¦I may have promised that his entire journey would be a living nightmare.ā
āOf course you did.ā
āAND I STAND BY IT.ā
You brought your hands to your temples. āPoseidon, you canāt just go around cursing mortals every time they do something terrible.ā
āWhy not? Iām a god.ā
āYes- No ā you are a god with anger issues.ā
He gasped so loudly it startled a flock of birds out of a nearby tree. āI DO NOT HAVE ANGER ISSUES.ā
A wave slapped the back of his leg.
āDONāT YOU START WITH ME,ā he snapped over his shoulder at the ocean.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
Poseidon turned back to you with a hurt little frown that looked entirely out of place on a being capable of sinking continents.
āI am allowed to be upset,ā he said quietly, voice finally losing its thunder. āHe hurt my child. Heā¦ he didnāt just hurt him. He mocked him. Mocked his pain.ā His shoulders trembled. āPolyphemus isnāt perfect, but heās mine. And he didnāt deserve this.ā
Your heart melted.
You reached up and cupped Poseidonās cheeks gently, making him look at you. The storm reflected in his eyes softened, trembling at the edges.
āListen to me,ā you whispered. āYouāre right to be upset. Youāre right to be hurt. But tormenting an entire hero and his crew for years isnāt the healthy coping strategy you think it is.ā
Poseidon blinked. āā¦Years?ā
āPoseidonāā
āDecades, maybe.ā
āPOSEIDON.ā
He pouted, actually pouted, and looked away like an irritated child. āFine. I might have overreacted. A little.ā
āA lot.ā
āA medium.ā
āA Poseidon-sized amount,ā you corrected.
He groaned dramatically. āYou torture me.ā
āYou need it,ā you said, smoothing your thumbs under his eyes. āYour anger is justified. Your grief is justified. But you donāt have to carry it alone.ā
His breath hitched. The storm overhead flickered softly, losing its edge.
āYou always say that so easily,ā he murmured, voice raw. āAs ifā¦ as if you truly want to share the weight of me.ā
āI do,ā you said without hesitation. āAlways.ā
Something in him broke ā quietly, beautifully. His shoulders sagged, and he leaned into your palms as though he were finally allowing himself to exhale after hours of holding back the tide.
āYou steady me,ā he whispered.
āYou need a lot of steadying.ā
āAnd yet,ā Poseidon said with a small, crooked smile, āyou never run.ā
You smiled softly. āSomeone has to keep the god of the sea from drowning people just because heās upset.ā
He stiffened. āI donāt drown people when Iām upset!ā
You raised an eyebrow.
āā¦Often.ā
You crossed your arms.
āā¦Regularly.ā
āPoseidon.ā
āā¦Iām working on it.ā
You laughed, the sound warm enough to break the last tension in the air. Poseidon eased forward and rested his forehead against yours, wrapping his arms around you in a gentler embrace this time. The storm clouds slowly peeled open, letting slivers of moonlight reflect off the now-calming waves.
He exhaled shakily. āThank youā¦ for grounding me. For not fearing me. Forā¦ being the only one who can make me stop before I destroy something Iāll regret.ā
You kissed his cheek softly. āThatās what partners are for.ā
Poseidon hummed, a soft rumble from deep in his chest. āThen allow me to be yours with the same devotion.ā
The ocean swelled gently around your ankles, as if nodding in agreement.
Poseidon pulled you closer, burying his face in your shoulder again ā this time not in rage, but in relief.
āCome home with me,ā he whispered. āBefore I find Odysseus again and decide to be petty.ā
āPoseidon, youāre already petty.ā
āYes, but with you nearby, Iām less dangerous.ā
āYou sure?ā
āā¦Mostly.ā
You laughed again, taking his hand in yours as the storm dispersed entirely, leaving only calm tides and a god who, despite all his fury, looked at you like you were the only thing in the world capable of soothing the entire sea.
Hi! Itās that same nitwit who asked you for tips.. yeah guys throw me rotten tomatoes itās okay š anyways, what do you do when you write kiss scenes because itās so awkwardā¦ā¦ ignore this if you want bros
Donāt worry youāre not alone š writing kiss scenes is so awkward at first ā I swear Iāve rewritten the same paragraph like 8 times just to make it sound normal back then until I just got used to it. (I still do it till this day tbh)
Hereās what helps me tho! You can follow this if youāre lost, but always remember to take it easy and donāt force yourself to do something youāre not comfortable with.
1. Focus on the emotion, not the lips
Donāt start with āthey kissed.ā Start with what leads to it. Like, are they nervous? Is there tension? Relief? For example:
āTheir words kept slipping into silence until the air between them felt heavy enough to drown in.ā
That way, by the time the kiss happens, it feels earned, not random.
2. Use the senses (but gently iykwim)
Instead of writing like a play by play (ātheir lips touched, then their heads tiltedāā), mix in what they feel:
āThe world narrowed to the sound of their breathing. Her pulse jumped when his hand brushed hers.ā
That way it feels more romantic instead of giving the readers a step-by-step tutorial loll.
3. Show the hesitation or realization
The little moments before the kiss can be 10x more romantic than the kiss itself.
Like: āHe hesitated. A second too long, maybe ā just enough for her to realize she was holding her breath.ā
Keep it short and meaningful.
You donāt need to describe every angle or movement. You can even imply the kiss instead of showing it outright:
āHe didnāt answer ā just leaned in, and suddenly, words didnāt matter anymore.ā
āJust leaned inā implies that he kissed them without saying that he kissed them.
4. Let your charactersā personalities show
A clumsy character might bump noses. A confident one might smirk first. Those small details make it feel real and fit the storyās tone.
Another advice is to read lots of romance novels or fanfics from different kinds of authors and observe how they write a specific scene. Once done, you can try writing it yourself. Be creative and have fun.
But honestly? If it still feels weird to write skip it for now. Just write āthey kissedā and move on. You can always come back later when youāre in a better mood for it or if you feel confident enough. Youāll get it eventually!
Additional note: Our writing styles may differ, so please donāt feel pressured to change your approach too quickly. Forcing yourself to adapt in a way that feels uncomfortable can lead to burnout, and I want you to feel at ease while writing. I hope this helps you somehow ā Iām not really great at teaching. Bye and thank you!
A/N : I made this like 4 days ago to prepare for this special day. Why special exactly? Well, itās my birthday! And as a gift to myself, I decided to make one with Telemachus. Honestly tho, my girlfriend is more than enough already. Hi wifey <333.
Warning : Fem!Reader, fluff
Word Count : 2k
The first light of dawn was still a soft, pearly promise over the wine-dark sea when you rose. In the great palace of Ithaca, the days had a rhythm, and yours was one of industry. You dressed quickly, lacing your sandals, your mind already three steps ahead. The stores of linen needed counting, Penelopeās loom required fresh spindles of thread, and youād promised Eurycleia you would help sort the dried herbs for the kitchens. It was, in all, a day. Just a day.
You barely registered Telemachus at the morning meal, which was, in hindsight, your first clue.
He was sitting at his fatherās table, a cup of watered wine untouched before him. You slid onto the bench opposite, grabbing a piece of bread and a fig.
"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your mind still on the linen count.
He startled, his gaze snapping to yours. A strange, bright smile flashed across his face before he seemed to catch himself, schooling his features into a mask of princely calm. "Y/N. Good morning. You... slept well?"
"Well enough," you said, dipping your bread in a little oil. "You seem... awake."
"I am," he said, a little too quickly. He picked up his cup, stared into it, and set it back down. "Many... matters of state. To attend to. Youāre busy today?"
