Hi can I get tipsy/drunk Telemachus and reader taking care of him... (if you're comfortable with it)
Maybe him not recognizing the reader in his stupor and insisting that he's taken and not letting the reader near him even though they're the lover...
Too much wine? Or too much you?
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Summary: After finding the Prince of Ithaca drunkenly draped across a courtyard bench, wine-soaked and tragic like a hero from the wrong part of an epic. He doesn’t recognize you—his very real, very tired lover and goes on about describing you to yourself. But with just a kiss, you prove him wrong with that, and slowly, tenderly, the truth settles in.
Pairing: GN!Reader x Telemachus
A/N: hii! :) been a while ehe, yes, i'm still alive, yes i'm still writing! school started for me a week or two ago, and i honestly have been locking ?? IDK EITHER OKAY. ANYWAY TRUST I'LL HAVE MY OTHER FICS READY EHEHE
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You find him draped dramatically across a stone bench in the palace courtyard, one arm flung over his face like some tragic hero of epic poetry. The moonlight washes him in silver, turning his tousled curls pale and angelic despite the absolute disaster he currently is. One sandal lies discarded on the path several feet away, the other dangles precariously from his toes, and his robe is haphazardly bunched around his hips like he’d tried to wrestle it off and then gave up halfway.
The scent of spiced wine clings to him like a second tunic, that sweet, heady, and unmistakable. It rises off his skin in waves, mingling with salt and sun-warmed linen, the sour tang of a long night tangled in revelry. He smells like fermented pomegranates and poor decisions—like the kind of mistakes made under moonlight with a crown askew and music still echoing in the blood.
You find him draped inelegantly across a marble bench in the palace courtyard, one sandal missing, the other stubbornly clinging to his toes like it, too, has had too much. A toppled goblet lies nearby, glittering darkly in the moonlight. You step over it gingerly, skirts brushing the stone.
“‘Machus,” you murmur, voice pitched low with fond exasperation. “Gods, how much did you drink?”
At the sound of your voice, he jolts upright with all the grace of a startled cat. If the cat were drunk, disoriented, and draped in linen. Or at least, he tries to. His body surges upward in a heroic attempt at dignity, but his head forgets to follow, lolling behind like it’s tethered to another reality. The motion throws him off-balance, and for a breathless moment, he teeters on the edge of the bench like a ship about to capsize.
“Stay.. back!” he declares, slurring the words like they’re part of some sacred incantation. His arm swings out wildly, hand flailing in your general direction as if he’s trying to cast a protective spell—or maybe just swat away his own embarrassment. “I-I have a lover,” he says with drunken dignity, chin lifting despite the wobble in his neck. “A very serious one... Beautiful. Brilliant. Smells like honey and olives. You’d like them. Everyone does.”
You blink, deadpan. “You do have a lover,” you say, stepping closer, voice gentle but edged with disbelief. “It’s me.” Your words hang in the air between you, suspended like the silence before a storm. He stares, uncomprehending, as if you’ve just introduced yourself as a minor deity he’s forgotten to worship.
He peers at you through narrowed, suspicious eyes, tilting his head like he’s studying a particularly convincing mirage. There’s a long, squinting pause where you can see him trying to match your face to the memory of someone he swears is taller, glowier, somehow more mythical. Clearly, he thinks you might be some particularly clever imposter sent to tempt him off the path of righteousness.
“No,” he says finally, with the firm conviction of a man who is very wrong. He shakes his head—slowly, deliberately, like it might rattle the truth loose. “No, no. They’re… mmm. Taller.. Than you.”
You sigh. Long-suffering. Measured. The kind of sigh born from love, frustration, and the urge to throw a sandal at his head.
“They have a.. a presence!” he insists, swaying as he gestures grandly, nearly smacking himself in the face with the back of his own hand. “Like light through a tapestry. And they kiss me on the nose. You haven’t kissed me on the nose.. So you're NO—”
You step in, slow and deliberate, the silk of your robes whispering against the stone. Cutting off to whatever he was rambling about. He doesn’t move—just watches you with wide, glassy eyes, like he’s unsure whether to flinch or fall into you. You lean down, close enough to see the faint flush high on his cheeks, the way his lashes stick together from sleep or sweat or too much wine. The scent of him wraps around you—spiced wine and warm skin, smoke from torches long gone out, the salt-sweetness of a day spent in the sun. And then, with the gentlest touch, you press a kiss to the tip of his nose.
“There,” you murmur, barely above a breath.
He stares at you, going very still. Blinks once. Then twice. “…You’ve done your research,” he says cautiously, voice grave with wine-soaked doubt. “But I’m not convinced.”
You bite back a laugh and crouch beside him, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Telemachus. It’s me. Your very serious, beautiful, smart partner who smells like honey and olives and has to deal with your entire drunk ass right now.” He scowls like you’ve asked him to solve a riddle in Linear B. His brows knit together, lips twitching as if deep in thought—except his eyes are glassy and unfocused, and he’s clearly doing mental math with two brain cells and half a grape.
“If you’re really them,” he says, swaying dramatically in your direction, “then tell me what I said last night. In bed. Before sleep.”
You cross your arms. Sighing almost in defeat.
“You said— and I quote, ‘If you ever leave me, I’ll throw myself into the sea and let the fish raise me. They’ll teach me how to swim with my feelings.’”
He gasps. Dramatically loud. “That is what I said..!”
And then, without grace, warning, or any coordination whatsoever—he launches forward like a wave breaking from nowhere. His arms wrap around you in a heavy, clumsy hug that nearly takes your feet out from under you. You stagger, just barely catching your balance as his full weight slumps into you, warm and breathless and entirely unrepentant.
His cheek smushes against your shoulder, the curve of his nose pressing into your collar. You feel the heat of him—sun-warmed skin, wine-flushed and slightly sweaty—like a fevered anchor pulling you into the moment. His breath ghosts along your neck, uneven and sighing, tinged with wine and something softer, something like relief.
“You smell right,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “S’not a trick.. You’re warm. And you smell right.”
His grip tightens slightly and lets out a satisfied hum, the kind a cat might make curling up in a sunbeam. “Your prince,” he mumbles, nuzzling into you as you half-carry, half-drag him toward the palace.
By the time you wrestle him through the threshold of his chambers, he’s halfway asleep, snoring softly, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. You ease him onto the bed, managing to undo the knot of his tunic without waking him.
He mumbles something into your shoulder—garbled and thick with sleep and wine. You catch the words fish and love and possibly moonlight in the same breath, though it’s entirely unclear how they’re meant to connect. Whatever point he was trying to make is lost to the ether. And then, as suddenly as he clung to you, he lets go—slumping sideways with all the grace of a felled tree. He flops onto the bench like it’s a mattress built for kings, one arm dangling off the side, tunic rucked up around his ribs. His cheek presses to the cool stone as he exhales a deep, satisfied sigh.
You lean in again, slower this time, watching his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks, his lips parted in that faint, dreamy way he gets when he’s somewhere between sleep and sweetness. And then—gently, reverently—you press another kiss to the tip of his nose. Soft and lingering. Like sealing a promise. Like reminding him who he belongs to without needing to say a word.
“My love..?” he whispers, while you brush a hand through his curls. You hum in response.
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eeerrr this is also to make up for my angst LASOUHJDUISA)
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