Request where Bucky is too big and can’t fit, and where it’s her first time? In the moment she feels like she ruined there intimate time and spirals how it’s her fault but Bucky isn’t having it and reassures her there’s many times to try again and help her adapt to fit him, where her first doesn’t mean anything and can help him navigate her body more better for future runs🥹
The moment shifts so fast it makes your head spin.
One second, Bucky’s kissing you slow and deep against the pillows, his big hand cradling your jaw while he whispers soft praise into your mouth. The next, there’s a sharp sting that has your breath catching hard enough to make him freeze instantly.
“Hey—hey.” His forehead presses to yours immediately. “Doll, look at me.”
But embarrassment crashes over you before you can even think.
You’d spent weeks imagining this. Your first time with him. Soft sheets, dim lights, Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon. You wanted it to be perfect—wanted to be good at it, somehow, even though you had no idea what you were doing.
Instead, you’re tense beneath him, eyes burning with humiliation while he carefully stills his hips.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.
Bucky actually recoils a little, brows pulling together. “Sorry for what?”
“It’s my fault,” you whisper, mortified. “I—I can’t—”
“Baby.” His voice turns impossibly gentle. “No.”
You turn your face away anyway, because the disappointment feels huge in your chest now. Stupid and irrational and overwhelming all at once. “I ruined it.”
His hand slides under your chin before you can hide from him completely. “You think this is ruined?”
Your throat tightens.
Bucky shifts carefully, making sure none of his weight settles too heavily on you before he pulls back completely. The loss of him makes you feel oddly emotional, tears prickling at your eyes while he immediately notices.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His expression softens so fast it nearly breaks you. “C’mere.”
Before you can protest, he gathers you against his chest, bare skin warm and solid around you. One hand strokes slowly down your spine while the other cups the back of your head.
“You did nothing wrong,” he says firmly.
“But—”
“No.” He kisses your temple. “Not letting you talk bad about yourself right now.”
Your face burns hotter.
“It hurt,” you admit quietly.
“Then we stop.” Simple. Immediate. No frustration. No annoyance. “That’s how this works.”
You swallow hard. “Aren’t you disappointed?”
Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you like you’ve genuinely said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“Disappointed?” he repeats. “Doll, I’m in bed with the woman I love. You trusted me enough for this in the first place.” His thumb brushes under your eye. “There is absolutely nothing disappointing about tonight.”
“But we couldn’t—”
“We don’t have to finish anything.”
Your chest aches at how sincere he sounds.
Bucky exhales softly before resting his forehead against yours again. “Honey, I’m a big guy. We already knew that might mean taking things slow.”
The shy humiliation makes you groan quietly into his shoulder. “God.”
“Nope.” He presses a grin into your hair. “Not letting you spiral.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know.” His voice drops softer. “But your first time isn’t some pass-fail test, sweetheart.”
That gets your attention a little.
Bucky leans back against the headboard, guiding you with him until you’re tucked against his chest beneath the blankets. His metal hand rubs lazy circles over your thigh while he speaks carefully, like he wants you to really hear him.
“Movies and people online make it sound like your first time is supposed to be this magical perfect thing where everything works immediately.” He snorts softly. “Reality’s usually awkward. Bodies need time. Especially when nerves are involved.”
You fidget a little. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m absolutely saying that,” he replies. “Because it’s true.”
His fingers trace absent patterns against your skin.
“And for the record?” he continues, quieter now. “I’d rather stop a hundred times than have you push yourself because you think you owe me something.”
That one hits hard enough your eyes sting again.
Bucky notices immediately. “Hey. None of that.”
“You’re too sweet,” you mumble.
“Nah. Just crazy about you.”
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself.
“There she is,” he murmurs warmly. “Missed that smile.”
You hide your face in his chest again. “Still embarrassed.”
“That’s okay.” He kisses the top of your head. “You can be embarrassed. Doesn’t make you a failure.”
Silence settles for a minute, soft and warm instead of tense now. His heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your cheek while his hands continue touching you in absentminded little reassuring ways.
Eventually, you whisper, “What if it never works?”
Bucky immediately huffs a laugh.
“Sweetheart, I survived HYDRA. I think between the two of us we can figure out logistics.”
You snort before you can stop yourself.
“There’s my girl.” He squeezes you gently. “Look, we’ve got time. We can go slower next time. More prep. Different positions. Hell, we don’t even have to try penetration at all for a while if you don’t want to.”
Your cheeks warm again, but this time it’s softer.
“You really don’t mind?”
“Mind?” Bucky repeats. “Honey, exploring this with you sounds pretty damn amazing to me.”
He tips your chin up so you meet his eyes again.
“Your body isn’t failing,” he says carefully. “It’s learning. And so am I.”
Something in your chest loosens at that.
“You mean that?”
“Every word.”
His nose brushes yours gently.
“And honestly?” A small grin tugs at his mouth. “Means I get an excuse to worship you slow.”
“Bucky.”
“What?” he teases lightly. “You think I’m complaining about taking my time learning what makes you feel good?”
Heat floods your face all over again.
He chuckles softly before growing serious once more. “There’s no deadline here. No pressure. We try again when you’re ready.” His thumb strokes your cheek. “Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. Doesn’t matter.”
The knot in your stomach finally starts easing.
“I just wanted it to be special,” you admit quietly.
Bucky’s entire expression melts.
“Baby,” he whispers, “it already was.”
Your eyes widen a little.
“You trusted me,” he says. “You communicated with me. We took care of each other.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “That’s what makes it special. Not whether everything went perfectly.”
You stare at him for a second before emotion rushes up unexpectedly hard.
“Oh no,” Bucky says immediately, smiling when your face crumples. “C’mere.”
You laugh watery and embarrassed as he pulls you fully into his lap beneath the blankets.
“You’re really okay?”
He kisses you slow this time. Sweet. Unhurried.
“Doll,” he murmurs against your mouth, “we’ve got forever to figure each other out.”
Synopsis: You have a long-time crush on the older Count Hiromi, and an arranged marriage plus some filthy letters break the count's icy exterior.
mdni | content: arranged marriage, first time, cunnilingus, wife/husband kink, oral sex, vaginal sex, age difference, eventual smut, praise kink, body worship, love letters, historical au (this is historically inaccurate asf)
Pairing: Wealthy Count! Hiromi x Lady of Society! reader
a/n: I coded actual letters on my AO3, so I recommend reading it there, but I will still include the letters, which are really just two letters lol
On the day you finally went into society, it was the first time you saw him. Just weeks after your twentieth birthday, your father ordered a beautiful high-waisted gown of moss-colored muslin. The short, puffed sleeves of your underdress lent a youthful softness to your shoulders, and your neck was adorned by a simple gold Venetian chain, holding a small teardrop seed pearl, with matching small pearl drops.
You understood your position in society, but you were not one of the many ladies who were easily impressed by the mere words of riches, a dance, and a handsome face. You wanted something more. Many of the acceptable bachelors were flashy and acted as if they were peacocks dazing the ladies.
You had stopped dancing with Mr. Finigan when you met his eyes, heart fluttering as he walked slowly and surely through the crowd, barely sparing a glance at the ladies. He observed, and when you stepped closer to him, you felt something strange in you come alive.
Count Hiromi is a man much older than you. A scandalous, but not outright inappropriate age difference of fifteen years. When you first met him, your breathe ragged because he was and still is, if not the most handsome man you’d encountered.
Tired eyes, with prominent eye bags, and swooped-back hair. His cheeks sank in, and his nose…hooked and large, whilst having a height that made you look up. But his profile extended to more than his handsomeness. Count Hiromi is rich, with land and businesses that your father can only wish to own.
It did not take long for men of society to reach out to your father and ask for your hand. A bag of riches, promises of land and partnership. Each proposal was rejected by you with a threat of leaving and disgracing his name. And each season passed, in which you denied a proposal, and instead made yourself look the very best and attended each ball hoping to catch a glimpse of Count Hiromi.
Two years have passed, and you remain unmarried. During those two years, you’ve accumulated five long letters, depicting your feelings and every filthy scenario that has crossed your mind about you and Lord Hiromi. Words and actions that a young girl like you should never utter or have thought.
Feb 13, 1812
My dearest Hiromi,
I am a lady of society…Yet, I have thoughts about you, Lord Hiromi…thoughts that not even a brothel maiden would utter to such a Lord. Since I’ve met you, I find myself longing for your presence in a manner akin to the yearning I have only ever felt for my dearest mother. Since I’ve met you, I’ve indulged in such carnal pleasure that my skin is left soaked with sweat in the dead of night, and my voice is left with the squeak of a mouse. I have no shame in my thoughts as I write them because I am sure that you will never read this letter and the many others that I’ve written for you. I long for your touch, your lips, your fingers, the smell of your clothes…I long for you, Lord Hiromi. I long for you to be my husband, and make me your wife in your bed, in your study, in the kitchen, anywhere that you might touch so that you can remember my scent. Sometimes, when I am alone, I look at those filthy marriage books given to the young ladies, and I imagine you as the man, taking me and undoing my body. I have no shame…I have no shame. I must tell you this, but I will never be able to.
I love you, Y/N
The sun shines so briefly through the window that it makes your father's hair look translucent in the light. Breakfast has been served, and yet he has not picked up his utensils, and his hands shake.
“Father, are you alright?” You ask, buttering a piece of fresh bread.
“I’ve placed a proposal for you,” he breathes, “Y/N, I beg you…please, this proposal must…it is from Count Hiromi.”
The piece of bread falls into the juice of the cold ham, and your body freezes. “I...I am to marry Count Hiruguma?”
Upon your words, your father's ears perk up. You smile, soft and small, until you’re laughing, and the cold piece of ham does not matter anymore. “I am to marry Count Hiromi.” You repeat.
“You will marry him…?”
You leap from the chair, thrusting yourself onto your father's body, arms wide enough to engulf him in a hug. You smile against his warm cheek, body vibrating with enough energy that it feels imprudent to sit down. “Yes. YES.”
“The wedding will proceed in five days.”
You pause, pulling away from him, “So fast?”
He nods, “Count Hiromi set the date himself.”
Your cheeks bloom red as you sit back down. “Tell me, father…you reckon he saw me from afar, and believed…believed I was the fairest?"
Your father sighs, “Please, Y/N…I am too old to believe in such a fairy…” he stops, a small smile curling on his lips, “You are the same beauty as your mother. He must've recognized the same beauty I recognized in your mother.”
“I must see him, Father.” You say softly, “I must…”
Fighting your father about society's rules and the appropriateness of going to a gentleman’s house early in the morning was a winning battle. Unlike many families, you didn’t live in town, and neither did Count Hiromi; the rules were slightly bendable.
Your maid, Florence, woke you up around 10 in the morning, and through a series of preparations, you were ready by 12 in the afternoon. Count Hiromi’s estate was a mere twenty-five miles, so by one in the afternoon, you were outside, trying to suppress a smile.
When the door opened, a young girl with tidy hair and large eyes was the first to greet you, “Good evening, I am-”
“Miss Y/N,” the girl gleams, quickly latching onto your arm, looking at your face as if studying you, “I am Kirara. My brother…truly undersold your beauty.”
“Your brother speaks of me?” You ask, a lopsided smile painted on your face as the young girl, barely a couple of inches shorter than you, hauls you into the grand estate. “I hope you’ve only…hear good things.”
Kirara laughs, “Indeed. Only good things, though he also failed to mention just how funny you are.”
You converse with Kirara, and by the end, what feels like an eternity, it’s almost as if you both become sisters. You barely bring up Hiromi, and instead converse about yourself, though sometimes he finds his way into the conversation. “His study…would you like to see it?”
You rapidly nod, and Kirara uses her maids to distract you while you quickly make your way into Hiromi’s study. The room smells of paper and oil, a myriad of books against the wall, while loose papers and documents cover the oak table and the floor. Your fingertips trace the spine of the books, leaning in to smell something close to chemicals and wood.
You’re too entranced in the spines of the books to notice the soft click of the door opening, until the door closes and you twirl. “Count Higuruma…I’m-”
“Miss Y/N. Yes, I am aware of you,” he says, and the drawl of his voice makes you almost quiver.
“I came by to…” You stop, unsure of what excuse to use to see him. You could be unabashedly and say to meet your prospective husband, and yet, you can’t seem to say that word. Husband. “My father wanted to propose a picnic. I told him I’d deliver the message.”
He hums, taking a couple of steps around his study, until he begins to walk towards you, and the feeling of the bookcase against the small of your back nearly makes you gasp. Hiromi smells of oakwood and spice. An odd combination. “Do you like my study?”
You rapidly nod, “I do…I am envious of your collection.”
He smiles, so small, you almost miss it. “There is no need…it will soon be yours as well.”
Your heart flutters, and for a second, your brain doesn’t seem to function. Your fingertips itch to touch him, and you fight the need to bury your face into his clothing and memorize the scent of him. “Will you come?”
“Yes.”
Count Hiromi walks you to the carriage, and when the footman glides to offer his hand, he’s the first on your side. His skin is calloused, but not too rough, and yet, he never smiles as your hand slides into his. You leave, giddy with a smile.
“A picnic?” Your father says with a heavy sigh, “For what? Must you always sacrifice me?”
“For me, father. So I can talk to him and…and hear his voice.”
Your father says nothing, simply sighing and slamming the door to his study. The next day, you put on the best gown your father has bought you. A simple lilac gown that makes your skin glow, and despite the event being a ‘picnic’, some rouge makes it’s way to your cheeks.
Time passes by, and with each second you wait for Hiromi or his sister to make an appearance. The entire afternoon had shone briefly with the sun, its rays gleaming down, making the water glint and shimmer, while the woods looked green and full.
“I do not believe they will come.” Your father interjects as you pace back and forth. “Please, Y/N, you’re making me dizzy.”
“Then I must ride to him.” You say, with determination, as a soft crackle rings in the sky, “Yes…I must ride to him.”
So you do exactly that, despite your father’s protest. You change into a simple gown and ride Lilac the Stallion until the sun disappears, and a crackle rips through the sky, hurling down a thunder of rain. Your vision blurs, yet Lilac gallops through the wet soil, rain seeping into every crevice of your body until you’re shivering like a sheep about to be slaughtered.
By the time you arrive at the Higuruma Estate, you’re shaking and shivering, nose slightly red. Kirara is the first person to greet you, and she barely makes it a couple of steps in your direction before your eyes flutter, and everything becomes too slow, your vision darkens.
You’ve never fainted before. Embarrassment runs through your body when you wake up, changed and warm under heavy, thick blankets, Kirara looking over you.
Your cheeks flush, “I apologize for my sudden intrusion.” You say bashfully, pulling the covers to cover half of your face.
The young girl giggles, “You mustn’t misunderstand. I’ve always been alone in these walls…I am glad that my brother will marry such a whimsical person.”
You smile, “Do you really?”
“Yes…and would you believe me if I say my brother was the one who carried you here?” She says, laughing, until you’ve sat upright, a wide smile on your face. “He informed your father that you’ve fallen ill.”
You put a hand to your hair and face, “Oh, I must look horrible. I can’t be seen like this.”
A knock hits the door, and it opens softly, revealing Hiromi. Kirara smiles and scurries past him, before you can even tell her to stay. He walks to you, shoes clacking on the marble floor. “It was very unruly of you to ride in such weather.”
You look away from him, biting your lip. You must look like death. All pink and pale, with tussled hair, as if you’ve wrestled a pig. “I will leave tomorrow,” you say, but it comes out all cracked and soft.
“Look at me.”
You shake your head, “For what? I am here…fighting the coldness of my bones, and yet, instead of encouragement, you scold me.”
Hiromi sighs, taking a step to the edge of the bed, “Do you feel better?”
“No,” you respond, finally looking up at him, and tugging his hand and placing it on your forehead, “Do you feel the heat?”
Hiromi freezes, and you notice. His hands barely move, as his eyes widen. He looks like a deer before it drops dead, and you, not entirely a vixen but a lady with desires, slide his hand from your forehead to your neck.
There’s a small amount of sweat built up in your body, but it has made your clothing stick to your skin. Hiromi can see the dark outlines of your hardened peaks and the simplest vision of your belly button. His pupils have gone wide now, and his breathing has turned heavy.
Each second that passes, you slowly slide his hand until it sits just above your breast, where your heart beats wildly. “Can you feel my heartbeat, Lord Higuruma?”
“Hiromi…” he groans softly, pressing into your flesh, “Say Hiromi.”
“Hiromi.”
You wait for him to lean down and kiss you or for his hand to glide down. It’s as though Hiromi gains consciousness, and he rips his hand away, uttering a cracked ‘my apologies’ before quickly walking away. Despite leaving, you press your hand against your skin, feeling the heat of his palm.
In the morning, just before you leave, the servants bring a myriad of food to your bed, and Kirara is the one to wish you well. One of her maids chaperones you, and when you arrive home, you greet your father with a wide smile while he sighs and lets you recount the event, minus your encounter with Lord Hiromi.
May 30, 1812
My dear Hiromi,
I admit that I am a perverted young miss of society. In truth, I went to your estate so that I could see and hear your voice. For many months now, I’ve only been able to imagine what you’d sound like, and today you did me the favour of not only speaking to me, like you wish I were already your wife, but you touched me. I can still feel the warmth of your palm against my breast. I am weak for you, and I hope that you are weak for me. I hope you dream of me as I dream of you, and I hope you hold in such high affections that you feel as though you can’t breathe when you are not near me. For our wedding night, I hope that you do think of me as a lady, and you touch me as though you want me to merge into your body. I want to feel you, everywhere. I want you to hurt me, please me, devour me whole and leave a part of yourself inside me. I miss you, my husband. I love you.
I love you, Y/N
The day of the wedding arrives like a whirlwind. Much of the preparation was done by Lord Hiromi and his sister, according to your father. You barely pay attention to much of what happens, and the entire day feels as though you’re a doll, being handled left and right. An out-of-body experience.