You sighed, ticking off the list on your fingers. "Linen. Threads. Herbs. The usual."
"Ah. Yes, the usual." He cleared his throat. "Do you think... that is, perhaps you could spare some time this evening? The air has been so clear. The stars... they will be bright."
You smiled, finally giving him your full attention. His earnestness was one of the things you adored most about him. He was a prince who had grown up under the shadow of vultures, yet he still looked for the stars.
"Of course," you said, your heart warming. "Iād love that."
"Good. That is... good." He stood abruptly. "Well. Matters of state. I will see you... later."
He was gone before you could even wish him a productive day. You watched him go, a small frown playing on your lips. He was vibrating with a nervous energy you couldnāt quite place. You shrugged it off. He carried the weight of the island on his shoulders; a strange mood was to be expected.
The day proceeded exactly as youād planned. You counted bolts of linen until your eyes crossed. You sat with Penelope, her quiet, dignified sorrow a familiar blanket in the great hall, and wound thread after thread. She was unusually quiet, though she did give you a small, strange smile when you mentioned Telemachusās odd mood.
"He has a great deal on his mind, dear," sheād said, her fingers never stopping their dance on the loom. "More than you know."
It was in the kitchens, your arms deep in a basket of fragrant, dried thyme, that the second clue presented itself.
"No, no!" Eurycleiaās voice, usually so steady, was a flustered hiss from the baking ovens. "Not those! The prince was very specific. The ones with the extra honey and almonds, for... for the evening meal!"
"But we have a dozen of these honey cakes right here," a young kitchen girl protested.
"Those are for the household. These," and you heard a clatter as Eurycleia clearly hid something, "are for... later. Now, go fetch the good wine, the one we've been saving."
You poked your head around the corner, dusting thyme from your tunic. "Everything alright, Eurycleia? Are we expecting guests?"
The old nurse spun around, her hand pressed to her chest. She looked as guilty as a child caught stealing figs. "Y/N! Child, you move like a shadow. No, no guests. Just... the prince. He has... an appetite. You know how young men are."
You narrowed your eyes. Telemachus ate like a bird, his mind always elsewhere. And Eurycleia was, you realized with a jolt, a terrible liar.
"Right," you said slowly, deciding not to press. "Well, the herbs are sorted."
"Wonderful, dear, wonderful. Now, why don't you go... go rest? Yes, youāve worked so hard. Go and rest before the evening meal."
"But itās only mid-afternoon..."
"Go!" she insisted, shooing you out with her apron.
You left, utterly baffled. The entire palace, it seemed, was vibrating with a secret. You felt a familiar, faint pang of insecurity. Were they planning something? A feast? A reception for some dignitary you hadn't been told about? Were you, in your plain tunic and busy schedule, being quietly shuffled out of the way?
You tried to push the feeling down. Telemachus had asked to see you tonight. He wouldn't do that if he was trying to exclude you.
You found him near the armory, inspecting a new set of spears. He looked up as you approached, and that same, brilliant, nervous smile lit his face.
"You're finished with your work?" he asked.
"Forced into retirement by Eurycleia," you said dryly. "Telemachus... is everything alright? You're all... strange. You, your mother, the kitchens... did I miss a royal decree?"
He had the decency to blush. The color rose prettily from the collar of his tunic, and you had to fight the urge to reach out and touch his cheek.
"No," he said, setting the spear aside. He took your hand, his palm warm and calloused against yours. "Nothing is wrong. I promise. In fact, everything is very, very right. But itās a... delicate matter."
"A matter of state?" you guessed.
"A matter of... the heart," he said, his voice dropping. The teasing note was gone, replaced by that low, sincere thrum that always made your knees weak. "Meet me at sunset. Not in the hall. Meet me at the old olive grove. The one on the cliffs."
Your favorite one. The one where youād first truly talked, not as prince and lady, but as two lonely people.
"I will," you whispered, your earlier unease melting away, replaced by a thrum of anticipation.
"Good." He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "And, Y/N?"
"Yes?"
"Wear your blue tunic. The one that matches the sea."
The sun was a bleeding wound of gold and crimson across the horizon when you made your way up the winding cliff path. The air was warm, smelling of salt and wild sage. You wore the blue tunic, your hair unbound and combed through, and your heart felt impossibly light.
You reached the grove. The ancient olive trees, their trunks gnarled like old men, were just as you remembered. At first, you saw nothing.
"Telemachus?" you called softly.
"I'm here."
His voice came from the very center of the grove, a place youād always called the "green room." You pushed past a low-hanging bough, and your breath caught in your throat.
He had. He...
He had been busy.
Lanterns, dozens of them, were hung from the branches, their soft, golden light creating a canopy of stars beneath the real ones just beginning to prick the velvet sky. A thick, plush blanketāone of the fine ones from the palace storesāwas spread on the grass. And on it...
"Oh, Telemachus," you breathed.
It was a feast. But not a royal one. It was your feast. There were the honey cakes, the ones Eurycleia had hidden, dripping with almonds. There was a block of the sharp goat cheese youād once mentioned you loved, fresh bread, a bowl of dark, glistening olives, and a skin of the good wine.
He was standing beside it, his nervousness from the morning completely gone, replaced by a look of such profound, gentle affection that it made you want to weep. He was wearing a clean tunic, his dark hair curling from the sea mist.
"What... what is all this?" you asked, your voice trembling.
He stepped forward, taking both of your hands. His smile was slow, and it was devastating. "You truly donāt know, do you?"
You searched his face, your mind blank, trying to piece together the clues. The strange smiles, the hidden cakes, his request to meet you here. "Know what? Is it a... a festival?"
He let out a soft laugh, a sound of pure relief. "I was so certain youād figure it out. I had Eurycleia running interference all day." He lifted one of your hands and pressed a kiss to the knuckles.
"Y/N," he said, his eyes, dark and warm in the lantern light, holding yours. "Happy birthday, my love."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You froze.
Birthday.
Your birthday.
The linen. The threads. The herbs. You had...
"Oh," you whispered, your free hand flying to your mouth. "Oh, gods. I forgot."
"I know," he said, his voice thick with tenderness. "You were so busy, running the palace for my mother while my head is... elsewhere. You never stop. You never ask for anything. I just... I wanted to be the one to remember for you."
Tears sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate. "You... you did all of this... for me? Because I forgot?"
"I did this for you because you are," he said simply. He gently guided you to sit on the blanket, sitting opposite you. "Iāve been planning this for a month. I... I may have threatened the kitchen boy with spear-drills if he told you about the cakes."
You laughed, a watery, broken sound. "Telemachus..."
"Eat," he commanded gently, handing you a honey cake. "You deserve it."
You ate, and you talked. He told you about his ridiculous, convoluted plan to keep you out of the kitchens. You told him how youād been convinced you were being shuffled away for some "important" event.
"You goose," he said, brushing a crumb from your lip with his thumb. His touch lingered, and the air grew warm and still. "You are the most important event."
"That's... that's too much, Telemachus," you whispered, your heart feeling too large for your chest.
"It's not enough," he countered softly. "Itāll never be enough for what you deserve."
When the food was mostly gone and the sky was a blanket of diamond-dust, he shifted, pulling a small, cloth-wrapped parcel from a bag you hadn't noticed.
"This, too," he said, his voice suddenly shy.
"Telemachus, no, youāve done too muchā"
"Hush. Open it."
You took the small, heavy parcel. Your fingers fumbled with the string. Inside, nestled on a piece of dark wool, was a bracelet. It wasn't a grand, gaudy piece. It was simple, elegant, hammered bronze, beaten so finely it shone like gold in the light. And dangling from it was a single, tiny, perfectly wrought charm.