You only really catch your breath when you finally sit down and write another one of your letters, hiding them in the many luggage being carried to Lord Hiromi’s home. Before you leave for the altar, your father slides a book into your hands, “I’m sure your mother would’ve given this to you.” He says with a smile, “and remember…I am still your father, and you still have a home here.”
You can barely remember anything after that. Despite endlessly wishing to marry Hiromi and daydreaming about your wedding, everything rushes through you until the priest delivers his words, and then suddenly you’re inside the carriage, and Hiromi is sitting in front of you. You’re shaking still, and your dress has somehow made you puffier.
“Are you still nervous, Lady Higuruma?” Hiromi whispers.
Lady Higuruma…Lady Higuruma…
Nervousness slips through your fingers as the title echoes in your head. You suppress a giddy smile, hands twisting into a fist around your puffy dress. “I feel much better now.”
When you step into the Higuruma estate, you notice the odd silence of the massive mansion. Much different from when you were there, your dress swoons as you turn to Hiromi, “The servants are gone?”
He nods, “Yes…I’ve given them the day off…only two cooks remain. My sister is with my aunt in town. It’s just you and me, but they will come back in the morning.”
Wedding night…the word rings in your head, and you try to suppress a smile on your face. “I will go change then…” You say softly, and Hiromi nods.
The sun lowers onto the sky, illuminating a vivid orange flow around the master bedroom. You look around, fingertips touching the rough wood of the dresser, and as it opens, you see clothing that must belong to Hiromi. The material glides around your skin, and everything smells slightly of mahogany oak and skin.
Your luggage is neatly placed around the bed, and you move and move different pieces until you settle on a long silk dress with flowers embroidered to shape a V below your breast. The material drags along your peaks, and sensitivity runs through you.
You wait on the bed, letting the seconds bleed into minutes. You can feel your heart thumping below the soles of your feet, and you resist pacing back and forth. The sky turns dark, and exasperation fills your skin.
Will he not make you his bride? Your feet patter on the marvellous floor, and you look down the stairs, seeing nothing. “Count Hiromi…” You call out, and your voice echoes through the hall.
You poke your head in different rooms, and the squeak of the wooden doors groans against the silence. You reach the end of the hall, and you look inside, seeing Hiromi fast asleep, while a small lantern dances with small flashes of red and orange.
The flame illuminates his aged face, though he doesn’t look like many of the older gentlemen in society. Unlike them, the years have been kind to Hiromi.
You consider leaving the room, but instead you crawl into the bed, close enough that you press your body against his bare side. He’s only wearing simple, loose-fitting white breeches, and your fingertips trace his stomach, running to his Adam's apple.
The action makes Hiromi’s eyes flutter, and he turns his eyes wide. “Y/N.”
“Is something bothering you, husband? “ You ask softly, nail still above his throat.
Hiromi shudders and stands up, looking down at his body with a flush to his cheeks that you barely see. “You…what is the meaning of his?”
Your eyebrows furrow, a pout turning on your lips, “Do you not desire me, my husband?”
He pauses, eyes looking away, “What an unruly question.” He breathes, “I have…you–”
“Do you find my body not appetizing enough?” You say, looking down at the soft gown. Your hands press on top of your chest, sliding down to your knees, touching your bare skin. “Should I eat more?”
“No mor–more of those thoughts,” He replies shakily, running his hand through his jet black hair, “If I…sleep with you in the same bed, will you stop?”
“You will sleep with me?”
He nods, and joy seeps into your skin, making you leap to him, planting a rushed kiss on his cheek. Your arms wrap around his neck, and for a second, everything stops. “Do you blame me?” He asks, in a low tone, the scent of toasted nuts and dried peaches, reaching your nose.
“For what, my count?”
“For marrying you. Such an old man like me is stealing your youth.”
You nuzzle your face on his neck, and feel as Hiromi begins to walk. Slowly, barely pressed against the wall to feel his steps through the darkness of the hall. “I do not blame you, my husband.”
He doesn’t say anything, and once you arrive in the room, he gently drops you down and slides into bed, covering your body with the thick blankets. You fall asleep engulfed in warmth, with the feeling of skin pressed against yours. Despite having done nothing, depicted in the book your father had given you, you’re content with your husband.
It’s early in the morning, and Hiromi is gone when you and his sister receive the letter. “An invitation to Duke Billingham and his wife’s ball. Sounds fun. I do not believe we can decline such an invitation.”
Kirara giggles over the soft bread, “Duke Billingham does not like my brother.”
“Is that so? Why?”
She gives you a small shrug, a pink tint passing her cheeks, “It is said that…Duke Billingham’s current wife fancied my brother.”
You raise your eyebrows in surprise, then nod, “I can’t blame her. I fancied your brother for many years.”
Hiromi nods to the invitation, but not before asking you if you truly desired to go. “Pleasentiries is one thing…I can make some excuse if you do not want to go.” He had said, idly writing another letter in his study.
You sat on his small couch, which had suddenly appeared after your marriage to him. A soft green love seat, with a small stand next to it. “I do not mind pleasantries.” You said with a small laugh, and you leaned on the chair of the couch, staring at your husband, “Perhaps my husband does not want to be seen in public with me.”
The quill pen stops writing, and he looks up, a stoic expression on his face, “We must go then.”
You suppress a laugh and merely nod, “Should we bring Kirara?”
“Do you not feel that she is too young?”
You hummed, “You are correct. Perhaps in two years, count. Besides, I am here now, and I’m sure she and I can have fun before she’s pushed into society.”
Before leaving for the Ball, you had briefly noticed your letters in disarray. They were positioned oddly as if they had been touched, but that thought was ridiculous given that nobody knew where they were. They were stacked neatly under the bed, in a small box that required a key. Nobody besides you had the key, so you pushed the thought away.
You change into a blush-pink gown woven from morning mist and rose petals. The high waist was cinched by a rose-satin ribbon, anchored at the centre by a shimmering crystal brooch that glittered. Over your silk underslip, a sheer overlay spilled to the floor, frosted with intricate silver embroidery in the shape of climbing jasmine, and finally, elbow-length silk gloves.
You rush downstairs, giving your husband a twirl, “Such a fine gown, I wonder where it came from?” You tease, rushing to hold onto Hiromi’s elbow. “Must’ve been the fairies, no?”
A blush creeps to Hiromi’s face, “Such fairies must have good taste, no?”
“Indeed, they do.”
Duke Billinghams' estate is grand, and bodies spill across the outside, a myriad of carriages and horses filling the usual silence of the night. Your carriage comes to a short stop, and Hiromi gets out first, extending his hand to help you out. It’s not the first ball you’ve been to, but it is the first as a married lady.
You’ve read so much of the etiquette and avoiding “ill-bred” remarks that many people love to gossip about. Hiromi notices your hands crumpling into a tight fist, and he tightens his hold on you, ‘Are you alright, my dear?” he whispers, drawing out the pet name.
You give me a nervous laugh, “I’ve read so much about social standards, and whatnot, but…I admit it’s rather nerve-wracking to experience it.”
“I have no care for social conventions. If you do not want to dance with someone or want to leave, you must tell me. We will leave.” Hiromi’s face is taunt, and he gives you a small smile, leaning down to your face.
You’re merely inches away, and your eyes become fixed on the curve of his lips and how soft they look. “Focus, my wife.” He purrs, softly pulling you to the entrance of the estate.
The grand staircase of Billingham Estate loomed, and as you crossed the threshold, the sheer scale of the event hit you. The air was a thick mixture of expensive beeswax candles, floral perfumes, and the low, constant hum of a hundred conversations. Too many people, and too many voices.
You had barely been announced, “Mrs. and Mr. Hiromi Hiruguma”, when a woman in a gown of daring, vibrant crimson stops your path. She’s bold, her fan snapping shut with a sharp clack.
"Count Hiruguma," she purrs, ignoring your presence entirely. "I hear your tastes have become… domestic. Surely you haven't forgotten how to lead a proper waltz? I claim the first set."
Your blood turned to ice. It was a flagrant breach of etiquette to ask a man so directly in front of his wife. You try not to tighten your hand around Hiromi’s arm, your knuckles white around your gown. You expected him to give her one of his signature cold dismissals, but instead, he looked down at you, his expression unreadable.
"It would be ungracious to refuse a lady’s first request of the evening," he said. "Yes."
He disentangled his arm from yours, leaving you standing alone on the edge of the ballroom. Before you could even process the sting of it, a shadow fell over you.
"It seems the bird is out of the cage, if only for a moment."
You turned to find Lord Sterling. He was as dashing as ever, with a smirk that reminded you exactly why you had rejected his hand a year ago. Too cocky, with promises of riches and whatnot, despite having had a mistress under his nose.
“A dance, Mrs. Higuruma?” He asks, extending a gloved hand, “For old times’ sake.”
“I should be delighted, My lord, “You said, voice loud enough for Hiromi to hear. You want him to see.
The orchestra strikes up a lively quadrille, and you find yourself dancing side-by-side with Hiromi and the woman in crimson. Every time the music brings you close, you see the way she leaned into his space, her laughter ringing out over the violins. Hiromi remains aloof, his face covered in polite indifference, yet he doesn’t pull away.
The room felt hot and suffocating, making your pink dress feel like paper against your skin. After the set, Hiromi is pulled towards the card room by a group of insistent earls, and you are left in the mercy of the ballroom. You danced with a succession of partners, but your eyes remained on the doorway.
Every time Hiromi emerged from the card room, searching for your eyes, that woman was there. She always somehow found herself standing next to him, her hand lingering on his sleeve as he stared at you.
By the time supper was announced, you’re exhausted. You sit through the meal in a daze, the fine delicacies of fish and meat tasting like ash. Hiromi catches your eye from across the table, noticing the way you pick at your plate. He stands abruptly as the final course is cleared.
"The heat is becoming oppressive," he announces to the table, though his eyes never leave yours. "I believe my wife requires the night air."
The ride home is silent. The interior of the carriage dark, lit only by the passing lanterns of the estate gates. You’re fixed on the outside of the window, your shoulders stiff, refusing to acknowledge Hiromi sitting inches away from you, on the opposite side.
The silence stretched until it was taut enough to snap.
"You're dissatisfied," Hiromi begins, his voice low and scraping against the quiet of the carriage. He didn't move toward you. "Tell me. Was it the dancing, or the company?"
“Neither. I had a fine night,” You respond, staring into the darkness outside the carriage. It bothers you that he says nothing, remaining silent, rather than trying to figure out what’s wrong with his wife.
In the estate, you change into a night gown, and you don’t wait for him to come back to bed from his study; you simply slip out of the master room, into the furthest guest room, letting the flames dance against the wall. You lie with your back facing the door, and as it begins to softly squeak, you don’t turn. “I am not…exactly in the mood to gossip, Kirara.” You call out softly.
“Will you not come to bed tonight?” Hiromi’s shoes clack against the floor.
You move upwards, shoulders falling as you stare at the floor, “I…I require some space tonight.”
“We have enough space in our bed.” He responds, and you see his night shoes in your vision. You don’t dare look up for a second, not until you remember that woman’s face gleaming with such happiness. “I will sleep here with you.”
You stand up, moving past him to the window. The curtains are drawn enough to see the front of the estate, empty and dark. “Do you feel for her?” you sneer, turning to face him, “do you hold her in your affection?”
His face changes, satisfaction rushing through, and it makes you angrier. “My wife is jealous…” he says, as if the words are unbelievable. As if he’s somehow seen you display some abnormal ability. “No. I do not. You should know this.”
You scoff, “Should I? Since I’ve married you…you seem to have some hidden disdain for–for being with me, keeping me at arms' length.”
“I have no affection for anyone as I have for you. You should know this, for you speak about it in your letters. How can you think that when you’ve described perfectly how I feel about you since I met you?” He breathes out, staring widely at you as his words ring against the walls of the room.
Your voice cracks. “What?”
“I hope my husband dreams of me like I dream of him…I hope he holds in such high affections that he feels as though he can’t breathe when he is not near me,” he says, recounting your words in the letter you wrote before your wedding.
Your eyes flutter. “I…I…I’m sorry.” You’re shaking, unsure of whether to look him in the face or to move. Your heart leaps to your throat, and the overwhelming taste of bile reaches your mouth.
He saw the letters. He was the one who moved them.
You try to move past him, slapping the floor, until he’s cornering you against the wall, hovering and pressing your body with his sturdy frame. “You can’t leave.” He says, words laced with desperation, as your hands push on his chest, tears brimming in your eyes.
“You can’t leave me,” he gasps, oh so desperately that he slides on his knees. Hands fisting your nightgown until you can’t move. “You mustn’t.”
“I am unladylike…with a vile imagination,” You whisper to him, tears spilling down your cheek, “I…I have no words for what…”
He’s fast on his feet, large hands cupping your cheek, “I acquired that land…I acquired land for you. To be worthy of your father’s eyes so his daughter could marry me. You can’t leave me,” he repeats, louder and commanding. “I hold no one in my heart but you. You are my only wife. You are…you are the one I live for and will die for.”
“Kiss me…Kiss me,” You chant to him, gasping into his mouth when his lips slam into yours.
There is only need in Hiromi’s actions, as his tongue licks every crevice of your mouth, drawing out meek gasps, whimpers. He sucks on your pink tongue, hips pushing into your stomach, groaning as you hold onto him as if he’ll disappear.
“I’ll make you…” He whispers against your lips, peppering kisses on the corner of your mouth, then down to your neck, “my wife.”
A gasp rings around the room as he places you on the wooden desk, his hands brush every item out of the way until they’re crashing on the floor. He sinks to his knees, disappearing under the gown. “What are–”
You gasp, feeling his lips attach to your inner thighs. Your skin throbs, and Hiromi gently sucks on the skin, pressing soft kisses along your thighs, until he’s kissing your aching cunt. Y
ou shudder, hand coming down to press on the top of his head. “Hiromi,” You gasp.
He groans against you, sending tiny vibrations against your skin. His tongue latches onto your cunt, pressing and licking a flat stripe, while your thighs are pressing his head, trying to keep him trapped. He sucks on the swollen nub, and slick pouring out of you, as you thrust your hip into his face, trying to keep yourself from crying.
Tears form at the corner of your eyes, and you try blinking them away until Hiromi’s tongue sucks and laps you all up. He groans, “My wife tastes so fucking good,” he murmurs, almost slurring against your cunt.
He devours. Wet, filthy sounds, echoing around the room, as he fucks you with his tongue, rough fingers parting your wet folds. You can feel everything, and pleasure seeps into your spine, making your toes curl.
You’ve gone stupid, drool sliding down the corner of your mouth while loud moans and whimpers sneak past your throat. You can’t keep quiet. Pathetic little noises make Hiromi suck harder, and your thighs tremble.
“So good,” Hiromi growls softly, and your body eats up the press, tightening around air. You feel another broad, flat stroke of Hiromi’s tongue and your body twitches. You feel nothing but pleasure, until a rough finger slides inside you, and god, it makes you shudder how easily you take his fingers.
Hiromi curls it, and you clench around it, “Fuc–fuck, I’m…” the words die in your throat, as Hiromi presses into something while sucking on your clit again, like he’s made for it. Like his home is simply between your legs, tonguing at your clit.
Another finger slides in, earning a squelch from your cunt, and Hiromi glides them in and out, dragging them against your wall, then curling them until you feel so so full and stretched. You can feel your cunt pulsing, and a tiny sob rips from your throat. Choked and needy. Loud and unabashed.
“My wife, my wife, my wife,” Hiromi chants, against your cunt. You tremble in his hold, thighs suddenly cramping around his head as you shake and shiver.
“Hiromi–Hiromi, oh god, don–” you gargle, words breathing out into tiny whimpers, “Feels…someth–something is–”
The scrape of Hiromi’s teeth, so softly and gently but so fucking right, against your clit, makes hot tears pour down your cheek, and your tongue is sliding out of your mouth, while your stomach tightens, and you feel so warm.
Your muscles seize, and your hand grabs onto Hiromi’s hair through the material of your gown, pushing him into your cunt, as you clamp down. A flush of heat curls through your body, and you're panting, tongue out, and back arched.
Your body trembles, and you can’t hear anything, not the sound of your cunt squelching or Hiromi whining as he feels your hole flex around his tongue. When he pulls away, he’s quick to hold you, an arm coming to wrap around the small of your back. His mouth is soaked, and his eyes are lidded, pupils blown.
“Another one?” He whispers, coming down to your lips, and you taste yourself, sucking on his tongue and holding his hand.
You shake your head, a tear sliding down your soaked cheek. Hiromi smiles, “Mhm, aren’t you my good wife?
He scoops you up, and up, whimpering, feeling the pulse of your cunt, against your clenched thighs. He places you on the bed, shaking off his night clothing, quickly positioning himself between your thighs. You feel like liquid, letting him pull the nightgown above your head until you’re naked and shivering.
“My pretty wife. So beautiful, just for me…” He groans, latching onto your hardened peaks. You gasp, and his teeth scrape on the sensitive flesh, suckling and pulling until your fingers are tightening around his hair. “How does that feel?”
“Good, so good,” You moan, pushing his face down, “Did–did you read all of them?”
Hiromi stops, looking at you with lidded eyes, “My wife has a creative mind. Poetic.”
A blush creeps to your face, as you can feel him, so close and yet so far. Hiromi parts your legs, hands gripping onto the back of your thighs, softly lifting your left leg, nosing the outline of your flesh. He lathers kisses, groaning and whining, teeth scraping the skin, before he sucks. Your toes flex, and bliss runs through your brain.
“I will worship you...till the day I die,” Hiromi raggs out, licking your ankles, as his hands come down to his cock, coating the flesh. His eyes flutter closed, and you're transfixed on his movement, gulping as he fists his cock.
Hiromi stops for a second, placing your leg on top of his shoulder while he hoists you, a couple of inches from the bed, leaning into you as he begins to slowly sink in, groaning as you suck him in. His hips jerk, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulder while he moves you as he wants.