An olive leaf.
You looked from the charm to the trees around you, and then back to his face.
"I... I had the smith make it," he mumbled, that princely blush returning. "I know you don't care for heavy gold. And I wanted... I wanted you to have something to remind you of this place. Of... us."
You didn't say anything. You couldn't. You simply leaned across the remnants of your feast and kissed him.
It was soft at first, a simple press of gratitude. But he responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. The kiss deepened, becoming something moreāa silent conversation of all the things you hadn't said. It tasted of honey, and wine, and the salt of the sea.
When you finally pulled back, you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
"You are... everything," you managed to say, your voice thick.
"So are you," he breathed. He took the bracelet and fastened it around your wrist. It was warm from his hands. "Happy birthday, Y/N. I promise, as long as I am here, you will never have a day unmarked again."
You settled back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you as you watched the stars ignite over the sea. You had forgotten your own day. But he had remembered. He, the thoughtful, serious prince of Ithaca, had remembered, and in doing so, had given you the most perfect gift of all: the beautifully simple, overwhelming, and absolute certainty that you were, in all things, loved.
I love you're stories sm š do you think you could do some fem reader telemachus smut after he kills a bunch of the suitors and the adrenaline has him amped up š„ŗasking for a friend
Tonight is for the Living
A/N : Anything that involves Telemachus, count me in.
WARNING : Smut, Fem!Reader, a bit of lore, but it's not a big part since this is purely for pleasure
Word Count : 2k
The great hall of Ithaca was no longer a home. It was an abattoir, a freshly consecrated temple to the Fates and the bloody-minded justice of a long-absent king. The air was a thick, suffocating soup of copper, iron, sweat, and the sour stench of spilled wine mingling with voided bowels. It was the smell of an argument settled in the most final of terms. An hour ago, this hall had echoed with the boorish laughter of over a hundred men. Now, the only sounds were the groans of the dying and the grim, wet sounds of the loyal few finishing their work.
From your post by the main doors, you watched the carnage, your sword arm a leaden weight, your breath coming in shallow pants. A deep, ragged cut on your forearm wept a sluggish stream of your own blood, a stark contrast to the arterial spray that painted the walls and pillars. You were Y/N, daughter of Eurybates, the man who had been Odysseusās most trusted herald, his shadow and his voice in foreign lands. He had sailed for Troy and never returned, his fate a question mark swallowed by the wine-dark sea. You, his only child, had been raised in the palace on stories of his loyalty, and you had sworn an oath over his tarnished shield to protect the house he had died serving.
When Odysseus had finally returned, a beggar in his own home, he had looked at you and seen not a girl playing guard, but the ghost of his friend in your eyes. Heād given you the honor of guarding the doors during the slaughter. And you had held them.
You had fought. You had killed. And you had watched Telemachus kill.
He was not a boy anymore. The change had been terrifying and magnificent to behold. You had felt it, the shift in the very air around him when the battle began. It wasnāt just mortal skill. Athena was here. You had felt her presence like a chilling wind, a sudden, unnatural clarity that guided the arrows, a divine weight behind every spear-thrust. Youād seen a suitorās spear swerve at the last second, as if hitting an invisible shield before Telemachus. Youād felt that same cold fire in your own veins as youād parried a desperate lunge, your own blade moving with a speed and certainty that was not entirely your own.
Now, the goddessās presence was fading, leaving behind a profound, ringing silence and two generations of kings surveying their bloody work. Odysseus stood by the throne, a grim, terrifying figure of retribution. And beside him, splattered from head to toe in gore that was not his own, stood the new wolf of Ithaca, his son.
Telemachusās eyes found yours across the hall of the dead. They were wide, the pupils blown huge in the torchlight, reflecting the carnage around him. They were haunted, yes, but they were also blazing with a terrifying, electric light. He looked like a man who had wrestled with a storm and somehow swallowed the lightning. He gave his father a curt, jerky nod, then started towards you, his boots squelching softly in the blood-slicked rushes. He moved with a new, dangerous grace, a predator in his own reclaimed territory.
He didn't speak when he reached you. The words were all dead, heaped on the floor around you. He took your arm, his grip hard, almost painful, and pulled you away from the slaughterhouse. He led you through the now-silent corridors, his steps urgent, his energy a frantic, vibrating aura that seemed to push you along. He all but threw you into his chambers, following you in and slamming the heavy oak bolt home.
The sound of the bolt was a thunderclap in the sudden, profound silence. The grim work downstairs was a world away. Here, there was only you, and him, and the ghosts you had just made.
He was trembling. A fine, high-frequency vibration that shook his entire body. He was thrumming with the residue of divine power, a mortal wire that had carried too much current. He looked down at his hands, at the blood caked under his nails and dried in cracks across his knuckles.
"Her hand was on my shoulder," he whispered, his voice hoarse, disbelieving. "The entire time. I felt her. A cold fire. The spear was not my own." He looked up at you, his wild eyes searching your face. "I killed them, Y/N. I looked them in the eye, and I felt nothing but cold purpose. And nowā¦" He trailed off, his throat working. "Now I feel everything at once."
He surged forward, his body colliding with yours, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you thought you might break. He was shaking his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in hot, frantic pants.
"I need to feel something else," he breathed, his voice ragged against your skin. "Anything but this. I need to get the cold out. I need to feel a mortal heart beating. Please. I need to feelĀ yourĀ heart." He pulled back, his eyes a desperate, pleading storm. "I feelā¦ feral. I don't want to hurt you. Tell me what you want. I'll do anything. Just ground me. Bring me back."
The rawness of his plea, the desperate need to feel human again after being a godās weapon, resonated in your own soul. You were buzzing too, your own body alight with a fire that was equal parts terror and triumph. You reached up, your grimy hands cupping his face, forcing him to meet your gaze.
"I want you," you said, your voice a low, fierce growl that left no room for doubt. "And I don't want you to hold back. I want the storm. I want the lightning. I fought with you, and now I will bring you back. Show me how alive you are, Telemachus. I can take it."
A choked, desperate sound was torn from his throat, and his mouth crashed down on yours. It was a brutal, savage kiss that tasted of blood and iron and a desperate, shared need for life. It wasn't a kiss of seduction; it was a ritual of grounding. He was trying to push all the death heād dealt out of his mind and replace it with the taste of you. You met him with equal ferocity, your nails scraping down his back, your bodies grinding together, armor and leather and filth be damned.
You broke apart, panting, and began tearing at each otherās clothes. It was a battle. Buckles were snapped, leather straps were ripped, and tunics were torn. You were both covered in sweat, grime, and the drying blood of other men, and it was the most potent aphrodisiac you had ever known.
He got you down to your last layer of linen and backed you up against the wall, his hands pinning yours above your head. "Is this okay?" he panted, his mouth moving to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Still with me?"
"I'm right here," you gasped, arching into him. "Always."
He ripped the last of your tunic away and let his eyes roam your body, a possessive, almost reverent gaze that seemed to worship every bruise and cut youād earned. Then he knelt.
"Let me taste life," he growled, and he buried his face between your legs.
It was a desperate, almost violent act of worship. He ate you out like a starving man, his tongue a hot, wet, demanding thing. He lapped at your folds, sucked on your clit until you were screaming, his hands gripping your thighs, leaving bloody fingerprints on your skin. He was trying to erase the taste of death with the taste of you, and you let him. You gave yourself over to it, your orgasm ripping through you in a violent, shuddering wave that was more about release than pleasure.