Your stomach twitches, and you feel so full, bottom lip etched between your teeth. Hiromi buries himself inside you, and you can almost feel him in your throat.
He doesn’t move, a hand quickly throwing your right leg over his shoulder. He smiles at you, tired eyes gleaming with bliss. “Tell me, wife…should I continue doing exactly what you described in your letter?”
You breathe hitches, and you nod, feverishly, pushing your hips back into him, until Hiromi, clutching at your hips, thrusting you back into him with such need, the sound of flesh smacking booms like gunshots. You try to keep the noise inside, biting your lips, until Hiromi’s thump presses against your lips, dipping into your mouth.
You suck, the rough pad of the fingers dragging along your tongue, as he speeds up, changing his grip on your hip with one hand, slightly changing the angle and hitting that spot again. You twitch, grinding your back into him, dumbly sucking on his fingers, letting saliva dribble down to your chin.
“That’s my girl. You can take it…so good for me,” Hiromi grits out, sweat building on his temples as the flames dance on his face. You open your mouth, fingers inside your single, murmuring unrecognizable words, as Hiromi continues to thrust into you.
Your cunt clenches around him, and you begin to writhe in the sheets, breasts bouncing with each movement. Sweat soaks your skin, and hotness runs through your veins. Hiromi's cheeks are a bright red, and the sight is beautiful.
Hiromi’s fingers slide out of your mouth, and he’s quickly leaning down, pushing your thighs to your chest, hammering down. “You belong to me…those gentlemen of society will never get to see you like this. Only me,” He groans.
“Yes…yes.” Your eyes flutter closed, cunt clamping down around Hiromi as heat flutters in your tummy, and a small, weak, squeal flutters out of your throat. Your body tightens, each muscle spasming, until you can’t breathe, or feel anything but Hiromi dragging one last time and releasing inside you. Your hips involuntarily thrust back, and you shake, milking every last drop from his cock.
Hiromi whimpers, moving your legs to wrap around him, nuzzling his face into your neck. Your ragged breaths sync, turning into soft sounds while he pulls out of you, collapsing next to you, trying to catch his breath. Slick and cum lather your thighs, and you can feel him spilling out of you into the sheets.
Your hand touches his, moving it to your belly, softly pressing down, “Do you fancy a child, my dear husband?”
Next to you, Hiromi groans, quickly turning to catch your lips in a heated kiss. “I fancy anything you like, my dear wife.”
ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader
warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving / f. & m. handjob / mutual virginity loss / heavy fanservice / soft dominance )
word count: 14.7k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~)
a/n: okay so remember how I thought part 1 was gonna be the whole thing??? yeah well apparently my brain was like "lol what if he came BACK tho 👀" and then I blacked out and wrote 15k words of soft tension, pining, and damp-shirt Telemachus content?? 😭😭 idk man something about writing two people who are both shy AND desperate just gets me?? like you're gonna read this and either combust or get cavities from the sweetness. anyway. welcome back to the Slow Burn Olympics, where the burn is slow but the eye contact is scorching. pls enjoy this stormy-night reunion feat. awkward wine pouring, thigh-touching, and enough longing stares to fuel a small city 🩷✨also, lololol ngl y'all the amount of xxx/porn videos i had pulled up in my tab to study/cuz i overanalyze wondering if it made sense??? is insanity 💀💀idky i went so hard/reasearching like it really mattered loolollo. but yeah sorrryyy yall gotta read my 15k wrds of filth 😭😭 also, imma go hibernate in embaressment for the next week 😭😭😭
It had been a few weeks since that night. Just as Madam said, you'd been pulled off rotation. You still worked, of course—laundry didn't clean itself, and the sheets in this place never stayed white for long—but it felt different now.
You weren't sure how.
Right now, you were carrying a drink out to the lounge. The cup rattled against the tray with every step you took, warm wine sloshing over the rim. You'd tried to wipe it with a rag, but the stain bled down the clay anyway. Madam would scold you later. You were too distracted to care.
The lounge was quiet today. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, the sky black as tar even though it was still afternoon. Thunder rolled low and heavy every few minutes, shaking the floors so gently you almost didn't notice unless you were standing still.
The scent of wet earth drifted in through the cracks in the shutters. Most patrons had left before the storm hit, wanting to make it back to their ships or homes before the roads turned to rivers.
Only a few customers remained—mostly regulars, old men with hunched shoulders playing dice in the corner, their laughter low and tired. A pair of girls sat near the hearth, whispering to each other and braiding each other’s hair. The fire snapped and popped, trying its best to warm the damp chill that seeped into the floorboards.
And then there was her.
You approached slowly, balancing the tray against your hip. The woman sat alone on one of the low cushioned benches near the window. She was older, maybe in her late forties, with sharp cheekbones and light hair pinned back in a thick coil.
Her robes were deep green, trimmed with gold thread that shimmered whenever the candlelight touched it. She wore jewelry that clinked softly when she moved—rings on nearly every finger, thin bracelets stacked along her wrists, a necklace heavy with small carved charms. They clicked against the clay cup as you set it down on the low table before her.
"Your drink, ma'am," you said softly, keeping your eyes lowered.
For a moment, the woman didn't move. You saw her fingers tap once against the table, the sound muffled by her rings. Then, slowly, her head lifted, and you caught her eyes—light brown with little gold flecks near the center. They were sharp at first, narrowed with the same tired boredom you saw in most customers.
But then her gaze shifted. Softened. Brightened.
A smile curved across her lips, turning her face warm and almost girlish despite the fine lines near her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed, and her whole expression turned... flirty. Sweet, in a way that felt practiced but not cruel.
"Well, aren't you just the cutest little thing," she purred, her voice smooth and husky all at once. Her gaze dropped to the cup you placed before her, and she picked it up with graceful fingers, bringing it to her lips. "Thank you, darling."
You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck. "You're... welcome," you managed, taking a small step back and gripping the tray tighter against your hip.
You turned to leave, eager to slip away before she could say anything else, but her voice stopped you before you'd even taken two steps.
"Wait," she called softly. You paused, turning halfway, eyes darting to the floor. You heard her chuckle under her breath. "Tell me, sweet girl... do you have any customers today?"
The question made your chest tighten. You hesitated, shifting the tray in your hands.
"I... uh... no," you admitted, voice barely louder than the rain pounding against the windows. "I'm... I'm off the schedule."
There was a beat of silence. Then, like a candle sparking back to life, her eyes lit up. She perked up in her seat, her smile widening into something teasing and bright.
"Off the schedule?" she repeated, her tone dripping with amused surprise. "Oh, then you have time to sit with me, hm?"
You stiffened, your heart thumping painfully against your ribs. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am—"
She cut you off with a giggle, light and airy like the tinkle of her bracelets as she set her cup back down. Her hand reached out, fingers curling in a playful little beckoning gesture.
"Cut the 'ma'am' nonsense," she chided softly, tilting her head to the side. "You know my name."
You exhaled shakily, shoulders slumping in quiet defeat. Of course you knew her name. Everyone here did.
"...Khloris," you mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her smile turned smug and sweet at the same time, eyes twinkling as she patted the empty space beside her.
"That's better," she hummed. "Now come. Sit with me a while. My darling is still getting ready upstairs, and I hate waiting alone."
You sighed again, clutching the tray tighter to your chest, the cushion dipping softly beneath your knees as you lowered yourself onto it, careful to keep a polite distance between you and her silken robes.
Outside, thunder rolled through the sky, rattling the shutters and casting shadows across Khloris' sharp cheekbones. She looked over at you, that same playful smile tugging at her lips, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered what it felt like to have her confidence. To smile at storms like they were nothing but passing winds.
But you said nothing. You only sat there, eyes downcast, listening to the rain as it drummed against the glass like a heartbeat you couldn't quiet. The smell of wet wood and old wine filled your nose, warm and heavy.
Khloris leaned forward, resting her elbow on the low table; she played with the rim of her wine cup, swirling it so the dark liquid sloshed up the sides.
"Sooo..." she drawled, her voice dripping with playful curiosity. "I heard you've been bought?"
Your head snapped up, eyes wide. Her gaze was already on you, sharp and bright, waiting to see your reaction.
Your mouth fell open, but no words came out. "Wha—" Air caught painfully in your throat, making you gasp before a cough burst out of you. You bent forward, clutching the tray to your chest as your chest heaved with little choking fits. Tears welled in your eyes from the harshness of it, your cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment.
Khloris let out a small laugh, the sound rich and amused as she reached over and patted your back gently. "Easy, easy," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill you with gossip."
You finally caught your breath, sucking in a shaky inhale as you wiped at your watering eyes with the back of your hand. Khloris held out her wine cup toward you with a little wiggle of her fingers, bracelets jingling softly.
"Here. Sip," she said, her tone warm but teasing.
You shook your head quickly, voice hoarse. "No, thank you..."
She raised a brow, lips curving into a sly smile before pulling the cup back to herself. "Suit yourself."
She took a long, slow sip, her eyes locked on you over the rim. The candlelight flickered across her cheekbones, making her look even sharper, almost fox-like in the dim glow. When she set the cup down, she tilted her head slightly.
"So it's true then?" she began again, her voice sing-song sweet. "You've been bought?"
You swallowed thickly, fingers fumbling with the edge of the tray resting in your lap. "I—I don't know what you mean," you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady as you traced the chipped wood with your thumb.
Khloris snorted softly, a small, humorless sound that made your shoulders tense. She leaned forward, close enough that you could smell the warm spice of her perfume, and her light brown eyes narrowed playfully.
"Don't play dumb," she said, her voice low and teasing. "Word travels fast in places like these." Her lips curled into a knowing smile. "I know the prince bought your virginity."
Your breath stilled in your chest, the tray slipping slightly from your lap before you caught it with trembling hands. The sound of thunder boomed outside, echoing in your ribs like a warning drum.
Khloris only smiled wider, her eyes glittering with amused delight as she reached for her wine again, watching you over the rim like a cat who had just cornered its favorite mouse.
Your breath caught. You didn't answer. Couldn't. The way she said bought made your skin crawl, like you were nothing more than an item on a shelf. Maybe that was true. Maybe it always had been.
But you snapped out of it quickly, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you lifted your chin just slightly, trying to keep your voice light.
"Then... why'd you ask," you mumbled, your lips curling into a small pout as you traced the tray's rim with your fingertip. "If-If you already knew...?"
Khloris' smirk widened, her eyes softening with amusement as she tilted her head back against the cushion.
"I couldn't help it," she purred, swirling her wine lazily in its cup. "Your reactions... gods, they're just too cute."
You flushed, dropping your gaze to your lap. Heat crawled up your neck and pooled in your cheeks, making your chest feel too tight.
The woman leaned back further, the candlelight catching on her gold jewelry, making her look like a queen lounging in the dark. She studied you for a moment longer, silent and thoughtful, before she shook her head slightly and raised her cup to her lips again.
"Men are fools," she said through quiet sips, her voice low and tinged with tired wisdom. "Don't let this place eat you alive before he comes back."
Her words lingered between you, mixing with the thunder rumbling outside and the soft patter of rain against the glass. You swallowed hard, clutching the tray tighter, unsure how to respond.
But before you could, a faint breeze swept past your cheek, carrying with it a warm scent of vanilla and sandalwood. It wrapped around you, sweet and soft, making your breath hitch.
A small shadow fell across the table, hovering above you.
"Aww," came a sultry voice, gentle and teasing. "Hope I didn't make you wait long, love~"
You and Khloris both looked up at the same time.
Standing there was a tall woman with pale, almost porcelain skin. Her hair fell in thick waves of gold down her shoulders, catching the candlelight like threads of honey. Soft blue eyes peered down at Khloris, crinkling sweetly at the corners as she smiled. Her lips were painted a delicate rose color, and a thin silver chain looped around her neck, glinting whenever she moved.
You stood up immediately, nearly knocking the tray from your lap as you scrambled to your feet.
"Anemone," you said, breathless. The name tasted pretty in your mouth, soft like a prayer.
She tilted her head toward you, her smile brightening even more at the sound of her name, before her gaze returned to Khloris, warm and dripping with adoration.
"Hello, ____," Anemone purred softly, saying your name as her fingers reached out to brush against your cheek. Her touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down your spine. Her thumb lingered for just a moment beneath your jaw before she glided past you, the scent of vanilla and warm skin wrapping around you like a hug.
She moved with such effortless grace, her hips swaying slightly as she reached Khloris and, without hesitation, settled straight onto her lap. The older woman let out a small, pleased hum, her hands coming up to rest against Anemone's waist as she looked up at her with an amused, gentle smile.
"You're late," Khloris teased, her voice low with warmth.
Anemone just smirked down at her, one of her delicate hands reaching out to grasp Khloris' chin, thumb stroking along her bottom lip before tilting her face up. She leaned down slowly, her golden hair spilling forward like a curtain as she pressed her lips to the edge of Khloris' jaw, dragging them lightly across her skin.
"Hmm..." she murmured softly, her voice vibrating against Khloris' neck. "I hope I wasn't stressing you out... causing you any trouble."
Her gaze flicked sideways to you, sharp and teasing all at once.
"Especially with this pretty thing here," she purred. "You know... the prince's little treasure."
Your eyes widened as you stumbled over your words, heat burning up your chest into your cheeks. "I—I'm not—He's not—I mean, it's been days... I haven't even seen him since—since that night and—"
You cut yourself off, your voice strangled and small, staring down at your feet as your fingers twisted a frayed hem of your chiton.
Both women chuckled softly at your reaction.
Khloris leaned forward to rest her chin on Anemone's chest, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Gods, she's adorable, isn't she?" she said, laughter warm and teasing in her voice.
Anemone smiled down at you, tilting her head as her fingers continued stroking along Khloris' jaw. "Mm... Absolutely precious."
Their laughter wrapped around you like silk—warm, soft, and just a little mocking. But somehow, it didn't feel cruel. Just... familiar. Like the teasing of women who knew too much about the world and saw you still learning how to breathe in it.
You puffed out a small breath, cheeks hot as you looked away from them. Your fingers twisted tighter in your chiton, your shoulders curling in slightly.
"...Everyone's been teasing me lately," you muttered under your breath, voice soft and a little bitter. "As if the prince would just... walk in here again. It's been days."
Your words hung heavy in the air, mixing with the crackle of the hearth and the quiet laughter of the two women. Thunder rumbled outside, low and long, making the windows shake in their frames.
And then... the door creaked open.
A gust of cold air swept through the lounge, carrying with it the smell of rain and wet earth. You glanced up instinctively, expecting to see another customer, another drunk sailor dripping water onto the rugs.
But your breath caught in your throat.
Telemachus stood in the doorway, soaked from head to toe. His curls clung to his forehead in dripping spirals, water sliding down the strong lines of his jaw and neck, soaking into the collar of his tunic. His chest rose and fell, his breath coming out in little huffs like he'd been running. Rain dripped from his lashes, clinging to them like tiny diamonds.
And his eyes... gods, his eyes landed on you the moment he stepped inside.
They widened, dark and soft all at once, relief flooding his face as his shoulders dropped. His lips pulled up into a small, shy smile, trembling at the edges as he let out a quiet, shaky breath.
" ____," he whispered, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
Your mouth fell open, a small gasp slipping out before you could stop it. Your chest tightening painfully, your heart thudding so hard it almost hurt.
Anemone let out a low, delighted purr. "Mm... speak of Hades," her voice dripped with amusement. "Or perhaps... Hermes delivered that one quick."
Khloris chuckled under her breath, her eyes glinting with quiet delight as she tilted her head to watch you. "Well... don't just stand there with your mouth open, dove," she murmured, smirking. "Your prince is waiting."
Your breath caught in your chest as you looked back at him. Telemachus was already moving toward you, his boots leaving little puddles across the worn wooden floor. His shoulders shook slightly, whether from the cold or from something else, you couldn't tell. Drops of rain slid down his cheeks like tears, clinging to his lashes before falling onto his already-soaked tunic.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the rain on him—earthy and cold, mixed with the faint scent of clean wool and smoke that always clung to his cloak.
"...____..." he whispered again, voice cracking at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours. "Gods... I..."
Your hands reached for him before you could think, trembling as they lifted toward his face, desperate to touch him, to wipe away the rain and prove he was real. But halfway there, you froze. Your chest tightened, heat rising to your cheeks as you snatched your hands back against your chest.
You looked down quickly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your chiton, your shoulders curling in on themselves.
I can't, you thought, shame burning through you, recalling where you were at the moment.
When you dared to glance up again, Telemachus' gaze had softened even more. His eyes flicked down to your hands before returning to your face, dark and warm all at once. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to clear your throat. Your voice came out small and shaky.
"D-Did you... uh... did you come to see... me...?" you asked softly, your words barely louder than the rain drumming against the windows.
Telemachus let out a small, breathless laugh, his chest rising and falling as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck. His fingers tangled in the wet curls there, pushing them back slightly as he ducked his head, his cheeks flushing pink despite the cold.
"Yes," he breathed, his voice still rough and shy. "I... I did. I wanted to... but I wasn't sure how soon... and then the days... they just... they just kept passing by..."
His sentence trailed off, his hand falling back to his side as he looked at you, eyes flickering over every inch of your face like he was memorizing it all over again.
Before you could gather the courage to speak up, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Gods, this is painful to watch," Khloris tutted, her tone thick with teasing annoyance as she leaned back into the cushions with a dramatic sigh.
Anemone hummed in agreement, her pale blue eyes flicking down at Khloris with a lazy smile. "Mm... so dramatic, these two," she purred softly, her fingers brushing along Khloris' jaw before slipping back into her hair.
Without warning, Anemone leaned down and pressed her lips to Khloris', capturing her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. It wasn't long, but it burned hot, making your cheeks flush just from witnessing it. Khloris' hand slid up to cup Anemone's neck, her fingers threading into the blonde waves as she pulled her closer, deepening it just slightly before they pulled apart.
Anemone was the first to break away, her chest rising and falling with quiet, shaky breaths. Her lips were red and kissed-swollen as she smiled down at Khloris, their foreheads brushing lightly for a fleeting moment of intimacy. "I'll be back~"
Then she turned to you, her smile morphing into something bright and playful as she reached out, her cool fingers wrapping around your trembling hands. Before you could react, she tugged you away, the tray clattering softly against the floor as you stumbled away from Telemachus.
"Come on, little dove," she said, her voice airy as she began pulling you down the hall. Her grip was gentle but firm, her bracelets jingling softly with each step. Over her shoulder, she called out with a sly grin, "I shouldn't be long."
Her gaze flicked back toward Telemachus, who stood frozen in place, still dripping rain onto the wooden floor.
"The room will be ready in a sec, your highness," she added teasingly before turning back forward, leading you down the dim corridor lit only by flickering wall lanterns and the faint, muffled echoes of thunder outside.
Your heart raced in your chest, every beat thudding louder than your footsteps as you tried to calm your breathing, feeling her fingers still wrapped around yours, warm and steady.
.☆.
.✩.
.☆.
Some time later, you found yourself standing in front of one of the private rooms, your nerves jittery under your skin like trapped lightning. Anemone gave your hands a reassuring squeeze before letting go, reaching out to push open the wooden door with a quiet creak.
She glanced back at you with a soft, almost sisterly smile. "Remember... relax your shoulders, keep breathing, and don't forget to listen to him too, alright?" she whispered, her thumb brushing your knuckles. She handed you a small tray; it held two clay cups, a jug of wine, and a little bottle of rose oil. "For... you know," she murmured with a wink, giving the bottle a little tap.
Your cheeks burned hot as you nodded quickly, clutching the tray with both hands.
Anemone's smile turned playful as she leaned down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. "You'll be fine, little dove," she hummed before pushing you further inside and stepping back into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click.
The room felt warmer than the lounge, the hearth burning low in the stone fireplace, filling the space with a soft orange glow. The faint crackle of flames mixed with the quiet drip of rain still sliding down the shuttered windows. It smelled like lavender soap and smoke... and him.
Your eyes flicked up to where Telemachus stood by the far wall, his back turned to you. He was pulling off his damp cloak, water droplets splattering onto the wooden floor beneath his boots. His shoulders moved with each breath, tense and strong under the dim flickering light.
You swallowed hard, quickly setting the tray of wine and oil down on the small table beside the bed before fidgeting with the edge of your chiton.
"I—I can help you... if you'd like..." you offered softly, your voice shaking as you took a hesitant step forward.
He didn't respond at first, only let out a shaky exhale as he unhooked his cloak fully, draping it over a chair. You turned away quickly to fetch a clean towel from the shelf near the bed, your hands fumbling clumsily with the folded linen.
When you turned back around—
Your breath caught in your throat.
Telemachus was shirtless now, his damp tunic pulled halfway up his torso as he struggled to peel it off. The firelight flickered across his skin, casting gold and bronze shadows over his chest and stomach. You could see the strong lines of his shoulders, the slight curve of his waist, the faint trail of hair leading down past where the tunic still clung to his hips.
Small droplets of rain slid down his chest, gathering in little rivulets along his ribs before dripping down to his—
Your eyes widened, heat flooding your face so fast you thought you might faint. Your throat closed up with a tiny squeak as your gaze darted away.
"I—I'm sorry!" you squeaked, clapping a hand over your mouth as you spun back around, nearly dropping the towel. Your chest burned with embarrassment, your ears hot as your mind scrambled with what you'd just seen.
Gods... he was... naked. And you were just standing there staring at him like a stupid little girl who'd never seen a man undress before.
Your knees felt weak. Your stomach twisted with heat and something sharp, something that made your chest feel too tight for your ribs.
Behind you, you heard him let out a small laugh under his breath. You swallowed hard, pressing your hand to your burning cheek as you peeked over your shoulder. He noticed your hesitancy and let out another laugh, raising one hand in reassurance.
"It's alright," he said quickly, his cheeks pink as he gestured down with a flustered little huff. "My... um... my bottom half is still covered."
You blinked, your eyes finally daring to flicker down. Instead of the loose wrap cloth most men wore beneath their tunics, he had on something... different.
It was tight along his calves but looser at the thighs, made of a soft-looking dark fabric with faint embroidery along the sides. They were tucked neatly into his boots, which sat discarded near the hearth, damp from the storm.
You stared for a moment, lips parting in quiet awe. "What... what is that?" you whispered without thinking, your curiosity overpowering your embarrassment as you stepped closer.
Telemachus glanced down at himself, a small, sheepish smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "Ah... these are called… anaxyrides," he explained, stumbling slightly over the foreign word. "They're... um... trousers. Pants. I just came back from a political envoy... we were bartering with a neighboring kingdom called Persia. The men there... they wear these instead of tunics."
Persia? Your eyes widened, the name ringing faintly in your memory from old merchant gossip and sailors' stories. You stepped even closer until you were right in front of him, your fingers reaching out before you could stop yourself. You brushed the fabric lightly, feeling how smooth and finely woven it was compared to the rough linen of your chiton.
"They're so... soft..." you breathed, your voice quiet with wonder. "Do they... have something for the top half too?"
Telemachus let out a soft laugh, the sound low and warm as his chest shook with it. His hair was still damp, little droplets falling from the ends of his curls and dripping onto his bare shoulders.
"They do," he said, his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiled down at you. "Some men wear a... Kandys," he explained, saying the word slowly so you could catch it. "It's like... a cloak with sleeves. Others wear tunics with attached sleeves. It's... practical, I suppose... especially for riding or traveling in bad weather."
You nodded absentmindedly, your fingers still toying with the edge of his pants before you realized what you were doing. Heat shot back up your neck and you yanked your hand away, pressing it to your chest as you ducked your head.
"I... I didn't mean to... touch..." you stammered, your words tangling together clumsily.
Telemachus only smiled, his cheeks flushed pink as he reached up to rub the back of his neck again. "It's alright," he murmured softly, his voice still hoarse from the rain and a little breathless. "I... I don't mind... if it's you."
You swallowed hard, your chest feeling too tight for your ribs. Heat burned up your neck, making your ears throb with it. You ducked your head quickly, staring down at the towel clutched in your hands.
Clearing your throat softly, you stepped closer and raised the towel toward him. "Um... here," you mumbled, your voice small as you unfolded it. "Let me... you're still dripping everywhere."
He blinked at you, startled by your sudden determination, but then a small, tender smile spread across his lips. He nodded once before bending forward slightly, lowering his head so you could reach.
Your hands moved carefully, brushing the towel through his damp curls, gently squeezing out the rainwater clinging to each strand. The smell of him filled your nose—warm earth, faint woodsmoke, and rain. You worked in quiet concentration, your fingers trembling every time they brushed against his skin by accident.
He stayed still under your touch, only letting out a quiet breath whenever your hands shifted to gather more of his hair in the towel. You felt his gaze on you—heavy, warm, unblinking. It made your chest flutter painfully, and you tried to ignore the way your heart slammed against your ribs every time his eyes followed the movement of your hands.
When you finished with his hair, you pulled back slightly, your gaze flicking to his face for just a second. He was smiling softly at you, eyes half-lidded and warm, like he was memorizing the feeling of you taking care of him.
Your breath hitched in your chest, and you quickly looked away, holding out the towel with shaking hands.
"Here, uh... y-you can... finish drying yourself..." you stammered, your voice breaking slightly as you forced your gaze down to the floor.
He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and quiet as he took the towel from you. "Thank you," he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he began patting down his chest and shoulders.
You tried not to look. Gods, you tried. But your eyes flicked up despite yourself, catching sight of his bare chest, the way his skin glowed gold and bronze in the firelight, little droplets sliding down his collarbones and disappearing past his ribs—
Quickly, you snapped your eyes away, focusing on a dark knot in the wooden floorboards instead.
"So... um..." you blurted out, your voice too loud in the quiet room. "H-How... how was your trip...?"
He paused mid-motion, glancing up at you with those dark, gentle eyes. A small smile tugged at his lips as he let out a quiet, breathless laugh.
"...It was long," he said softly, his voice rough and warm all at once. "But... I think this makes it worth it."
Your heart fluttered painfully in your chest as you kept your eyes glued to the floor, praying he couldn't hear the way your breath shook with every exhale.
You swallowed hard, trying to gather yourself before forcing out, "G-Good. That's... uh... that's good..."
Your voice trailed off into silence. You felt your throat tighten, your chest squeezing painfully as your mind started spinning out of control.
Shit... shit... what do I say now?
Your eyes flicked to the side, staring at the cracks in the floorboards as panic rose in your chest.
Gods... what am I supposed to say to him? What do you even say to a man like him—a prince, no less—who's... who's technically a customer but... but we haven't even… but he... gods, what do I do?!
Your thoughts tangled together like knotted thread, hot and messy in your chest. You felt your breath starting to quicken, embarrassment prickling at your skin like needles.
But before you could drown yourself completely in the panic, Telemachus' voice broke through your spiraling thoughts.
"Um... would... would you like some wine...?" he asked softly, his words awkward and hesitant, like he wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say either.
Your eyes snapped up to him, wide with surprise. "Yes!" you blurted out, a little too loudly, the word bursting from your lips before you could stop it.
Your face burned with heat, and you quickly ducked your head again, clearing your throat as you tried to collect yourself.
"I—I mean... sure, I can go for a drink," you said, this time a little softer, a little less eager, though your voice still trembled at the edges.
When you dared to peek up at him again, you saw Telemachus smiling. Really smiling. His lips pulled up into a small, crooked grin as a quiet laugh escaped his chest, low and warm like the crackle of the hearth nearby.
He turned slightly, reaching for the clay pitcher on the tray and carefully pouring the deep red wine into one of the small cups. His hands shook just a little, droplets of wine sliding down the outside of the cup to drip onto his wrist, but he didn't seem to notice.
He glanced back at you, his curls falling slightly over his forehead as he held out the cup with a soft smile.
"Here," he said gently, his voice still tinged with shy laughter. "For you."
Your chest tightened painfully as you reached out with trembling fingers, brushing against his as you took the cup from his hands.
"Th... thank you."
Telemachus just smiled softly, nodding once before glancing around the room. He shifted slightly, tilting his head in a small gesture—an unspoken signal for you to sit down.
Your chest tightened, heat flooding your cheeks again as you moved to obey, settling down carefully on the edge of the bed. The sheets felt cool beneath your fingertips, smelling faintly of lavender soap and old wood. Telemachus sat down beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You both lifted your cups to your lips at the same time, taking small, tentative sips.
The wine was warm and heavy on your tongue, fruity at first with hints of something sweet—fig or date maybe—but it turned bitter near the end, leaving a faint dryness at the back of your throat. You swallowed carefully, feeling it settle in your chest with a quiet warmth.
Silence wrapped around you both, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant rumble of thunder outside. You could hear your heart pounding in your ears, your fingers curling tighter around the small clay cup.
Your thoughts spun wildly, tripping over themselves as you tried to think of something—anything—to say.
Ask about his trip again? No... stupid. Ask about the pants? Gods, no, you already did... thank him? For what, for drinking wine with you? Shit... shit...
You inhaled shakily, scolding yourself internally.
Say something. You have to say something. Don't chicken out, ____. Don't sit here like a trembling little rabbit...
Taking another small sip for courage, you exhaled softly, gathering the words in your chest before letting them slip out.
"So, I heard—" "We don't have to—"
Both your voices collided at once, words overlapping clumsily in the quiet room. You both froze, glancing at each other with wide eyes before small, shy laughs bubbled up from your chests.
Your cheeks burned even hotter as you ducked your head slightly. "You... you can go first," you mumbled, your fingers fidgeting with the rim of your cup.
But Telemachus shook his head quickly, his curls bouncing slightly with the motion. "No, please," he said softly, his voice earnest and a little breathless. "I insist. You first."
His dark eyes were locked on yours, warm and waiting, and you felt your chest tighten at how gently he was looking at you—like you were something fragile and precious, something he was afraid to touch too suddenly.
You swallowed, quickly tearing your gaze away before you got lost in his eyes completely. You stared down into your cup instead, watching the dark red wine ripple softly with each shaky breath you took.
Gathering your courage, you shifted slightly, your knees brushing his for just a fleeting second before you pulled them back. Your voice came out quiet and unsure, but you forced the words past the tightness in your throat.
"I... um... I heard..." you began, your fingers curling tighter around your cup, "I heard that... I've been... bought off rotation."
Your chest squeezed painfully at the confession, your heart hammering against your ribs as you risked a small glance up at him.
Telemachus' cheeks flushed immediately, his eyes widening as he sputtered, words tripping over themselves clumsily. "I—I didn't mean—I mean, I did, but I... gods, I hope it didn't feel controlling or... or like I was trying to... I just thought—"
You giggled softly before you could stop yourself, the sound slipping out and wrapping around the quiet room like a small candle flicker in the dark.
"It's okay," you whispered, shaking your head as your smile grew just a little. "I... I found it sweet... actually."
He blinked at you, his lips parting slightly as if he couldn't quite believe what you were saying.
You swallowed again, your eyes darting back down to your wine as you gathered your thoughts, trying to keep your voice from trembling.
"Like I told you before... I came to work here thinking..." you breathed out, your words quiet and almost shy, "thinking maybe I could... buy myself a better life someday. Save enough to leave... start somewhere new... but..."
You paused, glancing up at him through your lashes, your chest tightening at the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the room. The only person in the world.
"But... now... thanks to you... maybe... maybe I can," you finished softly, your voice cracking just a little at the end.
Telemachus swallowed thickly, his eyes glassy with emotion as his grip tightened slightly around his cup. His shoulders relaxed, his whole body seeming to sag with quiet relief.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, warm and thick, filled only by the quiet crackle of the hearth and the distant rumble of thunder outside.
Then, slowly, you inhaled, feeling your chest rise and fall as you forced yourself to meet his gaze fully.
"So..." you whispered, your fingers trembling around your cup, "did you... did you come tonight... to... to get your claim...?"
Your voice trailed off, your heart thudding painfully loud in your ears as you waited for his answer, praying silently that whatever he said... you could handle it.
For a moment, Telemachus was silent. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the wine cup until his knuckles turned white. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, soft smile.
"I..." he began, his voice quiet and rough, "I just... wanted to see you again." He shifted slightly on the bed, turning his body a little more toward you. His dark eyes flicked down to his hands before meeting yours again, glowing in the flickering firelight.
"We... we can do whatever you like," he whispered softly, his voice breaking just a little with shyness. "I didn't come here to... to claim anything. I just... I wanted to see you... to know you're okay."
Your heart fluttered so hard it almost hurt. You looked down quickly, blinking back the heat rising behind your eyes as a small smile tugged at your lips.
Not wanting him to see how much his words affected you, you lifted the wine cup to your lips, taking a slow sip to hide the way your mouth curved upward. The warm, fruity bitterness spread across your tongue and down your throat, settling heavy in your chest in the same place where his words now lived.
You lowered the cup slightly, your eyes flicking up to him through your lashes. His gaze was still on you, soft and unblinking, and for the first time in days... your chest felt light.
Warm.
Wanted.
Silence fell between you both for a while, soft and heavy like a blanket draped over your shoulders. You lifted your cup again, sipping the warm wine and feeling it spread heat through your chest, loosening something tight inside you.
Your eyes flicked sideways to him. Telemachus took a sip too, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, before lowering his cup into his lap.
He shifted slightly on the bed, his knee brushing against yours for just a fleeting second. His voice broke the quiet, rough and low, tinged with an awkward shyness that made your chest flutter.
"Do you... do you like the rain?" he asked softly.
You blinked, surprised by the question. Your eyes flicked up to his face, seeing his curls damp and curling messily around his forehead, his cheeks still pink from warmth and nerves. Slowly, you nodded, your gaze dropping back down to your cup.
"I... I think I do," you whispered shyly. "When I'm warm inside, like this."
Your smile was small and nervous as you said it, your fingers fidgeting against the clay rim of your cup. But when you glanced back up at him, Telemachus was smiling too. A soft, crooked little grin that made his eyes glow warmly under the flickering firelight.
"Me too," he murmured, his voice low and almost thoughtful. "Makes the world feel... softer."
Your chest tightened, warmth blooming through you so quickly it made you shiver. You took another sip of wine to hide the way your lips wanted to tremble.
A quiet pause settled over you both again before you swallowed and forced yourself to speak.
"How... um... how was your trip?" you asked softly, your voice trembling just slightly as you traced the rim of your cup with your fingertip, unable to sit still.
Telemachus let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sinking a little as he rolled his eyes playfully. "It was... mostly old men arguing," he said, his voice dripping with tired humor. "But... there was this one merchant... from Tyre... kept trying to sell me a goat."
You blinked, your brows furrowing slightly. "A goat...?"
He nodded seriously, lips twitching with amusement. "He claimed it could predict the weather."
You stared at him, eyes wide in shock for a second before a small giggle bubbled up from your chest. You clapped your hand over your mouth, cheeks burning with heat as the giggle slipped out anyway.
"A goat?? That predicts rain??" you whispered, your voice cracking with quiet laughter.
Telemachus chuckled softly, nodding again. "Swore on his entire stock of wine it was true," he said, his smile widening as he watched your shoulders shake with laughter.
Your chest fluttered with warmth, the tension you hadn't realized you'd been holding melting from your shoulders. You lowered your hand slowly, your lips still curled into a smile, your breath coming out light and trembling with leftover giggles.
Warmth spread through your chest, wrapping around your ribs like gentle sunlight. For a moment, it was just you and him. No titles. No customers. Just two young people sitting by the fire, giggling about a goat that predicted the rain.