He rose, his lips and chin slick with you, and lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist. He was still hard, a thick, angry-looking pillar of flesh. He drove into you against the wall, a single, brutal thrust that felt like being impaled and saved all at once. You cried out, a raw sound that was swallowed by his mouth on yours.
He began to fuck you with a desperate, savage energy. It was a frantic, punishing rhythm, an attempt to generate enough human heat to banish the divine chill from his bones.
"Bite me," he gasped, his voice breaking. "Scratch me. I need to feel it. Prove youāre real."
You sank your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, and he roared, a wild, animal sound of pain and pleasure. You raked your nails down his back, leaving four parallel trails of blood in their wake. He slammed into you harder, faster, a relentless, savage pounding. This wasn't just fucking; it was an exorcism. Each thrust was a defiant scream against the silence of the dead.
He pulled out, and you cried out in protest, but he only carried you to the bed, throwing you onto the furs and following you down, not missing a beat as he plunged back inside you. He flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up, and fucked you from behind, his hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back. The angle was deeper, more primal, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your vision white out.
"Stay with me," he panted, his lips ghosting over your ear, his voice a desperate plea. "Don't leave me. I can still hear them."
"I'm right here," you sobbed, the pleasure so intense it felt like you were being torn apart and remade. "I've got you, my prince. I've got you."
The end came in a brutal, blinding rush. He was chanting your name like a prayer, a mantra to ward off the ghosts. You could feel his release building, a frantic, coiling heat in the base of his spine. He screamed, a raw, broken sound of pure catharsis, as his orgasm ripped through him, his release flooding you in hot, powerful waves. Your own climax crashed over you at the same moment, a violent, convulsive tide that was less about pleasure and more about a desperate, final expulsion of all the terror and adrenaline of the day.
He collapsed, his body a dead weight on top of yours, and for the first time since the battle had begun, he was still. The feral energy, the divine fire, it was all gone. And in its place, the crushing weight of reality came rushing in.
He rolled off you, pulling you with him into his arms, and then he broke.
His body was wracked with deep, gut-wrenching sobs, the kind that tear a man apart from the inside out. He cried for the men he had killed, for the boy he had been that morning, for the terrifying, cold touch of the goddess on his soul. The wild warrior was gone, and all that was left was a young man who had seen and done too much, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
You held him. You stroked his hair. You whispered his name. You were his partner in violence, his partner in feral passion, and now, you were his partner in the devastating aftermath.
When his sobs finally quieted into shuddering breaths, you rose and dampened a cloth in a basin. You returned to the bed and began the real ritual. You gently washed the blood of other men from his skin, your touch slow and reverent. You cleaned the grime from his face, the tears from his cheeks. When you were done, he did the same for you, his hands trembling as he cleaned the cut on your arm, his touch infinitely tender.
He didn't speak of love or forever. The future was an unknown country. He just pulled you against his chest, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping the ghosts at bay.
"Tomorrow," you whispered into the quiet darkness, your voice practical, grounding, "we will purify the hall with sulfur and salt. We will make offerings to the gods and to the shades of the dead. There are rituals for this."
He held you tighter, his face buried in your hair. "And tonight?" he asked, his voice small.
"Tonight," you said, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, "is for the living."
You held each other, two survivors, awake and alive in the silent, blood-soaked palace, finding your anchor in the dark.
A/N : Explicit content up ahead! I tried something new, let me know if you noticed it. I was also planning to make a Male!Reader version of this, and other characters too, since Male reader donāt get enough love that they deserve. What are your thoughts?
WARNING : Smut, 18+ only. Female!Reader. Oral and vaginal sex.
Minors, please, do not read this Iām begging you.
Word Count : 1.8k
The grove was your secret. Tucked away in a fold of the world that even Artemis seemed to have forgotten, it was a pocket of eternal twilight, where the air was always cool and smelled of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and something ancient and green. A small waterfall fed a pool so clear and black it looked like a hole in the universe, a piece of the night sky fallen to earth. This was where you waited. This was where you belonged. And this was where he came to find you when the world finally let him go for five fucking minutes.
It had been too long this time. Weeks, maybe months. Time moved like honey in your secluded sanctuary, slow and sweet, but the ache of missing him was a sharp, bitter thing that had been growing steadily in your chest. You were tracing patterns on the mossy bank of the pool, your thoughts drifting, when the air changed.
It was a subtle shift, one a mortal would never notice. The gentle hum of the insects quieted. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and the clean, sharp tang of a storm about to break on a hot summer day. A shiver, not of cold, but of pure, electric anticipation, traced a path down your spine. You didn't even have to turn around.
"You're late," you said, your voice a low, teasing murmur that didn't betray the frantic, desperate leap your heart had just taken.
A weary sigh, heavy with the weight of a thousand miles, answered you. "Don't start."
You finally turned. He was leaning against an ancient olive tree, looking like a god who had been dragged through hell and back. And he probably had been. His chiton was rumpled and stained with dust from some sun-scorched mortal road. The wings on his sandals drooped with exhaustion. But his eyes... gods, his eyes. His honey-gold eyes were fixed on you, and they were burning with a fire that had nothing to do with divine power and everything to do with a raw, primal hunger that you knew was a perfect mirror of your own.
The weariness fell away from him like a shed skin as he pushed off the tree. He didn't teleport. He didn't move with his usual impossible speed. He stalked toward you, each step deliberate, his gaze pinning you in place. The space between you crackled, the air growing hotter, thicker.
He didn't say another word. He reached you, and his hands came up to frame your face, his calloused thumbs stroking your cheeks. He looked at you as if he were a dying man and you were the only water in the world. And then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a fucking collision. It was frantic and savage, a desperate, greedy claiming. There was no tenderness, no gentle reunion. This was the taste of weeks of loneliness, of pent-up frustration, of a need so sharp it was a physical pain. His lips were hard, his teeth grazing yours as he forced your mouth open, his tongue plunging inside to taste you, to devour you. You met him with equal ferocity, your hands tangling in his messy, sweat-damp hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Your nails scraped his scalp, and a low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest, a sound you felt more than you heard.
You were both panting when you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, the sound of your ragged breaths loud in the sudden silence of the grove.
"I missed you," you breathed, the words feeling stupidly inadequate.
"Don't talk," he rasped, his voice thick and raw. "Just... don't."
His hands slid from your face, down your body, gripping your hips with a bruising force. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he backed you up against the rough bark of the olive tree. The friction of the bark against your bare back was a sharp, grounding sensation in the storm of your desire.
Then began the frantic, clumsy battle with clothes. Your simple tunic, his chitonāthey were infuriating obstacles. A leather strap was snapped, a seam was torn, and you didn't give a single fuck. All that mattered was skin. The moment his hot, taut flesh met yours, you both let out a shuddering sigh. It was a feeling of coming home, a feeling of rightness that settled deep in your bones.
He was already hard, his cock pressing insistently against the junction of your thighs. You could feel its heat, its pulse, right through the last remaining layer of your under-tunic. You ground down against him, a wordless invitation, and his control finally, gloriously, snapped.
"On your knees," he growled, the command a guttural rasp that vibrated through your entire body.
He let you slide down his body until your knees hit the soft, mossy earth. He stood before you, a magnificent, exhausted god, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a lust that was almost terrifying in its intensity. His cock jutted from the nest of golden-brown curls at his groin, thick and long and pulsing with a life of its own. It was a beautiful, obscene sight. Veins traced a roadmap of his arousal down the shaft, and the head, a deep, rosy plum, was already weeping a bead of slick, clear fluid.