When you finally looked back up at him, Telemachus was staring at you. His eyes were soft, his lips parted slightly as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Gods..." he whispered, his voice low and shaking with something thick and warm. "Your smile... it's beautiful."
Your smile faded into something softer, smaller, shy. The words sank deep into your chest, curling there like a small ember glowing warm against your ribs. You felt your breath catch, your heart squeezing so tightly it almost hurt.
The fire crackled softly beside you both, filling the room with the faint scent of woodsmoke and warmth. Rain tapped against the shutters in gentle, rhythmic beats, like fingertips drumming along the wood.
Everything felt quiet. Still. Like the whole world had gone silent just to watch you and him.
Telemachus' eyes flicked down to your lips, lingering there for a breath, two, before he leaned in slightly. He paused, his breath trembling against your cheek, his nose brushing yours. Waiting. Always waiting for you to make the final move... for you to choose him first.
Your stomach fluttered so hard you thought you might be sick. But you wanted him. Gods, you wanted him so badly it made your chest ache.
So you leaned in.
Your lips brushed his lightly, testing, soft as a whisper. His breath caught in his chest, his lips trembling against yours. The kiss tasted faintly of wine—sweet and bitter all at once—warm and heady, like something stolen and savored. Something you wanted again and again and again.
Your hands reached up before you could think, fingers trembling as they cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing lightly along the sharp lines of his cheekbones.
Telemachus let out a low sigh against your mouth, a sound that made your chest tighten with something hot and needy. He took it as a green light. Without breaking the kiss, his hands moved quickly, grabbing the cups from your laps and setting them aside onto the tray with a quiet clatter that made your heart jump.
Then his hands were on you—one sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other curling around your waist, pulling you closer with a sudden, desperate strength. His lips pressed harder against yours, tilting your head slightly as he deepened the kiss.
You gasped softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth before his tongue slipped past your lips, warm and trembling, tasting you like he couldn't believe he was allowed to.
Your head filled with nothing but him. His smell—rain and smoke and something clean. His warmth, wrapping around you like a blanket pulled tight. His touch, grounding and trembling all at once, like he needed you to breathe.
You felt your whole body soften into his hold, your chest pressing against his as his kisses grew hungrier, more desperate, tasting like a prayer whispered to the dark.
And gods... you wanted to answer every single one.
At some point, you weren't sure exactly how, he ended up above you. The bed dipped beneath your back as you sank into the sheets, the faint scent of lavender soap and old wood rising up around you.
Your chest heaved with every shaky breath, your arms reaching up without thinking, fingers curling around his shoulders as you pulled him down to you again.
Telemachus let out a small, desperate sound at the back of his throat as his lips found yours once more. His kiss was hungry, trembling, almost clumsy in its eagerness as he chased your mouth like he couldn't stand even a breath of distance between you.
Your head felt fuzzy, the leftover wine swirling warm and heavy in your stomach, mixing with the slow-growing heat that pooled low in your belly. Every brush of his lips made it throb stronger, every breathless sigh against your skin making your thighs clench together with quiet, aching need.
His kisses trailed down, brushing along your jaw, then lower to your neck. You felt his warm breath against your collarbone, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there that made your stomach twist with something sharp and wanting.
Then you felt it—his hands bunching your chiton up around your hips, fabric sliding across your thighs, baring you to the cool air and his hot, trembling touch.
"Wait—!"you gasped out, your voice cracking as your hands shot down to grab his wrists.
Telemachus froze instantly, his chest heaving against yours as he lifted his head to look at you. His curls fell into his eyes, damp with sweat and rain. His cheeks were flushed pink, his lips kiss-swollen and parted, his breath coming out ragged and hot against your skin.
Your own chest rose and fell quickly as you sat up slightly on your elbows, staring up at him with wide, panicked eyes.
"I... I haven't—" you stuttered out, your voice shaking. "I haven't had a chance to... to freshen up..."
Telemachus blinked down at you, still panting softly, his brows furrowing in confusion as he tried to catch his breath. "Freshen up...?"
You swallowed hard, looking away as your cheeks burned hot with embarrassment. "I... I didn't get to... to prepare... or bathe... or... or anything," you whispered, your words trailing off into quiet shame. "I was... I was working all day... I-I didn't know... you'd come... tonight..."
Your fingers curled tighter in the sheets beneath you, your chest squeezing painfully as you stared down at the hem of your chiton bunched around your hips. Your heart thudded loud in your ears, your breath coming out in shaky, embarrassed little gasps as you waited for his reaction.
Telemachus just blinked down at you, his brows furrowing slightly like he was trying to process what you'd said. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths as he swallowed hard.
"Did... did you bathe this morning?" he asked quietly, his voice still rough and a little breathless.
You nodded quickly, your cheeks burning hot as you whispered, "Y-Yes, I did, but still—"
Before you could say anything else, he let out a quiet, shaky laugh. His lips curled into a crooked, almost sinful smile as he shook his head slightly.
"Gods..." he breathed out, his voice dropping lower, thicker. "I... I honestly wouldn't care if you didn't."
Your eyes widened, your mouth falling open with a small, shocked gasp. "W-What...?"
His gaze darkened further, his eyes flicking down to your lips and then lower, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he let out another quiet, breathless laugh.
"I... gods, I..." he stammered softly, his voice cracking with quiet desperation. "I don't care... about any of that. You could... you could taste like sweat... or work... or anything..."
Your breath hitched sharply at his words. Heat twisted low in your belly, sharp and fluttery all at once, shame and want mixing so violently it made your thighs press together until they ached. Gods... gods, what was he about to say...
"...and I'd still want to bury my face between your thighs until you're shaking so hard you forget your own name."
His grip tightened against your hips, fingers digging in just slightly as his eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and heavy with heat. Your breath caught painfully in your chest, a small, choked noise slipping out of your throat as your thighs clenched tighter beneath him. Your face burned so hot you felt lightheaded, your hands fisting in the sheets as shame and wanting twisted sharp and dizzying in your belly.
"T-Telemachus...!"
Before you could say anything else, his lips crashed into yours again, swallowing whatever shocked little gasp you made.
His kiss was rougher this time, desperate and trembling as his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You felt his tongue slip past your lips, warm and wet, tasting you with slow, hungry strokes that made your head spin.
When he finally pulled back, both of you panting, his nose brushed against yours. His eyes were dark and blown wide with need, his curls falling around his face as he pressed his forehead to yours.
"I don't care." His voice was rough and low, trembling with quiet, desperate honesty. "I just... I just want you."
Your breath hitched, your chest squeezing painfully tight at his words. Before you could say anything, his lips were on yours again, softer this time, his kiss tasting like warm wine and quiet desperation.
Then his hands were moving down, sliding along your hips, bunching your chiton higher around your waist. His kisses trailed down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, until his breath fanned warmly against your belly.
You gasped softly, your fingers threading into his damp curls before suddenly tensing.
"Wait," you whispered, your voice coming out sharper than you meant.
Telemachus froze immediately. He glanced up at you, his eyes wide and worried, curls falling into his flushed face. "I... it's okay," he said quickly, trying to reassure you, his voice trembling with quiet urgency. "I don't mind. Gods, I'm a soldier, I've—"
"It's not that," you blurted out, cutting him off in your embarrassment. Your cheeks burned hot as you sat up slightly, your thighs pressing together under his hands.
He blinked up at you, confused. "Then... what is it...?"
Your throat felt tight, your chest squeezing painfully as you struggled to find the words. You looked away from him, down at where your hands twisted in the sheets.
"I just... I still feel bad... about last time," you whispered, your voice trembling with quiet shame. "I don't... I don't want it to be... like that again. You... you didn't get anything... and I..."
You swallowed hard, your words trailing off as your face burned hotter.
"I don't want it to be... just me again," you finished softly, your voice barely louder than the quiet patter of rain against the window.
Telemachus was silent for a long moment. You risked a glance up at him, your stomach twisting with anxiety, only to see him staring at you with wide, glassy eyes.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly.
"Gods..." he whispered, his voice rough with something thick and warm. "You're really cute, you know that?"
Before you could respond, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Then he pulled away completely, shifting his weight back and standing up at the edge of the bed.
You blinked in surprise, your chest heaving slightly as you glanced around. You hadn't even noticed he'd moved you both to the center of the bed during all the kissing and shifting, the bedding dipping slightly beneath your hips where you now lay half reclined, your chiton bunched up around your thighs.
Telemachus stood above you, shirtless and flushed, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he looked down at you, his dark eyes warm and unreadable.
His head tilted slightly, curls brushing his temple as he hummed low in his throat. "Fine," he said at last, voice rough but edged with something playful. "If you're insistent on making sure I'll... enjoy myself this time—" his mouth curved into a faint smirk, "—which, for the record, I did last time—then I'll teach you what I like."
Your stomach gave a nervous little twist, but before you could respond, his tone shifted—lower, edged with impatience. "But first..." His gaze dragged over you in a way that made your cheeks burn. "Can I... taste you?"
Heat rushed straight to your face, and you instantly covered it with your hands."Telemachus!" you hissed, your voice a mix of fluster and disbelief. "Stop saying stuff like that!"
He laughed—soft and warm, the sound curling down your spine—before catching your wrists and tugging your hands gently away from your face. "Why not?" he asked, smiling like he was enjoying your embarrassment far too much. "It's not the worst I could say... not the filthiest, either."
You glared at him weakly, murmuring under your breath, "...Still."
Telemachus let out a small sigh, though the corner of his mouth still twitched with amusement. "Fine. I'll stop teasing," he murmured—though the glint in his eyes made you doubt he meant it entirely.
Without another word, he lowered himself smoothly to his knees in front of you. Your breath caught, pulse skipping as his large hands found your hips, warm even through the bunched fabric of your dress.
Then, with effortless strength, he pulled you forward. The bed dipped beneath you as your body slid toward the edge of the bed, your knees parting slightly without thought. You hadn't realized how easily he could move you until now—how his grip was firm but not rough, guiding rather than forcing.
The heat in your stomach swirled, your thighs tensing as a wave of flutters rushed through you. Gods... he made it look so easy. And worse—part of you liked that he could.
Before you could even think to brace yourself—before your nerves could talk you into pulling away—he was on you.
The first brush of his mouth against you tore the air straight from your lungs. You gasped, sharp and shaky, your fingers darting into his hair before you even realized what you were doing. Your body tensed for a heartbeat, every muscle tightening in surprise—then it all melted, a slow, dizzy surrender that left you leaning back on your elbows.
The heat of his breath, the wet, smooth glide of his tongue—gods, it was too much too fast. A small, breathy moan slipped past your lips before you could swallow it down.
Telemachus groaned in return, low and deep, the sound vibrating against you in a way that made your back arch. You felt his hands tighten on your thighs, thumbs stroking once before his grip turned firmer, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
Your heart hammered, your thoughts scattering with every slow drag and swirl of his tongue. The warmth of his mouth, the faint scrape of his stubble against your skin—it was all you could focus on. The edges of the room blurred; the rain outside faded. Every part of you narrowed down to him, his mouth, the way he seemed to savor you like this was something he’d been starving for.
And gods help you, the more you felt, the less you could think at all.
The heat in your belly was building far too quickly, curling tight and low until it felt like every nerve in your body was strung up and trembling. Your nails found his scalp without thinking, dragging lightly through the damp strands of his hair, and another moan poured from your lips—high and breathless.
It turned into something closer to a squeal when he pressed his face in closer, his grip on your thighs firm as he guided your legs higher. The new angle made you shiver, your breath catching as his tongue moved lower, teasing and tasting as if he wanted every inch of you—like he couldn't stand the idea of leaving any part untouched.
Your head fell back, mouth falling open as your thoughts dissolved into nothing but sensation. And then, without warning, his mouth shifted—his lips closing around your nub and sucking with a slow, deliberate pull that sent a shock through your whole body.
The climax hit you before you had time to brace for it, crashing over you in a wave that left your toes curling and your thighs shaking against his hold. Your body jolted, shivers racking your spine as the warmth spilled and spiraled outward, and he didn't stop—he stayed with you through it, tongue working gently until the last of your moans faded to trembling gasps.
Only then did Telemachus lift his head, pressing one final, lingering lick against you before pulling back. His lips were wet, his breathing uneven, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—looked almost dazed as he stared up at you.
His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, each inhale still tinged with your scent. He dragged his tongue slowly across his lips, like he couldn't help himself, catching the last taste of you before sitting back on his heels. The room was silent except for the ragged rhythm of your panting and his—two sets of lungs trying to settle after something that felt like it had stolen the air from both of you.
"...Was it okay?" he asked finally, his voice low and unsure in a way that almost made your heart ache.
You gave him a wobbly, breathless smile, raising a shaky thumbs-up before sighing, "The... best."
That earned you a grin—soft, boyish, so achingly sweet it didn't match the heat still pulsing in your veins. He stood then, stretching slightly, and your gaze followed before you could stop it. The shift in his stance gave you the first bare, dizzying glimpse—
You swallowed the yelp that tried to escape, your fingers curling against the sheets. Telemachus was nude now, the loose Persian trousers gone without you even noticing when.
He was... above average, enough to make your stomach twist at the thought of taking him, but not so much it looked unreal. Slightly thicker than most, with a fullness that made your breath hitch just looking at it, the weight of him solid, grounding. He curved slightly upward—natural for someone with his lean, wiry strength—heavier at the base before tapering into a flushed, well-defined head. His skin there was the same golden-tan as the rest of him, maybe even a shade darker, faint veins tracing the length in a way that made your mouth go dry. A soft, dark thatch of curls framed the base, trimmed short—practical, clean, touched by the heat and work of the day.
The sight alone had your thighs pressing together before you could think, the ache in your stomach deepening.
Your breath caught when his hand moved, wrapping loosely around himself, his fingers curling in a slow, deliberate stroke. His eyes found yours, darker now—heavy-lidded, voice low and rough when he spoke.
"Do you like what you see?"
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you could stop yourself, the motion feeling too obvious, but you couldn't lie—not with your pulse pounding in your ears like this. You gave the smallest nod, and he smirked.
"Good."
He stepped closer, the steady motion of his hand on himself never faltering, and extended his other hand toward you. You hesitated only a moment before taking it, his palm warm and calloused as he gently drew you up onto your knees.
"It's alright," he murmured, a small smile ghosting across his lips. "You won't hurt me. Don't be embarrassed."
Then he guided your hands, slow and patient, until they rested over his own. Your breath hitched at the contact—the startling heat of him against your skin, solid and heavy, the thickness filling your palm as if it were made to fit there. He let you feel the rhythm, the way his fingers moved, the faint twitch beneath your touch.
Your breathing grew heavier without meaning to, each exhale trembling as you curled your fingers slightly, the smooth skin sliding under your palm. He was hot—almost too hot—and you could feel the steady pulse of him, strong and alive, making your own chest tighten with something you couldn't quite name.
You kept the motion going, finding a rhythm that matched the way he’d shown you. After a moment, his hand slipped away entirely, leaving yours alone to move over him. His head tilted back just slightly, lips parting, but his eyes stayed on you—lidded and hazy—as if he couldn't bear to look away.
"That's it... just like that," he murmured, voice rough and low, each word sinking into your skin like heat.
Something in you eased at the sound—made you bolder. You straightened a little on your knees, leaning in so you could brace your free hand on the solid muscle of his thigh. The warmth there seeped into your palm, and without thinking, your fingers traced a slow path over the skin, feeling the faint flex and shift beneath. You let yourself rest against him slightly, the closeness making your pulse jump.
His breath hitched, a soft, low moan slipping out before he caught it, his hips giving the smallest push into your hand. You felt the change instantly—slick warmth gathering at the tip, a bead of it spilling and trailing down over your fingers. It made your grip tacky, every stroke gliding smoother as you worked over him, the heat and weight in your palm impossible to ignore.
Then Telemachus let out a low, shaky groan, his hips twitching just barely into your hand. "Higher..." he breathed, his voice ragged but gentle, guiding your hand upward with a slight nudge. "Focus more... on the tip—yeah, right there."
You obeyed, tightening your fingers just a little as you shifted your strokes higher, giving him a slow squeeze right beneath the head. Barely two pumps in, you glanced up at him with wide eyes and asked softly, "Like that? Is that okay?"
The reaction was instant. He jerked—hard—and his hand shot down to still yours, pulling you away with sudden urgency. For a split second, panic flared in your chest, but the look on his face wasn’t shame—it was something else entirely. His cheeks were flushed a deep, almost feverish pink, and his eyes darted away as he turned his head, one hand covering his face.
You blinked, confused, until he groaned under his breath, peeking back at you through his fingers. "...It is," he managed to stammer, voice wrecked.
Leaning forward a little, you tilted your head. "Then... what's wrong?"
He gave a breathless, almost pained laugh, dropping his hand from his face as his eyes met yours again—dark, hot, and barely holding on. "If you keep looking at me like that, I'll embarrass us both."
You just hummed softly, fighting the smile pulling at your lips, before settling back and wrapping your hand around him again. This time you kept your gaze lowered, focusing on the slow, steady movement, your strokes slick and deliberate.
His moans started up again—low and unsteady—spilling into the warm, quiet air between you, each one sending another shiver down your spine.
The longer you worked him, the more Telemachus' control seemed to unravel. His hips twitched with every pass of your hand, tiny, involuntary thrusts that made the slick glide between your fingers messier, wetter. The soft, tacky sound of it mixed with the warm, breathless groans pouring from his throat—sometimes your name, sometimes curses low enough that you only caught the rough edges of them.
The heat of him seemed to bleed into you, creeping up your arms and settling low in your stomach until you realized your own thighs were pressing together, rubbing just slightly with each shift of your knees. Your breathing had picked up without you noticing, every inhale shaky, every exhale catching in your throat.
Your focus stayed on him—on the way his head tipped back when you hit the right spot, on the little stutters in his breath when your thumb teased just under the head, on the sticky dribble slicking your hand as he grew heavier in your palm.