You didn't need to be told twice. You leaned forward and licked that drop of pre-cum from his tip, tasting the salt and musk of him, the faint, electric tang that was uniquely Hermes. He let out a sharp, choked hiss, his hands fisting in your hair, not to pull you away, but to hold you steady.
"Fuck, yes," he breathed.
You took him into your mouth, your lips closing around the slick head. He was so hot, so hard. You slid down, taking as much of him as you could, your throat muscles tightening around his length. His hips bucked, an involuntary jerk, and his grip on your hair tightened. You loved this. You loved the feeling of having this powerful, fast-talking, always-in-motion god reduced to a shuddering, incoherent mess, completely at your mercy.
You sucked him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, your tongue swirling around his tip, then tracing the thick vein that ran down his underside. You used your hands too, one gripping the base of his shaft, the other cupping his heavy, tight balls. He was groaning your name now, his head thrown back, his knuckles white where he gripped your hair.
"Gods, Y/N... what are you doing to me? Don't stop, please don't fucking stop."
You brought him right to the edge, feeling the tell-tale pulsing at the base of his cock that signaled he was about to lose it. Just as he was about to come, you pulled off, leaving him high and dry. He cried out, a frustrated, wounded sound.
You looked up at him, a slow, wicked smile on your face. "Not yet."
You pushed him back until he sat on the mossy bank, his legs splayed, a beautiful, debauched wreck. You crawled into his lap, straddling him, and took his cock in your hand. You guided the slick, swollen head to your entrance. You were soaking wet, your cunt aching and throbbing for him.
You lowered yourself onto him with agonizing slowness.
He screamed. A raw, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure as you took him inside you. He was so fucking big, stretching you, filling you in a way that felt both like a violation and a benediction. You sank down, inch by searing inch, until his hips were flush with yours, until you had taken every last impossible inch of him. You both sat there for a moment, breathless, just feeling it. The absolute, magnificent fullness of him buried deep inside you.
"You feel so good," he rasped, his hands coming up to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your stomach. "So fucking tight."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and began to move. You rode him with a slow, grinding rhythm, your hips rolling, milking him. You were in control. He was your plaything. You watched his face contort with pleasure, his eyes rolling back in his head, his lips parted in a silent, desperate plea.
"You like that?" you purred, leaning down to bite his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. "Like it when I fuck you?"
"Yes," he groaned, his hips beginning to buck beneath you, trying to meet your rhythm, to take back some control. "Gods, yes."
You sped up, your movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. This wasn't about control anymore. This was about two people finally getting what they'd been starving for. The sound of your bodies slapping together was a wet, obscene rhythm that echoed in the quiet grove. His hands were all over you, squeezing your ass, your breasts, leaving red marks on your skin that you knew you'd treasure later.
"Fuck me harder," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, I need it."
You gave him what he wanted. You rode him like you were trying to break him, your own orgasm building, a hot, tight coil in the pit of your stomach. He reached down, his fingers finding your clit in the slick mess between your bodies. He began to rub you with a firm, knowing pressure, and that was it. Your vision went white.
Your climax ripped through you, a violent, shuddering wave that made you scream his name. Your cunt clenched around his cock, milking him, and it was too much for him. With a final, guttural roar that was torn from the very depths of his soul, he came, his hips slamming up into you one last time as he flooded you with his hot, divine seed.
You collapsed onto his chest, boneless and trembling, your bodies slick with sweat and cum. For a long time, the only sound was the frantic rasp of your breathing and the gentle splash of the waterfall. He didn't pull out, keeping you impaled, keeping you connected. His arms were wrapped around you, holding you so tightly you felt like you might merge into one being.
Eventually, his breathing evened out. He shifted, rolling you both onto the soft moss so that you were lying beside him, still joined together. He kissed you, a slow, deep, lingering kiss that was full of all the tenderness that had been absent before. It tasted of salt and sweat and satisfaction.
"Fuck," he whispered against your lips, a word that was both an expletive and a prayer. "I needed that."
"Me too," you murmured, tracing idle patterns on his chest, right over his wildly beating heart.
You lay there for what could have been minutes or hours, tangled together in the twilight of your secret place. The raw, desperate hunger had been sated, leaving behind a warm, deep, and quiet intimacy. You knew he'd have to leave soon. The world would call him back. But for now, in this moment, he was completely, utterly, and beautifully yours. And you were his. That was all that mattered.
Could I request a Telemachus smut...?šI DON'T CARE ABOUT THE SCENERY OR WHAT ITS ABOUT I'M JUST DESPERATE
Tomorrow Night
A/N : Wowza. I definitely felt something when I wrote this.
WARNING : Smut, Fem!Reader, short.
Word Count : 1.2k
The air on the western balcony was cool and sharp with the scent of the sea. Below, the waves crashed against the cliffs of Ithaca, a constant, rhythmic sigh that almost drowned out the raucous noise spilling from the great hall. You leaned against the cold stone of the balustrade, pulling your shawl tighter around your shoulders, your eyes fixed on the path that wound up from the servant's quarters. This was your secret place. Yours and his.
Patience was a virtue you had been forced to learn in this palace-turned-prison. You waited, listening, every shadow a potential suitor, every distant shout a threat. Your relationship with Telemachus was a dangerous, flickering flame in a house full of gunpowder. A stolen glance across the hall, a fleeting brush of hands in a corridor, and these precious, terrifying nights were all you had. To be discovered would mean ruin for you, and for him... you didn't dare to think about it. It would be another weakness for the jackals to exploit.
Just when you began to fear he wouldn't come, a figure emerged from the shadows of the colonnade. He moved with a quiet urgency, his familiar silhouette a balm to your frayed nerves.
"Telemachus," you breathed, stepping forward as he closed the distance between you.
He didn't speak at first. He simply pulled you into his arms, his embrace tight and desperate. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if your scent was the only clean air he had breathed all day. You could feel the tension humming through him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the weary sigh that shuddered through his frame.
"They're worse tonight," he finally murmured, his voice muffled by your hair. "Eurymachus brought a gift for my mother. A golden chain. He presented it as if he were already master of this house. I had to stand there and watch. Smile." The word was a bitter curse.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to cup his face. The moonlight carved his features into a mask of frustration and exhaustion. "You are strong," you whispered, your thumbs stroking his tired skin. "You endure more than any of them could."
"It's not strength," he countered, his eyes searching yours. "It's a cage. Every day I walk through my own home a prisoner. The only time I feel free... the only time I feel like myself... is here. With you."
His words were a brand of heat on your heart. He leaned in and captured your lips, the kiss a raw, hungry expression of all his pent-up fury and longing. There was no gentleness in it, not at first. It was a desperate, claiming act, a frantic need to feel something real and good in a world that had become ugly and false. You met his fervor with your own, your fingers tangling in his hair, your body pressing flush against his. This was your shared rebellion, a silent defiance in the dark.
His hands slid from your waist, one moving down to cup your rear and lift you against him, while the other tangled in the laces of your tunic. He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pressed his lips to your jaw, your neck, the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"I need you," he whispered, the words both a plea and a statement of fact. "Gods, Y/N, I need you."
He guided you backwards, pressing you against the cold, solid wall of the palace, shielding you from the open air with his body. The contrast of the cool stone against your back and the heat of his skin was electric. With practiced, impatient fingers, he untied your tunic, pushing the fabric aside. The night air was cool on your bare skin, but you felt nothing but the fire of his touch, his mouth, his gaze.