You were so caught in it—so utterly wrapped up in watching him—that you didn't even notice yourself leaning closer until you were right there, close enough to see the faint pulse of a vein along the side of him, to feel the heat rolling off his skin in waves.
Some reckless, curious part of you wondered—what would he taste like? Would the heat under your palm be the same on your tongue? Would it be as heavy, as startling, when your lips touched him instead of your hand? The thought was enough to make your stomach flip, heat pooling low in your belly.
You dared a quick glance up at him. Telemachus' head was tipped all the way back, throat bared, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven pulls of breath. Every few seconds, a groan—low, drawn out—slipped past his lips, his voice breaking in places like he couldn't quite hold it together.
Before you could stop yourself, before you could even think to second-guess, you leaned in. Just a careful, tentative brush of your mouth against him, a kitten lick along the tip before your lips closed in a small, shy suckle. The taste was warm, faintly bitter, sharp in a way that made your tongue tingle.
Telemachus gasped—loud, ragged—his back arching as his hips jolted forward in a sudden, uncontrolled stutter. The reaction was so sharp, so immediate, that it startled you, and before you could even decide if you wanted to do it again, his hands were on you, gently but firmly pulling you back, his chest rising fast as if he'd just been dragged from the edge of something he wasn't ready to tumble over.
Telemachus' grip lingered for a moment, his palms warm against your skin as if he needed that steady hold to ground himself. His head dipped slightly, breath shuddering out through parted lips. You could hear him mumbling under his breath—half to himself, half to you—as if trying to talk his pulse back down.
"Gods..." he exhaled, tilting his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. It was tired, but not in a weary way—in that slow, deliberate, dangerous way that made your stomach flip. His eyes dragged over you, still dark and heavy, and his voice came low, rough.
"...I don't want to... finish too soon," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking like he was both warning you and making a promise. We can try that another time... promise."
Before you could answer, he bent at the waist, one hand lifting to lightly cradle the bottom of your chin, his thumb brushing along the edge. The touch was soft—reverent almost—and it held you there just long enough for him to press a quick, warm kiss to your lips. Then, with a quiet hum, he eased you back, guiding you down onto the mattress.
Your spine sank into the bed, the sheets cool under you, and in the next breath he was there again—settled between your thighs, his presence crowding out everything else. The space between you closed in until it was nothing but heat, the scent of rain still clinging to him, and the heavy sound of your mingled breaths filling the warm, quiet air.
His breath was warm against your skin as he dipped his head, the tip of his nose brushing along the slope of your neck. You shivered when his lips followed, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your jaw. Every so often, his tongue flicked out, tasting your skin as though he couldn’t help himself, leaving tingles in his wake.
"I have to prepare you for me..." he murmured, the words low and rough, ghosting against your ear.
His hands slid down your sides in slow, deliberate strokes, the heat of his palms burning through the thin fabric. He squeezed lightly at your hips before guiding your knees up, urging you to cradle his waist. The movement pulled him closer, pressing the solid weight of his body into yours, his warmth seeping into every inch of you.
"Relax for me," he whispered against your ear, his voice coaxing and almost pleading.
One of his hands drifted lower, slipping between your thighs. The first gentle press of his fingers there had you exhaling shakily, hips twitching despite yourself. You hooked one leg higher over his hip, letting him in without thinking, and his fingertips found that sensitive spot—your nub—rubbing slow, careful circles that sent a deep, aching warmth curling low in your stomach.
Telemachus' voice came soft and sweet above you, the kind of tone that made your chest feel warm and shaky all at once. "Am I... doing okay?" he murmured, like he was afraid to break whatever spell had wrapped around you both.
You managed a hum, though it trembled, your lips parting on a shaky breath. He smiled faintly, brushing his nose against your temple. "Good... because I'm about to stretch you out a little."
The words had your stomach twisting, anticipation and nerves tangling together. Before you could think too hard about it, you felt his fingers drift lower, parting you gently before pressing in.
A startled gasp slipped out—your hips twitching at the strange, unfamiliar fullness. It felt... weird at first, the pressure foreign, but his warm mouth pressed to your cheek, then your jaw, his voice spilling in low, steady murmurs against your skin, kept you from tensing.
And then—gods—he found it. That spot inside you that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch. Heat flooded through you, slick quickly gathering as his fingers worked with slow, deliberate care.
"That's it," he cooed low into your ear, his breath hot, "there you go..."
Your head tipped back at the sound of his voice, your nails curling lightly into his shoulders as you moved against his touch without meaning to. It wasn't until his mouth latched onto the side of your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to make you gasp, that his hand finally stilled and he pulled back—your skin tingling and your pulse racing.
Telemachus finally lifted his head, your skin still buzzing where his mouth had been. His lips were flushed, his breathing heavy as he lingered over you for just a moment longer before pulling back completely.
The loss of his warmth made you whimper before you could stop yourself, watching as he stepped away from the bed. His movements were unhurried, almost deliberate, as he crossed to the small table near the wall. You followed him with your eyes, chest rising and falling, still catching your breath.
He picked up a small vial, working the cork free with a quiet pop. The rich, earthy scent of the oil reached you even from where you lay, and your stomach fluttered when you saw him pour some into his palm. His long fingers glistened as he rubbed it over himself, his touch slow, almost teasing—like he was giving you the chance to watch every second of it.
By the time he returned to the bed, your pulse had quickened again. He knelt between your thighs, his knee nudging one open just a bit farther, the heat of him radiating against your skin.
His hand wrapped around himself, stroking lazily for a few seconds more before he leaned forward. The first brush of his tip against you made your breath stutter—warm, slick, and heavy. He slid it up and down your slit in slow, deliberate passes, smearing your wetness over himself.
Your leg twitched on instinct, toes curling at the sensation, and his eyes flicked up to catch the movement. He lingered like that for a few moments longer—drawing out every brush, every shiver—before finally tilting himself down, the head pressing gently against your entrance.
Telemachus' gaze lifted to yours, his eyes dark but searching, and for a moment, neither of you moved. "Are you ready?" his voice was low, almost shaking with how much he was holding back. "Are you... okay?"
Your breath caught, your chest rising fast, and you managed a breathless, "Yes."
He held your thighs a little tighter, his knuckles pale against your skin, and eased forward—slowly, carefully. The stretch made you tense, a faint sting sparking under the warmth, and you bit your lip hard to keep from gasping too sharp.
He froze instantly, head dipping low as if grounding himself. "T-Tell me if it's too much, he murmured, his voice unsteady but firm, almost like a vow. "I'll stop. I swear to the gods, I'll stop."
That care—that dominance laced with control—made your throat tighten. You shook your head quickly, voice pitching high, "No—yes—yes, I'm okay... keep going."
His grip shifted, thumbs stroking over your skin in silent reassurance as he pushed in deeper, each inch stealing the air from your lungs. Your body slowly softened around him, and a low, shaky groan spilled from his throat at the feeling.
When his hips finally pressed flush to yours, both of you let out sounds that tangled together—your breathless moan and his deep, throaty groan filling the warm air between you.
"You good?" he asked again, his eyes locked on yours like the answer meant everything.
You swallowed hard, nodding fast, voice almost breaking, "Just—move... please."
He started slow—good slow—the kind of pace that let you feel every inch of him, the heat, the weight, the way he filled you so completely. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, and it took you a moment to realize he was murmuring your name in between soft, shaky moans.
The sound made your stomach clench, and before you even thought about it, your body did too—tightening around him. His breath caught, and a low, rough growl vibrated against your neck as his hand gripped your thigh tighter, hitching it higher around his hip like he couldn’t get deep enough.
"Gods..." he groaned, the word breaking as his hips drove forward harder. The slow rhythm started to crack, his thrusts coming sharper, more urgent, and each one knocked the air out of you in a shuddering gasp.
His sounds—moans, half-choked breaths, the occasional curse—poured against your ear and down your spine, making every nerve in you hum. The warmth in your stomach swelled with each push and pull, his body heavy and hot over yours, the bed creaking faintly beneath the both of you.
Your mind blurred until there was nothing left but the feeling of him—the stretch, the heat, the way he held you like you were something he couldn't let go of. Everything else once again—the fire, the rain, the quiet—fell away until there was only Telemachus, and the way he was making you feel.
Telemachus bent lower over you, his grip firm as he hooked one of your legs high around his waist, opening you up to him even more. The change in angle made you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets, and then his mouth was on yours—hot, desperate, messy.
It wasn't a neat kiss. It was all heat and need, his lips sliding against yours, breaths mingling, the occasional soft sound slipping between you when he caught your bottom lip and sucked. His hips rocked into you with every kiss, slow enough to make you feel it deep, but hard enough to make your toes curl.
His hands wandered—everywhere—running along your sides, over the curve of your hip, then sliding up under your tunic. He kept pushing it higher and higher, his palms warm against your bare skin until they found your breasts. He cupped them fully, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your back arched into him.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he tugged the tunic up and over your head, tossing it somewhere beside the bed without looking. His mouth dropped to your neck instantly, hot and wet, leaving open-mouthed kisses and little sucks that made your skin tingle and your breath hitch.
"T-Telemachus." You gasped his name, the sound breaking into a stutter as his mouth moved against your skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking, nails lightly scraping his scalp.
You didn't even realize it was coming until it hit you—your whole body tightening, a choked moan spilling from your lips as your legs locked around his waist. The rush of it stole your breath, heat blooming fast and sharp low in your stomach before spreading everywhere, leaving you shivering under him.
Telemachus' hips faltered, then jerked rougher, his voice breaking into a curse as he buried his face in your neck. He pulled back just in time, the sudden emptiness making you whine before you felt the warm splatter of him across your stomach. It was hot, startling in its intensity, and your eyes blinked wide in surprise.
You let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. "Was I really that good?"
His answering grin was flushed and tired as he reached for your discarded tunic, wiping your stomach with careful, unhurried swipes. Once you were clean, he tossed it aside again and collapsed beside you, still catching his breath, the bed dipping under his weight.
He rolled onto his side to face you, and you mirrored him without thinking, the two of you lying there in the soft afterglow, the air warm with the smell of sweat and rain. For a while, neither of you spoke—just the sound of your breathing evening out, eyes locked as if you were trying to memorize each other.
When Telemachus finally did speak, his voice was gentle, almost hesitant. "How... did you end up here? Working at the brothel?" There was no judgment in it, no sharp edge—just quiet curiosity, like he wanted to understand.
You froze, your fingers curling into the sheets between you. The question hung in the air, heavier than the storm outside. But slowly, you let yourself answer.
"I was just... a regular Ithacan girl," you began, your voice low. "My mother died giving birth to me. My father... he never came home from Troy. So my grandparents raised me. We had a farm—nothing big, just enough to get by."
You swallowed, looking away. "They got sick when I was about fifteen. I tried to take care of them, but... they were gone within months. I lost them. Lost the farm. And that was it."
Your lips twisted faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Even though I was young—still a virgin—I had nothing. No dowry, no family. No one was going to take me as a wife. And even if they wanted to, who's to say they'd believe I was untouched?"
You hesitated, then let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Before I came here, there was this young low-lord who showed some interest in me. But another girl wanted him, too. She spread rumors—said I'd already been with men, that I'd been... sullied. It didn't matter that it wasn't true. The rumor stuck... It always does."
You met his eyes again, something raw flickering in your chest. "So I chose this. The brothel. At least here, I could have some control... however grim it was."
Silence filled the room again, thicker this time. He didn't rush to fill it, didn't tell you you were wrong or pity you. He just looked at you, as if weighing every word you'd said, and the quiet stretched like a held breath.
Telemachus' gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer before he finally looked away, his jaw shifting as though he was chewing over words that wouldn't come easily. When they did, they came low and rough.
"...I'm sorry."
Your brows furrowed faintly. "For what?"
"I didn't think," he admitted, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder instead of your face. "I only saw you. Not what you had to lose to be here."
You tried to wave it off with a small shrug, your voice softer. "You're a man. How could you know?"
His head turned back toward you, expression sharpening—not with anger, but with a kind of quiet conviction. "I'm not just a man," he said, voice steady in a way that made the words sit heavier in the air. "I'm a prince. If I can't imagine the lives of my people... if I can't put myself in their shoes, feel what they feel—then I'm not fit to lead them."
For a moment, neither of you moved. The weight of his words made something twist in your chest—because he meant it, you could see that. Eventually, his hand shifted, brushing your arm in a gesture that felt more like a promise than comfort.
When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a different timbre—not as a lover lying in your bed, but as the man who would one day wear a crown. "I want you to leave here," he said plainly. "Move into the palace."
You blinked at him, startled. "As what? You know what people will say—"
"As my concubine," he interrupted, not flinching from the word. "It's not marriage. I know that. And I won't pretend it would make you my equal in the eyes of everyone. But there are protections—real ones. Laws that keep you safe."
He shifted closer, his tone firm but earnest. "Draconian law says a man can kill anyone who tries to take what's his—even a concubine. No one could touch you without answering to me. You'd have a place. Food. A home. And you wouldn't be hidden away in some dark corner."
His gaze softened just slightly. "I want you safe. I want you seen. And if I'm not allowed to love you openly..." His thumb brushed against your jaw. "...then I'll make it as close as I can."
Your lips parted, but nothing came out at first—just a small, shaky exhale. The offer sat between you, heavy and almost unreal, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat.
"Why would you..." You swallowed hard, brows knitting. "You're too important, Telemachus. You can't— I'm... I'm just—"
The rest of the sentence never made it past your tongue. His mouth was on yours before you could finish, warm and sure, silencing every protest you tried to form.
When he pulled back just far enough to speak, his breath brushed against your lips. "You're not 'just' anything," he said, almost fierce. "You're mine... if you let me."
You stared at him, wide-eyed, his words echoing in your head. Mine... if you let me. Your thoughts spun so fast you could hardly keep up. Do I even deserve this? After everything—after where I've been, what I've done—how could I?
And yet... the way he looked at you, as if none of it mattered, made the question feel smaller.
Your answer wasn't words.
You leaned in, closing the space between you, your lips pressing to his again—soft at first, then deeper, steadier. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there like he'd never let you go.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were smiling—quiet, secret smiles meant only for each other.
This time, there was no hesitation. You'd made your choice.
And from the way Telemachus' arms wrapped around you, tucking you against his chest as if to shield you from the whole world, you knew he'd already made his.
Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Arthur Leclerc, Paul Aron, Franco Colapinto, Max Verstappen, Carlos Sainz
Charles Leclerc|
A first time born from tension and emotional jealousy. When Charles loves, it’s never halfway — it’s everything.
“Nothing goes as planned, everything will break. People say goodbye in their own special way.”
“You’re in my veins and I cannot get you out.”
The soft hum of the city beyond the balcony faded into the background, the golden lights of Monaco casting a warm glow across Charles’ apartment. It was late, the kind of hour where time slowed down and everything felt quieter, softer—more honest.
Y/N stood in one of Charles’ shirts, sleeves too long and hem brushing her thighs. Her fingers twisted nervously in the fabric as she stared out at the skyline. She could hear him moving behind her—closing the kitchen cabinet, placing two mugs on the coffee table. His steps were always light, respectful. Like he never wanted to startle her. Like he always thought about how she felt first.
“You okay?” his voice was gentle behind her, low and close.
She nodded but didn’t turn around. “Just… thinking.”
He came up behind her, his hands finding her waist, grounding her. “About?”
She leaned back into him, letting her eyes flutter closed at the feel of his arms around her. “Us.”
Charles didn’t ask more. He waited.
“I’ve never felt this safe with anyone,” she said, voice quiet. “It’s… terrifying.”
He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Why terrifying?”
“Because it feels like if I let go, you’d ruin me in the most beautiful way.”
Charles was silent for a beat. Then, his lips brushed her temple. “Je ne veux que te soigner. I only want to care for you, mon amour.”
Later, the apartment was dim—the only light coming from the faint flicker of the fireplace and the soft glimmer of the stars through the window. They lay on the bed, sheets rumpled, the world outside forgotten.
Charles touched her like she was something rare, something precious—slowly, reverently. He didn’t rush. Not once.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, brushing a piece of hair from her face as he hovered over her, breath warm and sweet.
“I’ve never been more sure,” she said, meeting his eyes. Her voice didn’t shake.
He kissed her like she was air and he’d gone too long without breathing. His hands explored gently, never grabbing, never taking. Just learning her. Worshipping her.
The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing that existed—made her chest ache in the best way.
“You're beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, between kisses down her neck and across her collarbone. “Inside. Outside. All of it. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want this to feel good for you.”
And it did. Every second with him felt sacred.
He was slow at first, watching her closely, checking in with every motion. She tangled her fingers in his hair and nodded, wordlessly telling him to keep going, that she trusted him with everything she had.
When their bodies finally became one, it wasn’t just about physical pleasure—it was about the emotion spilling from every breath, every movement.
He whispered her name like a prayer. Held her like he never wanted to let go. Their foreheads pressed together as their breaths tangled in the small space between them.
“I love you,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.
His eyes fluttered open—glassy, vulnerable. “I love you too. So much it scares me.”
After, he didn’t pull away. He stayed close, arms wrapped around her, hand gently tracing the length of her back. They lay there tangled together, warm and safe beneath the sheets.
“You okay?” he asked, softly, brushing her hair back to see her face.
She smiled sleepily. “More than okay.”
He kissed her again—slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world.
“Bonne nuit, mon cœur,” he whispered. “Thank you for trusting me.”
And she knew, without a doubt, that there was nowhere safer than in his arms.
Lewis Hamilton|
Mature. Intentional. Worshipful. Lewis doesn’t just take — he gives, and makes you feel like you’re the only one.
“You make it look like it's magic... I love when you're on your knees.”
“You deserve it... the way you work it.”
The first time wasn’t planned.
No grand gesture. No Paris getaway. No dramatic thunderstorm or candlelight cliché.
It happened on a quiet Sunday evening. His apartment was dim and peaceful, the kind of soft that only came after a long week and a shared silence you didn’t need to fill. Rain tapped against the windows, and the vinyl player murmured something low and soulful — Otis Redding, maybe. You were curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, legs pulled into your chest, head on a pillow that smelled like cedarwood and him.
Lewis was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, your hand lazily resting in his hair as he scrolled through an old notebook. It was worn, edges frayed. You could see scribbles of song lyrics, quiet thoughts, maybe prayers — you didn’t ask. He didn’t mind you seeing. That in itself was intimacy.
“Do you believe in timing?” he asked suddenly, closing the notebook and turning so his chin rested on your thigh.
Your fingers slowed in his curls. “I think I used to believe in bad timing. Now I think… the right people make time irrelevant.”
Lewis smiled faintly, his eyes staying on yours a little longer. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to put into words.”
A beat passed.
Then he said, softer, “I want you tonight. Not just physically. I want all of you. But only if it’s what you want too.”
You sat up a little, pulse fluttering for reasons deeper than nerves. His honesty — the way he always asked, never assumed — grounded you.
“I’ve never felt safer with anyone than I do with you,” you said. “I want this. But only if it feels like us.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. And when your lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth. Steady, aching, real.
You moved to the bedroom together like a slow unraveling. His hand rested on the small of your back as he led you in, and then he paused, brushing his fingers over your jaw.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” he whispered. “You owe me nothing, alright?”
You nodded, pressing your forehead to his. “Same goes for you.”
Lewis kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, more searching. It was as if he needed to memorize every breath, every shift of your body. His hands moved over you like he was trying to learn your language by touch. Reverent. Focused. Gentle.
When he undressed you, it wasn’t just undressing — it was unveiling. He looked at you like you were art. Like being known was something sacred.
“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, brushing a kiss just beneath your breast. “Not because of how you look, but because I get to see you like this.”
He took his time. Made sure you were the center of everything. Every kiss, every stroke of his fingers, every press of his body was for you. No rushing. No demands. Just presence.
There was no need for dirty talk — not tonight. Instead, he whispered things like:
“You don’t have to hide any part of yourself with me.”
“Let go. I’ve got you.”
“You're doing so well, baby.”
And the way he looked at you while you came undone beneath him? Like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed.
After, Lewis didn’t move away. He stayed tangled with you under the sheets, one arm snug around your waist, his lips brushing your shoulder every now and then.
You were still catching your breath when he spoke.
“I didn’t know it could feel like this. Like something bigger than us was in the room.”
You turned to face him, eyes soft. “Because it’s not just sex. It’s trust.”
Lewis smiled — slow, tired, completely in love.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “And I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you.”
He pulled you close again, wrapping your leg over his. “Sleep here. Don’t go. Not just tonight — I mean… all the nights. Stay with me.”
And with your heart pressed to his, your body wrapped in the safest arms you’d ever known, you knew: this wasn’t just a first time.
It was the beginning of everything.
Arthur Leclerc|
A first time after a fight, when passion collides with care. Arthur doesn’t just want you — he needs you.
“Nobody loves you, baby, the way I do.”
“I think I’m gonna lose my mind, something deep inside me I can’t give up.”
The apartment was quiet, bathed in the pale orange glow of a late afternoon sun slipping past the curtains. Arthur’s hoodie hung off your frame as you leaned against the kitchen counter, barefoot, holding a half-finished cup of tea. He sat on the couch across from you, legs splayed out, hair a little messy, watching you like you were his favorite song playing softly in the background.
You’d spent the day doing nothing — watching half a movie, sharing popcorn, falling asleep on his chest — but something hung in the air now. Something unspoken. Something that felt like a question.
He tilted his head, eyes following the shape of your mouth as you smiled at something you didn’t say out loud.
“You’re doing it again,” you said, voice playful.
“Doing what?” he smirked, like he already knew.
“Looking at me like that.”
Arthur got up slowly, padding across the living room until he stood in front of you. His fingers brushed your hips gently. He always touched you like he was making sure you were real.
“Can I be honest?” he asked, voice soft, almost too soft.
You nodded. He exhaled a little.
“I’ve been thinking about it. Us. Like… taking that step.”
You blinked, heart skipping. Not because you didn’t want it — you did. But hearing it from him, spoken with such sincerity, made your stomach flutter.
He continued, rubbing a thumb gently across your side. “I don’t want it to be just a moment. I want it to be ours. Like, something we’ll remember when we’re old and grey and annoying.”
You laughed, but it cracked a little.
“You’re not nervous?” you asked.
“Oh, I’m terrified,” he admitted. “But it’s not because I don’t want it. I just— I want to do this right. For you. With you.”
You kissed him first. And it wasn’t perfect — your teeth bumped, your noses awkwardly collided — but you both laughed into it, and that somehow made it better. It was you and Arthur. Real and a little messy and completely full of love.
When he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. His hands were shaky. His breath uneven. He kissed your shoulders. Your stomach. The inside of your wrist.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whispered, as if reading his mind. “I just want you.”
His eyes met yours — wide, brown, and glassy — and he kissed you again, deeper this time, less hesitant. He took his time undressing you, making sure to look at you after every step, asking without asking: Still okay? Still want this?
And when it finally happened — when he pressed into you, forehead against yours, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt — it was slow. Careful. Bare.
Neither of you spoke much, except for the soft, breathless murmurs:
“You feel so good, baby…”
“Am I hurting you?”
“You’re so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re mine.”
You both trembled a little when it ended. He didn’t pull away — just curled into your side, legs tangled, nose nuzzling your neck.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered. “Like… I don’t think I’ll ever forget how this felt.”
You smiled into his hair. “Me either.”
And when he looked up at you, cheeks flushed and eyes warm, you knew it wasn’t just the first time. It was the start of something—safe, deep, and entirely yours.
Lando Norris|
Playful on the outside. Intense underneath. Lando wants to make it special — even if he pretends he doesn’t care.
“You don't have to say nothing, ’cause your eyes do the talking.”
“I can't imagine what I'd do without you.”
You’d been dating for months — the kind of relationship that started with teasing and laughter and slowly bloomed into something neither of you saw coming.
Lando had kissed you with Red Bull on his lips. Held your hand under the table at team dinners. Called you “trouble” every time you wore his hoodie and looked better in it than he did. But you knew — underneath the jokes, the flirting, the cocky one-liners — was a boy who didn’t give his heart away easily.
And yet… somehow, he gave it to you.
It happened after a long day. You were both curled up on his sofa in Monaco, the storm outside soft and rhythmic against the windows. A movie played in the background, but neither of you was watching it. Lando’s hand was under your shirt — not in a way that demanded anything, just resting on your waist, fingertips tracing your skin absentmindedly.
You shifted, resting your head against his chest. His heart was beating fast. You felt it. Heard it.
“What’s going on in that curly-haired head of yours?” you teased gently.
Lando hesitated. You could feel his body tense, just slightly. That wasn’t like him. Usually, he'd hit you with a sarcastic quip. Instead, he spoke quietly, into your hair.
“I’ve never done this the right way,” he said.
You lifted your head. “Done what?”
“This,” he gestured softly between you. “Us. Loving someone and meaning it.”
Your chest tightened.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he continued. “But I want you. All of you. Just when you’re ready.”
You cupped his face. “What if I already am?”
His eyes darkened for a second — not with lust, but with something softer. Emotion. Like he didn’t quite believe you could feel the same depth that he did.
“Then I’ll be careful with you,” he whispered.
In the bedroom, the air shifted. The jokes stopped. His hands trembled slightly as they slid under your shirt. He kissed you like it was his first time too — even though it wasn’t. Because it was you. That made it different.
Lando’s usual cockiness faded the moment you were beneath him. “Tell me if you don’t want to,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses down your chest. “I’ll stop. Seriously. No jokes. Just say the word.”
You reached up and pulled him down to kiss you. “Lando,” you said against his lips, “I want you.”
That was all it took.
He took his time. Every motion was slow, deliberate. He traced his fingers over your stomach, your thighs, your cheeks — as if trying to memorize you, not just touch you.
“Still okay?” he asked, forehead pressed to yours.
You nodded.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered. “So damn good to me.”
When he finally eased into you, he cursed under his breath, but not out of pleasure — out of awe. His hands clenched the sheets beside your head, like he needed to keep himself grounded.
“You feel like home,” he breathed. “That’s insane, right?”
You smiled, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “No. It’s not.”
He moved slow. Gave you everything. Held you like he was afraid you’d vanish. Whispered things in your ear like:
“I never thought I’d have this with someone.”
“You’re mine. Only mine.”
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
And when it was over, he didn’t move away. Just pulled you tighter into his chest, nose pressed to your neck, his curls damp with sweat and emotion.
“Was I okay?” he asked, barely audible.
“You were everything.”
Lando chuckled, voice low. “Good. Because I’m definitely in love with you now.”
“You weren’t before?”
He kissed your cheek. “No, I was. I’m just screwed now.”
Oscar Piastri|
Quiet, but emotionally devastating. Oscar doesn’t need to say it — you feel how much he loves you in every single touch.
“I don't want to be your friend, I want to kiss your neck.”
“I’m falling for you, I’m falling for you… I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You didn’t plan for tonight to be the night.
There was no candlelit dinner. No roses. No dramatic declarations. Just the two of you in his apartment, music playing low from a playlist he made you months ago — songs that didn’t have lyrics, just instrumentals. He said it made space for thoughts. Yours. His.
Oscar sat cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, in a worn hoodie. You were curled up next to him in your favorite blanket. You’d been quiet for a while, but not in a bad way. Just… soft.
“I missed you this week,” he said quietly, eyes focused on your fingers playing with the seam of the blanket.
“I was still talking to you every day,” you replied with a soft smile.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “but not like this.”
His hand reached for yours, tugging it gently from the blanket and resting it in his lap. His thumb traced over your knuckles with care — like he’d been doing it for years.
You studied him. The way he was always so sure in the most unspoken ways. He never said too much, but everything he did say felt real. Like he only ever spoke when it mattered.
“I’ve been thinking,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He looked up, eyebrows raised slightly. “Yeah?”
“About us. About… going further.”
Oscar’s eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t smirk or shift closer. He just stayed still, eyes locked on yours, processing it completely before responding.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Not because it feels like it’s time. But because you want to. Not just physically. Here—” He reached out, gently pressing two fingers to your chest, right over your heart. “—and here.” He tapped your temple next.
You swallowed thickly. “I’m sure.”
And that’s when he moved.
Not urgently. Not like it was something he was owed. Just slow. Intentional. A hand brushing your cheek. A kiss on your forehead. Then one on your lips — firmer this time. Closer.
He led you to his room like he was inviting you into a piece of his world no one else had ever been inside. The air was still. Soft light filtered in from the hallway. No rush. No noise.
Oscar undressed you carefully — not like he was unwrapping something delicate, but like he was being trusted with something sacred. His hands never rushed. He kissed your shoulder. Your chest. Your jaw. He looked you in the eyes through all of it.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “But I think I loved you before I even knew what you looked like like this.”
Your heart clenched.
When he moved above you, he paused again. His breath was shaky now, eyes flickering to your expression.
“I need you to tell me again,” he said. “Tell me this is okay.”
You reached up, cupping his cheek. “This is more than okay. This is what I want.”
He kissed you as he entered you — slow, deep, and quiet.
The pace never quickened too much. Oscar stayed locked on you, whispering things only meant for you to hear:
“I’ve never done this like this before.”
“I didn’t think it would feel like… this much.”
“You make me feel like I’m home.”
You held his face the entire time — your forehead to his, your fingers in his hair. You didn’t need fast or wild or loud. You needed him. The man who made you feel safe in silence. The boy who remembered what side of the bed you liked. The driver who still got nervous when you kissed his neck.
And when it was over, he didn’t let you go.
He pulled the blanket up over both of you, his arm wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your hair. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.
But after a few minutes, you heard him murmur into the space between you:
“I think that was the moment I realized I can’t imagine doing life without you.”
You smiled, still facing away, eyes drifting closed.
“You don’t have to.”
Franco Colapinto|
Nervous. Hopeful. Honest. Franco’s first time with you is everything he’s never said, finally spoken through touch.
“I left my mind with you… I only feel half full.”
“I was all over her… I don’t think I can live without her.”
You’d spent the entire day teasing each other.
It started with breakfast — where he stole bites from your plate, just to see you glare. Then it was lazy back-and-forth sarcasm while cleaning his place, a playful wrestling match on his couch, and finally… the moment he pinned you to the bed with his hands on either side of your waist, hovering over you with that stupid smirk.
“Say you give up,” Franco grinned, curls falling into his eyes.
“Never.”
He leaned down, his nose brushing yours, breath warm. “You sure?”
Your hands rested on his bare shoulders now — he’d lost his hoodie in the chaos, leaving only his undershirt that had ridden up on his toned stomach.
His voice dipped, lower, softer. “Because if you keep looking at me like that…”
You blinked up at him, heart pounding.
The teasing stopped.
It wasn’t a game anymore.
You both felt it — the air had shifted. Slowed.
His thumb brushed your cheek like he was memorizing something. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t,” you whispered. “You’re the only thing that feels right.”
He kissed you slowly, not like a boy who had been flirting all day, but like someone realizing this wasn’t just a moment — this was it. His hands stayed soft on your skin, exploring without rushing, careful with every inch of you like he wanted to savor every breath.
“You okay?” he asked when your shirt came off, voice quieter now, eyes searching yours.
You nodded, pulling him back to you. “I trust you, Franco.”
He swallowed hard — like that meant more to him than anything else you could’ve said.
You helped him undress. Both of you were clumsy at first — socks half-on, him muttering “Shit, sorry” when his arm hit the nightstand — but it made you laugh, and he laughed too, until you were both smiling into each other’s mouths, flushed, hearts racing, bodies warm.
When he finally moved above you, everything slowed again.
His forehead pressed to yours. His hand slid under your lower back, lifting you just enough. “Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmured, breathless.
“You’ll know,” you whispered. “Just stay with me.”
He was gentle. So gentle it almost broke you.
He took his time, pressing into you with careful rhythm, watching every reaction, brushing his lips over your skin like he was tracing your soul with his mouth.
His voice was a whisper in your ear:
“You feel so good, baby…”
“Can’t believe I get to love you like this.”
“You’re everything I didn’t know I was waiting for.”
He never looked away. Held your gaze like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
And when he came, it wasn’t with a groan or a moan — it was with your name, softly broken across his lips like a prayer.
After, Franco collapsed beside you, panting softly, still holding your hand. He pulled you onto his chest, kissing your hair, his heart thudding beneath your ear.
“You okay?” you asked after a moment of quiet.
“I’m…” He exhaled. “I’m in trouble.”
You lifted your head, blinking. “Why?”
He looked at you, eyes glassy. “Because that didn’t just mean a lot. It meant everything.”
You smiled. Kissed the tip of his nose. “Then we’re both in trouble.”
Franco pulled the blanket over both of you and mumbled against your neck, “Good. I like being in trouble if it’s with you.
Paul Aron|
A quiet unraveling. Paul’s usually all control — until you, until now, until he learns that vulnerability is strength too.
“Your love is a symphony, all around me, running through me.”
“I give it all to you.”
It was almost 1 a.m. when you realized neither of you had touched the TV remote in an hour.
You were on Paul’s couch, legs over his lap, head resting against the armrest, and his hand was tracing slow lines over your shin — so soft you could barely feel it. The room was silent except for the hum of city life outside the windows.
You shifted to look at him. He was already watching you.
“What?” you whispered.
Paul tilted his head, eyes thoughtful. “Nothing.”
He said it like it was everything.
You sat up a little, pulling your knees close to your chest. “You’re quiet.”
“I always am.”
“Not like this.”
He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing your ankle. “You make me think in full sentences instead of fragments. That’s rare.”
The way he looked at you then — it wasn’t intense or lustful. It was… anchored. Like you were the only still point in the entire world.
“You’ve been looking at me like you want to say something all night,” you said.
Paul hesitated for a second, then leaned forward. “I want you.”
Three words. Spoken like a vow.
Not rushed. Not expectant. Just real.
You swallowed. “Now?”
“Only if you want me too. Not just tonight. Not just for this. But really.”
There was no heat in his voice — not yet. Just a quiet certainty that made your whole body warm.
“I want you,” you said softly. “All of you.”
He kissed you like he’d been waiting for years. Slow. Steady. His fingers cradled the back of your neck while yours fisted into the fabric of his hoodie. When he pulled back, you were already breathless.
The walk to his bedroom wasn’t clumsy or fast — it was paced like every step mattered.
When he laid you down, Paul took his time.
He undressed you with complete reverence, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me if I go too fast,” he murmured, sliding your shirt over your head. “Or if you just need a minute.”
“I need you,” you whispered.
“Then I’m yours.”
He moved like a man who wasn’t trying to take, but to give. Every touch asked a silent question. Every kiss was an answer.
You felt his control — the way he held himself back, always making sure you were okay.
When he finally pressed into you, he paused, his forehead resting against yours. “Still good?”
“More than good.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time.
“You feel like everything I’ve ever needed,” he whispered, voice trembling just slightly. “Like I waited for you without knowing.”
You held him tighter, letting your body answer for you.
The rhythm stayed slow. Intimate. Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your name slipped from his lips like it was holy. He didn’t say much — just quiet praises in between his breaths:
“You’re perfect.”
“I’ve never felt like this before.”
“Don’t let go.”
You didn’t.
After, Paul didn’t roll away. He pulled you onto his chest, his hand rubbing lazy circles over your back.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m home,” you said.
Paul smiled — that rare, real smile only you ever got to see. He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered,
“I think I fell in love with you a long time ago. Tonight just made it permanent.”
Carlos Sainz|
Safe. Intentional. The kind of love that doesn’t have to be loud to last forever.
“In all of the stillness, I still feel your touch”
It wasn’t supposed to happen that night.