He looked at you, his eyes dark and intense in the moonlight, a silent question that needed no words. You answered by arching into him, your hands sliding down his chest, over the hard muscles of his stomach, unlashing the belt of his own tunic. The need for him was a sharp, aching thing inside you, a hunger that only he could satisfy.
He lifted you with an ease that always surprised you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you more firmly against the wall. There was no bed, no soft furs, only the two of you and the charged, dangerous night. It was raw, elemental. He entered you with a single, powerful thrust that stole the breath from your lungs, a gasp you had to stifle against his shoulder.
He began to move, a frantic, powerful rhythm that was born of desperation and love. Every thrust was a blow against the suitors, against his helplessness, against the fate that kept them apart. His body was hard and sure against yours, a living anchor in the chaos of your lives. You clung to him, your nails digging into the strong muscles of his back, meeting his rhythm as best you could, your bodies moving in a frantic, secret dance.
The world narrowed to this single point of contact, to the feeling of him inside you, to the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear, to his whispered words of adoration against your skin. He called you his queen, his hope, his sanctuary. He was grounding himself in you, and you were finding your own strength in him.
Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built within you, tightening with an unbearable intensity. You bit your lip to keep from crying out as the first tremors shook you, your body clenching around him. Your release triggered his own. With a final, deep thrust, he stilled, his body shuddering against yours, your name a muffled groan against your neck.
For a long moment, you simply held each other, your hearts hammering in unison. The sounds of the palace seemed to have faded away, leaving only the sigh of the sea and your mingled breaths. He slowly lowered you until your feet touched the ground, though he made no move to separate from you. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed.
"I love you," he whispered into the small space between you. The words were quiet, but they held the weight of an oath.
"And I you," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.
The moment was a perfect, fragile bubble, and you both knew it couldn't last. With a shared sigh of reluctance, you began to straighten your clothes, the return to propriety feeling like a betrayal. He helped you tie your laces, his fingers gentle and lingering, his eyes full of a sorrow that mirrored your own.
He took your hand, raising it to his lips for a final, soft kiss. "Tomorrow night?" he asked, his voice low.
You nodded. "Tomorrow night."
He gave your hand one last squeeze before melting back into the shadows, leaving you alone on the balcony. You stayed for a moment longer, the cool stone at your back no longer feeling cold. You could still feel the warmth of him, the ghost of his touch, the echo of his love. It was a fire that would have to be enough to keep you warm until you could steal another moment from the darkness.
I would love an x reader (fem) where one of the suitors was being inappropriate with yn, and to make her feel better, telemachus ~~ya know
If you can of course š«¶thank you
Always You
A/N : I'm so fucking happy today and ya'll don't even know why. Anyway, how do you like your smut? Detailed and sexier that it will not only give you butterflies in your stomach, but also between your legs? Or is this fine?
WARNING : Smut, Fem!Reader, attempt at harassment.
Word Count : 2.2k
The great hall of Odysseus's palace had long ceased to feel like a home. Now, it was a den, a cage filled with prowling, preening beasts who called themselves suitors. Laughter, loud and grating, bounced off the stone walls, thick with the stench of spilled wine and roasted meat. You kept your eyes downcast, your hands tightly clasped as you navigated the edge of the room. Your task was simple ā refill the wine jugs ā but every step felt like walking through a field of grasping thorns.Ā
They were always watching. Their eyes, hungry and dismissive, followed every serving girl, every lady of the court, every woman who wasn't the queen they claimed to covet. You had learned to make yourself small, to move like a shadow, but tonight, the shadows weren't deep enough.
"Well, look here," a voice slurred, and a heavy arm snaked around your waist, yanking you back against a hard chest. You froze, the ceramic jug in your hand rattling. It was Antinous, his breath hot and sour against your ear. "The pretty little mouse finally scampers out of her hole."
His men roared with laughter. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. "My lord," you managed, your voice a thin thread. "You are mistaken. Please, let me go."
"And why would I do that?" he chuckled, his fingers digging painfully into your side. He spun you around to face him, his eyes roaming over your body with a proprietary glare that made your skin crawl. "A man deserves a bit of entertainment while he waits. A little taste to whet the appetite." He leaned in closer, his thumb stroking your jaw with a touch that felt like a brand. "Don't be shy."
Panic seized you. You could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on you, none of them kind, none of them willing to help. You looked desperately towards the high table, where Telemachus sat. His face was a thundercloud, his jaw tight and his knuckles white where he gripped his goblet. His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw a mirror of your own trapped helplessness, a burning rage he could not yet unleash. But he was just one man, a boy in their eyes, against a hundred.
Antinous followed your gaze and sneered. "Looking for the little prince? He can't help you. He can't even help himself." He tugged you closer, his intentions sickeningly clear.
Summoning a strength you didn't know you possessed, you twisted violently, stomping your heel down hard on his foot. He roared in pain, his grip momentarily loosening. It was all the chance you needed. You wrenched yourself free, dropping the jugāit shattered on the stone floor, the sound lost in the ensuing jeersāand fled. You didn't look back. You ran, pushing past gawking servants, and burst out into the cool night air of the courtyard gardens.
You didn't stop until you reached the far end, collapsing onto a marble bench hidden behind a thicket of olive trees. The adrenaline faded, leaving you trembling and nauseous. Sobs wracked your body, silent and convulsive. The feeling of his hands on you, his foul breath, the utter humiliation of it allāit clung to you like a shroud. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to scrub away the memory of his touch.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, slow and hesitant. You flinched, curling into yourself, ready to run again.
"Y/N?"
The voice was low, gentle, and achingly familiar. You looked up through your tear-blurred vision to see Telemachus standing a few feet away, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. The rage was still in his eyes, but it was banked now, overshadowed by a deep, pained concern.
He didn't move closer, giving you space. "Are you alright? What he did... what he tried to do... by the gods, I wanted to kill him." His voice was raw, shaking with the force of his contained fury. "I am so sorry. That this happened in my home. That I couldn't stop it."
The genuine anguish in his voice broke through your own fear. You shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. He took a tentative step forward, then another, until he was kneeling before you on the gravel.
"May I?" he asked softly, his hand hovering in the air between you.
You gave a shaky nod. His touch was the complete antithesis of Antinous's. His fingers were warm and careful as they gently brushed a stray tear from your cheek. His thumb stroked your skin with a reverence that made a fresh wave of tears fall. This was a touch that asked, not took. A touch that soothed, not soiled.
"They are animals," he whispered, his eyes searching yours. "They dishonor my father's memory, they drain my mother's spirit, and they look at the women of this palace like... like you are just another part of the feast. And I can do nothing." The confession was a bitter pill on his tongue. "I see the way they look at you. The way they all do. I hate it."
"It's not your fault," you finally whispered, your voice hoarse.
"It is my duty to protect everyone under this roof," he insisted, his gaze intense. "And I am failing." He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, a silent anchor in the storm of your emotions. "He will not touch you again. I swear it on my father's name."
You squeezed his hand, drawing strength from his promise. You sat there for a long time, the sounds of the revelry in the hall a distant, ugly murmur. Here, in the quiet of the garden, with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the steady warmth of Telemachus's hand in yours, you began to feel the trembling subside.
"I don't want to go back in there," you said, the thought of facing those leering eyes making you feel ill again.
"You won't have to," he said immediately. "Come with me. Somewhere safe. Somewhere they can't reach you."
He stood, pulling you gently to your feet. He didn't let go of your hand as he led you not back towards the main palace, but through a series of quieter, winding corridors, his presence a shield against the shadows. He led you to his own chambers.
The room was spartan but clean, smelling of sea salt and old parchment. A single oil lamp cast a warm, golden glow over the space. He shut the heavy wooden door behind you, the sound a definitive barrier against the world outside. The silence that filled the room was a balm.
"No one will bother you here," he said, finally releasing your hand, though his eyes never left your face. He seemed to unsure of what to do next, his shoulders tense. "You can rest. I'll stand guard outside."
"No," you said, the word coming out stronger than you expected. "Don't go. Please." The thought of being alone was suddenly unbearable.
He searched your face, a question in his eyes. You saw the conflict thereāthe desire to comfort you warring with the fear of overstepping, of being anything like the men you had just fled from.
You took a step closer to him. "He made me feel... dirty," you confessed, the shame a hot blush on your cheeks. "Like I was an object. Something for the taking."
Telemachus's expression hardened, his jaw clenching again. "You are not," he said, his voice low and fierce. "You are more radiant than Helen, and wiser than any of his drunken fools could ever comprehend. You are... everything."
The intensity of his words stole your breath. He closed the remaining distance between you, his hands coming up to cup your face, his touch so achingly tender it made your heart ache.
"Let me help you forget him," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. "Let me show you how you areĀ meantĀ to be touched. How you deserve to be cherished. Only if you want it, Y/N. Tell me to stop at any moment, and I will."
His sincerity was a tangible thing, a promise that wrapped around you more securely than any blanket. All the fear, all the disgust, all the simmering anger you felt, coalesced into a single, desperate need: to feel wanted, not taken. To feel safe. To feelĀ his.
You lifted your head, your lips brushing his as you whispered, "Don't stop."
That was all the permission he needed. His mouth met yours in a kiss that was both hesitant and hungry, a desperate outpouring of all the words he couldn't say in the hall. It was a kiss of apology, of protection, of a longing that had clearly been simmering for far longer than just one night. Your hands came up to tangle in his dark curls, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as you poured all your own unspoken feelings into it.
His hands slid from your face, down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the line of your back. Every touch was deliberate, questioning, and when you leaned into him, a soft sigh escaping your lips, he grew bolder. He guided you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed, and you sat, pulling him down with you.
He broke the kiss to look at you, his eyes dark with emotion, illuminated by the flickering lamplight. "You are so beautiful," he murmured, his fingers gently tracing the neckline of your tunic. "May I?"
You nodded, your throat too tight for words. With painstaking slowness, he began to undress you. He unpinned your hair, letting it cascade over your shoulders, his fingers carding through the strands as if they were spun gold. He untied the laces of your tunic, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with fear. He eased the fabric from your shoulders, his gaze worshipful as he looked at you. There was no lustful leer, no greedy appraisal, only a raw, breathtaking awe.
He shed his own tunic with an impatient grace, and then his hands were on your skin once more. He laid you back against the furs and linens of his bed, his body hovering over yours. He kissed you again, deeply, while his hands began a slow, deliberate exploration. He was learning you, memorizing the curve of your waist, the shape of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He was overwriting every foul memory of Antinous's touch with his own, replacing violation with veneration.
When his fingers finally brushed against your core, you gasped, your back arching. He paused, his eyes instantly finding yours, checking, always checking. You gave him a small, trembling nod, and he smiled, a soft, reassuring expression that made your heart melt. His touch was exquisite, knowing, and entirely focused on you. He took his time, drawing soft sounds from your throat as he coaxed your body back to life, reminding you that it was yours, that its pleasure was a thing of beauty, not a thing to be stolen.
You felt yourself unraveling under his patient, devoted attention, the last vestiges of the night's horror melting away in the heat he was building within you. When he finally shifted, positioning himself between your legs, you were more than ready. You met his gaze, a silent communication passing between you, a shared understanding of what this moment meant. It was more than just physical release; it was a reclamation.
He entered you with a slow, deliberate thrust, a reverent joining that was both a comfort and a fire. He held himself still for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with your own. "Always you," he whispered, as if it were a prayer. "It has always been you."
Then he began to move, a steady, perfect rhythm that was a dance of pure sensation and emotion. His body worshipped yours with every push, every retreat. Your hands roamed his back, your nails scraping lightly over his skin, and you pulled him down for another searing kiss. The world outside the room, the suitors, the fearāit all ceased to exist. There was only the lamplight, the soft bed, and the man who was showing you, in the most profound way possible, that you were cherished.
He brought you to a shattering peak, your name a cry on his lips, and he followed you soon after, collapsing against you with a shuddering groan. For a long while, the only sound was your ragged breaths mingling in the quiet room. He didn't pull away. He simply shifted his weight, gathering you close against his side, his arm a protective barrier around you. He pulled the furs up to cover you both, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your hair.
"Is this okay?" he murmured against your temple.
"More than okay," you whispered, your voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. You felt utterly safe, completely treasured. The last of the shame had been burned away, replaced by a warm, glowing certainty.
You snuggled closer, your head finding its place on his chest, right over his steadily beating heart. The memory of Antinous was a distant ghost, a phantom that no longer had any power over you. Here, in Telemachus's arms, you were not an object to be taken. You were a woman who was loved. And for the first time in a very long time, you felt like you were finally home.
Hi, Oddy here!
So, I have a funny story about work. I was busyāyou know, just cleaning up my stocks and restocking themāwhen suddenly, two young women came up to me at the counter and asked, āHello! Do you guys sell lido here?ā (Please note: I work in a drugstore.)
I replied, āHello! Sorry, no, we donāt have any ālido,āā I said professionally, as I walked up to stand face-to-face with them. Then they started mumbling to each other, until one of them suddenly gasped as if she just had a realization.
āOh no! We meant dildo! Do you guys sell that here? Dildo?ā
I froze. āWhat?ā I asked, completely caught off guard.
Then I hesitantly followed up with, āA medicineā¦ or theā¦?ā I was so unsure!!!
They eagerly nodded, saying it was a medicine.
At that point, I wanted to laugh right then and there, but being the professional employee I am, I swallowed it down and pretended to type on our computerāsearching for a āmedicineā called Dildo.
I stared at the screen for a good five seconds, rethinking my life choices, before finally saying, āNo, sorry. We donāt have any dildo here.ā
They looked disappointed and then walked away.
If you'd like to hear more stories about my job, or not, since no one likes talking about jobs anyway, feel free to let me know! I will also be posting 4(?) one-shots that have been sitting in my drafts for almost a month now. I'm sorry for not giving you your main course; you must've been starving.
HIHIHi I looove everything you write!! can I request a fic of Reader and Telemachus's first kiss? the deal is that none of them enjoy kissing and have always considered it corny and gross, but suddenly Telemachus wants to do it, so he tries a looooot of crazy and dumb shit to discreetly get to that, but everything fails so he decides on the end to give up and simply and bluntly ask reader for the kiss LOL pretty pls
A Heroās Kiss
A/N : The winner from the poll. Hereās your appetizer! I have never loved Telemachus more than ever. I lowkey head-cannon him to try matching his lovers vibes when it comes to displays of affection. Example given: His s/o hates/loathes physical affection, so then heāll also pretend to hate it even tho heās a sucker for physical affectionsāespecially hugs and kisses.
WARNING : Fluffy fluff fluff. GN!Reader
Word Count : 1.5k
The hearth fire cast long, dancing shadows across the stone floor of the small chamber, a quiet refuge from the boisterous cacophony of the suitors in the great hall below. The air smelled of woodsmoke, beeswax, and the salty tang of the sea that clung to Ithaca's very bones. Here, away from the prying eyes and leering jests, Telemachus felt he could almost breathe.
Beside him, you were meticulously re-stringing a lyre, your fingers moving with a practiced, steady grace that he had always admired. You and he had a long-standing pact, an unspoken treaty against the grand, performative gestures of affection that seemed to plague the world of heroes and gods. You both agreed, often and with great solemnity, that kissing was a rather silly, overwrought affair.
"Look at them," you'd murmured just an hour earlier, peering through a crack in the door to the great hall as Antinous made a flowery, and frankly ridiculous, speech in Penelope's direction. "All that posturing. You'd think their lips were forged by Hephaestus himself, the way they puff them out. It's absurd."
Telemachus had snorted in agreement. "A waste of good air."
But he was a hypocrite. A fraud. A liar of the highest order. For weeks, a thought had taken root in his mind, a stubborn, tenacious vine that was slowly wrapping itself around his every waking moment. He wanted to kiss you. He, Telemachus, the boy who scoffed at poets' tales of love, wanted to partake in the most absurd, overwrought ritual of them all. And he had no idea how to do it without making a complete fool of himself.
His first attempt had been a disaster of mythic proportions. He'd devised a plan based on the principle of 'Heroic Proximity.' You were in the storeroom, fetching a new amphora of wine to replace one the suitors had drained. He'd "accidentally" jostled a tall, precarious stack of empty clay jars nearby, intending to sweep you out of the way of the toppling column in a feat of daring rescue. He imagined the gasp, the gratitude, the breathless moment their eyes would meet. In reality, he misjudged the trajectory entirely. The jars clattered harmlessly in the opposite direction, while he, in his heroic lunge, tripped over his own feet and landed face-first in a sack of barley.
You had simply stared at him, covered in dust and grain, with an expression of profound bewilderment. "Are the floors attacking you now, my prince?" you had asked, your voice dangerously flat. He had spent the rest of the day picking barley out of his tunic.
His next strategy was 'Atmospheric Persuasion.' He lured you down to the shoreline at dusk, under the pretense of checking the fishing nets. The sky was a masterpiece of bruised purples and fiery oranges, the sea a sheet of hammered gold. It was a setting worthy of a bard's song. He had even rehearsed a line, something profound about the horizon mirroring the endless possibilities between two people.
He turned to you, took a deep, dramatic breath, and opened his mouth to speak. At that exact moment, a large, audacious seagull, clearly unimpressed with romance, swooped down and stole the piece of dried fish he had been saving in his hand. The ensuing squawk and flutter of wings completely shattered the tranquil mood. You, far from being swept away by the beauty of the moment, had dissolved into a fit of unrestrained laughter that echoed across the beach. "Even the birds find you ridiculous," you'd gasped, wiping tears from your eyes.
He felt his hope beginning to curdle into despair. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps it was all just silly. Yet, the longing persisted, a dull ache in his chest whenever you smiled at him, whenever your arm brushed his, whenever you looked at him with that uniquely perceptive gaze that made him feel seen in a way no one else did.
Tonight, sitting by the fire, he decided on one last, desperate attempt. Simplicity. A shared, quiet task. He had a basket of dried olives on the floor beside him, meant for the oil press on the morrow.
"Could you help me sort these?" he asked, his voice sounding a little too tight. "Remove any bad ones."
You looked up from the lyre, offering him a small, easy smile. "Of course." You shifted closer, the warmth from your body a pleasant hum next to his. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the soft click of olives being dropped into a discard bowl. The flickering light caught in your hair, turning it to a halo of spun gold and shadow. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
'Now,' his mind screamed. 'Just lean over. Say something. Anything!'
He formulated a new, incredibly foolish plan in the space of a single heartbeat. The 'Accidental Tumble.' He would reach for an olive on your side of the basket, overbalance slightly, and perhaps his hand would land on yours. It was subtle. It was plausible.
He leaned. He reached. But in his nervousness, he put too much weight on his supporting hand, which slipped on a stray olive that had rolled onto the flagstones. His balance evaporated. With a yelp of surprise, he flailed, his arms pinwheeling through the air as he tried to correct his trajectory. His hand, instead of landing gracefully on yours, slammed directly into the basket of olives, sending them scattering across the floor like a shower of dark pebbles. Worse, a cascade of them flew upwards, and he felt a dozen or more land directly in his already unruly hair.
He froze, half-sprawled on the floor, the empty basket lying on its side. Silence descended, thick and heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, well-deserved mockery.
A small, choked sound escaped you. He cracked one eye open. You were staring at him, your hand over your mouth, your shoulders shaking. And then it came, a peel of bright, unrestrained laughter that filled the small room, a sound more beautiful than any lyre. You laughed until you had to clutch your stomach, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
He felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. It was over. He was a clown, a jester, a boy playing at being a man and failing at every turn.
"I'm sorry," you finally managed, taking a deep, shuddering breath. You reached out, your laughter softening into a look of genuine, tender amusement, and began to gently pick the olives from his hair, one by one. "Oh, Telemachus. What, by all the gods, is wrong with you lately?"
Your touch was light, almost reverent. And something inside him broke. All the planning, all the scheming, all the ridiculous, elaborate failures ā they all felt so utterly pointless in the face of that simple, gentle touch.
"I wanted to kiss you," he said, the words tumbling out, quiet and raw in the firelight.
Your hand stilled in his hair. The laughter died on your lips. You looked down at him, your expression unreadable in the flickering shadows. "You what?" you whispered.
"I wanted to kiss you," he repeated, looking up to meet your gaze, his own eyes filled with a desperate, ragged honesty. "I know we think it's silly. I know it's absurd. And every time I've tried to... orchestrate some perfect moment like in the poets' songs, I end up covered in barley or fighting a seagull or wearing olives in my hair. I'm no hero from a song, Y/N. I'm just... me. And I really, truly want to kiss you."
He watched, breathless, as a storm of emotions passed over your face. Surprise. Confusion. And then, a slow, dawning comprehension. A soft light entered your eyes, a warmth that seemed to push back the shadows. You saw it all now ā the clumsiness, the strange behavior, the fumbled attempts ā not as failures, but as the earnest, awkward efforts of a boy who was terrified of getting it wrong.
A smile, small and incredibly gentle, touched your lips. You finished picking the last olive from his hair, your fingers lingering for a moment against his temple.
"Oh, you fool," you murmured, your voice thick with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "A perfect moment?" You leaned down, your face coming closer to his until he could feel the soft warmth of your breath. "You don't need to orchestrate anything."
And then, you closed the small distance between you.
It wasn't a hero's kiss, claimed in victory or passion. It was hesitant, and soft, and tasted faintly of salt and smoke. It was a question and an answer all at once. It was clumsy and perfect and real. It was a quiet promise made in a small room, a moment of peace stolen from a world of chaos.
When you pulled back, the firelight was dancing in your eyes. He was breathless, his world tilted on its axis.
"Well," you said, your voice a low murmur. "Perhaps it's not so absurd after all."
He stared at you, a slow, wondrous smile spreading across his face. In that moment, with the scent of woodsmoke in the air and the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, Telemachus felt, for the first time, not like the son of Odysseus, but simply, completely, himself. And it was more than enough.
HIII ODDYY YOURE BACKK ā„ļø I COULD SURVIVE WITHOUT YOU FOR A DAY š
In your last post, you said 'Iāll keep doing my best to create stories worth getting lost inš¤'
I just want to say: I wanna get lost in your eyes instead *wink wink*
(lol this was kinda cringe but I wanted to say smthng)
Oh, so you want to get lost in my eyes instead of my writing? Bold move,, But fair warning: unlike my stories, my eyes donāt have a clear endingā¦ so you might just be wandering around in them forever ;))