You weren’t dressed up. There were no candles. No heavy kisses. No bold words. Just a quiet Friday night in Madrid, tangled on Carlos’ couch after a home-cooked dinner and two glasses of wine — the good kind he reserves only for nights when it’s just the two of you.
You were curled into his side, your legs across his lap, your hand under his shirt. Just resting there, flat against his stomach. His skin was warm. Solid.
Carlos had been quieter than usual.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” you asked, tracing your thumb across his skin.
He paused. Then looked at you with that quiet, steady intensity that only he had — like he didn’t rush words because he never said them unless they mattered.
“I’ve never done this slow before,” he said. “Never… waited.”
You blinked. “Waited for what?”
Carlos gently took your hand in his, held it tight. “For someone I didn’t want to lose.”
You didn’t speak for a long time after that.
The TV hummed quietly. Your fingers played with his. And then you leaned in — slow, deliberate — and kissed him.
Not hungrily. Not teasingly.
Just honestly.
And when he kissed you back, it was like something inside him gave in.
Not to lust. To love.
He didn’t rush to the bedroom. He didn’t strip you down like it was instinct. He undressed you like he’d been waiting for the right moment to deserve it.
Carlos made sure you were okay with every step — with his eyes, his hands, his words.
“Do you want this?” he asked, holding your face in his hands like you were something sacred.
“I want you,” you whispered.
He nodded — slowly, reverently — and guided you to his bed like you were something to protect.
He made love to you with complete presence.
His touch never left your skin. His kisses never strayed too far from your mouth. Every movement was intentional — not out of hunger, but out of care. Every time your breath hitched or your fingers tightened, he responded with a soft whisper of your name.
His forehead rested against yours.
His voice low:
“You’re safe with me.”
“You feel so good, cariño.”
“I’ll never forget this.”
When he reached the edge, he didn’t chase it. He held you tighter. Slowed down. Breathed with you. You felt it — the moment it stopped being physical, and became something so much more.
After, he didn’t roll away. Didn’t say anything dramatic. He just pulled you on top of him, running his hand down your back, over and over like it grounded him.
“You okay?” you whispered into his chest.
“I’m…” Carlos paused. Then kissed the top of your head. “I’m really glad we waited.”
“So am I.”
Silence again — the good kind.
Then he whispered, half asleep:
“Now I’m yours in every way.”
Max Verstappen|
A quiet unraveling. Max doesn’t give his heart easily — but when he does, it’s deep, intense, and unforgettable.
“Some day someone will like me like I like you…”
“Some day I’ll stop falling in love with you…”
“But I can’t, and that’s why I let you break my heart again.”
You’d been dating Max for six months before he let you into his world fully — not the glitzy, fast-paced F1 world. The real one.
The quiet, guarded part. The one behind locked hotel doors, in dimly lit apartments, where he could finally breathe. You weren’t surprised that when it finally happened — when he let you touch all of him — it wasn’t after a party or a romantic dinner.
It was after a long day. His worst qualifying session in months. Cameras in his face. Team stress high. Everything felt like it was slipping.
Except you.
That night, you found him in the kitchen of his Monaco apartment, hunched over the counter, still in his Red Bull hoodie, jaw clenched.
“Talk to me,” you said gently.
He looked at you, and something in his expression just broke.
Not anger. Not tears. Just… surrender.
“I don’t want to talk,” he murmured.
You walked over and slid your hands under his hoodie, resting them on his waist. “Then don’t.”
For the first time, Max kissed you like he needed you.
Like it wasn’t just affection — it was a lifeline.
He carried you to the bedroom in silence.
The kind of silence that said more than words ever could.
Max took his time — not because he was unsure, but because this mattered to him. Every piece of clothing he peeled off felt like a layer of armor falling away. His hands were steady. His eyes never left yours.
“You okay?” you asked as you lay back on the sheets, your bare legs wrapped around his waist.
His voice was low. Rough. Honest. “I don’t do this halfway.”
You reached up, cupping his face. “I never asked you to.”
He was intense in the way he touched you — every movement deliberate, his control evident even when his breathing started to stutter.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
And when he finally sank into you, his forehead pressed to yours, he let out a broken breath like he’d been holding it for years.
“F-fuck,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’ve wanted this. You. For so long.”
You arched into him, gripping his shoulders. “Then take it.”
Max moved slowly. Like every second with you was something he needed to memorize. His hands gripped your thighs, your waist, your hips — not hard, just tight enough to say mine.
He wasn’t vocal. But you heard everything in the way he whispered your name under his breath, over and over, like a grounding point.
And when he came, it wasn’t with a shout — it was with a kiss. One that lasted through the shudder, the stillness, the after.
After, Max didn’t move for a long time.
His arm was around you, hand on your stomach, his face tucked into your neck like he never wanted to be anywhere else.
“You didn’t have to be perfect,” you whispered.
“I wasn’t trying to be,” he said softly. “I just wanted to be real with you.”
And in the soft light of the room, wrapped up in his warmth and the weight of what had just happened, you knew the truth:
Summary: Y/N and Harry share a quiet, intimate evening, wrapped up in each other’s warmth. When Y/N tells him she’s ready, Harry treats her with endless patience and love, making sure she feels safe every step of the way. Though the moment isn’t perfect, it’s theirs.
A/N: My loves!! 🥹💗 This one is so soft and intimate, and Harry is just the sweetest, most patient angel!! I wanted this to feel real, full of love, trust, and tenderness. As said in this request. I hope it makes your heart all warm and fuzzy!! Thank you for reading, and sending you all the biggest hugs!!
Word Count: 3,8k
Warnings:
Explicit sexual content
Loss of virginity
Pain/discomfort during sex – Mention of initial discomfort, burning sensation, and difficulty adjusting.
Tears/emotional intensity
Blood mention – Small amount of blood described.
Consent-focused interaction – Constant verbal check-ins and reassurance.
Aftercare – Detailed care and comfort post-intimacy.
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
The evening was slow, unhurried in the best way. The kind of night where the outside world melted away, leaving just the two of them wrapped in the golden glow of soft lamplight and the warmth of each other's presence.
Harry’s apartment felt impossibly cozy, plush cushions, blankets piled on the couch, the distant hum of a carefully curated playlist filling the quiet spaces between their words. The scent of something faintly sweet lingered in the air, remnants of the dessert they had shared after dinner. A movie played on the television, the volume low, but neither of them were really paying attention.
Y/N was curled up against Harry’s side, her legs tangled with his, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns over his forearm. It was such a simple touch, but it meant everything. She could feel his steady breathing, the occasional squeeze of his fingers against her thigh, the way his thumb ghosted back and forth over her skin in a rhythm that felt instinctual. She felt safe. And that was what mattered most.
The thought had been lingering in her mind for days, maybe weeks—long enough for it to take root, for it to grow into something more than just a fleeting idea. At first, it had been just that: a thought, a possibility that she had entertained but wasn’t quite ready to act on. But things had changed. Harry made her feel different.
It wasn’t just the way he touched her, though that was part of it—the way his hands never wandered without purpose, how he always seemed to ask permission without words. It was the way he looked at her, like she was something to be cherished, something precious. It was the way he spoke to her, soft and patient, never pushing, never demanding.
And that’s how she knew she was ready.
The words formed in her throat before she could second-guess them. Soft, hesitant, but certain.
“I think I’m ready.”
She felt the way Harry stilled beneath her. Not tense, not alarmed, just still. He processed her words in real time, a slow blink, a small inhale, before shifting to look at her fully. The flickering light from the television cast delicate shadows over his face, but she could still see everything—the concern in his eyes, the way his brows twitched like he was about to ask a million questions at once but held himself back.
His fingers found her cheek, brushing along the curve of her jaw, tilting her chin just enough that she couldn’t look away. “Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper, a careful thing.
Y/N swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.”
Harry’s thumb ghosted over her bottom lip. “You’re sure?”
She could hear the weight behind his words. He wasn’t asking for reassurance for himself—he was giving her an out. An opportunity to change her mind, to take a step back if she needed to. There was no rush, no expectation. She didn’t hesitate. “I want this. With you.”
A slow breath left Harry’s lips, his shoulders deflating, like he had been bracing for something else. His fingers curled around her cheek, his palm warm and grounding. He studied her for a moment longer, searching for any flicker of doubt, anything that would make him pause. But all he found was certainty. He nodded, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her skin. “Okay, love.”
There was a pause, a shift, like something in the air had changed between them. The unspoken tension from earlier—the one that had settled between their bodies, lingering just out of reach—was now tangible.
But this time, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was anticipation.
Harry let the silence stretch between them. His fingers traced along her jaw, slow and reverent, his gaze never wavering. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and it wasn’t just about the way she looked. It was everything—her trust, her vulnerability, the way she was giving this part of herself to him without hesitation.
Y/N’s breath hitched as his lips brushed over hers, soft at first, just the ghost of a kiss. A question. A promise.
Then he kissed her again, deeper this time, as his hands found her waist, pulling her just a little closer. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing. Every movement was measured, deliberate, designed to make her feel safe, cherished. His fingers traced the hem of her shirt, a silent request, and when she nodded, he lifted it over her head, discarding it somewhere behind them.
His lips barely left hers, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. “So perfect,” he whispered against her skin. “So good for me.” His words sent a shiver through her, warmth pooling low in her belly.
She felt the roughness of his calloused fingers against the soft skin of her waist, sliding up, teasing along the underside of her breast before finally—finally—brushing over her nipple. She sucked in a breath, her body arching instinctively into his touch.
Harry groaned, low and deep. “Love the way you react to me.” He rolled the sensitive peak between his fingers, watching the way her lips parted, her lashes fluttering.
He leaned down, taking her nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it just to feel her shudder beneath him. His free hand splayed across her back, grounding her, keeping her close.
Y/N let out a soft whimper, her fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against her skin. The sound went straight through her, making her thighs clench around his waist.
But Harry wasn’t done taking his time.
He eased her down onto the couch, kissing a slow path down her stomach, his fingers working on the waistband of her leggings. “Lift your hips for me, baby,” he murmured, and she did, letting him pull them down along with her underwear in one smooth motion.
A flush spread across her chest, warmth crawling up her neck as she laid bare beneath him. But she wasn’t nervous. Not with him.
Harry settled between her thighs, pressing a kiss just above her knee, then another, trailing higher and higher. “Been thinking about this,” he admitted, voice husky. “Been wanting to taste you.”
The words sent a fresh wave of arousal through her, and Harry must have noticed because he groaned, his fingers gripping her thighs just a little tighter.
Then he kissed her there—soft at first, just a teasing press of his lips against her.
Y/N gasped, her back arching as his tongue traced along her folds, slow and deliberate. He was savoring her, taking his time, learning what made her sigh, what made her whimper.
He flicked his tongue over her clit, drawing a sharp inhale from her lips. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his breath hot against her. “Let me hear you.”
She had no control over the sounds slipping from her mouth as he worked her, his tongue alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, focused strokes. Her thighs trembled, her fingers twisting in his curls, pulling him impossibly closer.
Harry moaned against her, the vibration making her hips jerk. “Fuck,” she whimpered, and he hummed in approval, gripping her thighs tighter as he devoured her.
The pressure built quickly, heat coiling in her stomach, her body tensing with the impending release. “Harry”
“I’ve got you, love,” he soothed, pressing his tongue flat against her clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles until she shattered beneath him.
Her thighs clenched around his head as pleasure flooded through her, her entire body trembling as he guided her through it, his hands firm on her hips, keeping her grounded.But he didn’t stop.
She barely had a moment to catch her breath before he was kissing his way back up her body, dragging her onto his lap. “Again, baby,” he murmured, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her to straddle his thigh.
Y/N’s head was spinning, but the need in his voice, the sheer adoration in his eyes, made her move. She pressed herself against him, gasping at the pressure, at the way his hands steadied her, encouraged her. He guided her movements, slow and steady, letting her find her rhythm, his lips brushing against her ear. “Take what you need, sweetheart.”
And she did. She rocked against him, chasing the friction, feeling the heat build all over again. Harry’s hands never stopped moving—trailing up her back, gripping her waist, tilting her hips just right. His lips were everywhere—her neck, her shoulder, her jaw—whispering sweet praises against her skin.
“That’s my girl.”
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.”
“Let go for me, baby.”
She tumbled into her second release with a soft cry, her body shuddering against his. Harry held her through it, his arms wrapped tightly around her, pressing soft kisses to her hair as she came down.
Breathless but still sure.
The weight of the moment settled between them—heavy in the best way, filling the space with warmth and something almost sacred. Y/N’s body was still trembling, her mind hazy from pleasure, but even through the overwhelming sensation, she knew this wasn’t the end.
Harry knew it too.
He was still holding her, his hands gentle as they traced slow, soothing patterns across her back, grounding her. His lips ghosted over her temple, murmuring soft praises that made her chest tighten with something unspoken. “So perfect,” he whispered. “So good for me.”
She melted into him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him—clean and warm, mixed with the faintest hint of cologne and something entirely him.
His hands skimmed down her sides, resting on her waist as he shifted beneath her. She could feel him—hard and heavy, pressed between them, the evidence of just how much he wanted her. And she wanted him, too.
She swallowed, her heart pounding as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. There was something unguarded in his eyes, something raw and devastatingly tender.
“I want you,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Harry’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening on her hips. “Are you really sure?”
She nodded, her hands coming up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”
His eyes searched hers, looking for even the slightest hesitation. But there wasn’t any.
Still, he didn’t rush. He never rushed with her.
Instead, he shifted, gently guiding her onto her back, settling between her thighs with deliberate slowness. His lips found hers again, softer this time, reverent. Like he was memorizing her, mapping out every part of her he hadn’t already claimed.
His fingers trailed down her body, brushing over her stomach before dipping lower. He slipped two fingers inside her, moving slow, preparing her all over again, making sure she was ready.
Y/N whimpered, her hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Harry,” she gasped, fingers clutching at his biceps.
“I know, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
“I am,” she breathed. “I promise.”
He hesitated for only a moment longer before finally reaching between them, lining himself up. The tip of his cock brushed against her entrance, already slick and glistening from how worked up she was.
But even with all the preparation, she still felt tight, still felt that flicker of nervousness.
Harry noticed instantly.
“Breathe, baby,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. He nudged in just a little, barely entering her, letting her body adjust at her own pace.
The stretch was more intense than she had expected. A sharp, insistent pressure that made her body go rigid beneath him, her fingers gripping onto the sheets as she tried to will herself to relax. The initial burn spread through her like a slow-moving flame, and instinctively, her thighs clamped tighter around him.
Harry felt it immediately—the way she tensed, the way her breath hitched, her entire body instinctively fighting against the intrusion. He froze, one hand coming up to cup her cheek, thumb stroking softly over her heated skin. “Hey, baby,” he whispered, voice drenched in tenderness. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to the tip of her nose, his lips featherlight. “You’re doing so good for me, so good. But we can stop. Anytime, okay? Just say the word.”
She shook her head, a small, shaky breath escaping her lips. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted this—with him. She had thought about this for days, weeks even, and she had never felt safer with anyone than she did now. Even through the discomfort, the unfamiliarity, there was nowhere else she would rather be than right here, wrapped up in him, giving him this piece of herself.
“I want this,” she murmured, voice soft but resolute. “I trust you.”
Something shifted in his gaze then, something warm and reverent, like he was seeing her in a way he never had before. He nodded slowly, dipping down to capture her lips in a kiss so sweet it nearly made her melt.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against hers. “We’ll go slow. You just tell me what you need.”
And he did go slow, agonizingly so. He rocked forward just an inch, letting her adjust, then another, always watching her face for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. His hands never stopped moving, fingers tracing idle patterns along her hips, massaging gently at her sides, keeping her grounded in him, in this moment.
But it still hurt. Even with all the patience in the world, even with how careful he was, the stretch was relentless. Her nails dug into his shoulders, holding onto him like an anchor, her breath uneven.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes before she even realized they were there. Not because it was unbearable, not because she regretted it, but because it was overwhelming—the weight of it, the intimacy of it. The sheer vulnerability of it all.
Harry noticed instantly. He always did. His expression crumbled, something pained flashing across his features before he dipped his head down, brushing his lips over her damp cheeks, kissing away the evidence of her struggle.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered against her skin. “I know, I know. ‘M so sorry. Just breathe, baby. Breathe for me.”
A sudden sting bloomed deep inside her, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers tightening their grip on him as her body fought to adjust.
Harry froze. “Fuck,” he breathed, his voice tight with restraint. “Sweetheart, I—shit, I know. I know. ‘M so sorry, baby.”
A flicker of red smeared where they were joined, a tangible mark of this moment, of what she had given him, something so fragile and precious. His jaw clenched at the sight, guilt flashing across his features even though she had reassured him over and over that she wanted this. That she had chosen this.
He tried to move, to ease some of the pressure, but the second he did, she let out the softest wince, her body recoiling slightly. His forehead dropped to hers, breath shuddering.
“We don’t have to make this perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “We can stop, baby. Right now. It doesn’t have to be anything more than this.”
She blinked up at him, her vision still slightly blurred with unshed tears, but she shook her head. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to push through, to move past the discomfort and settle into this feeling of being so wholly his.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Just... give me a second.”
He did. Of course he did. He stayed still, his body barely moving, his weight supported by his forearms so he wouldn’t press down on her too much. He let her adjust, let her breathing steady, let her decide when she was ready. His lips never left her skin, pressing slow, reverent kisses along her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Soft praises spilled from his lips, each one more patient than the last.
And when she finally felt ready, when the sting dulled into something more manageable, she gave him a small nod.
“You can move,” she whispered.
Harry exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath this entire time. His hips rolled forward, just the tiniest bit, testing. His touch was delicate, his movements careful, like he was afraid of breaking her. And maybe, in some way, he was.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some earth-shattering moment of pleasure, some blissful crescendo of passion. She didn’t come this time, and that was okay. He didn’t make her feel like she had to. He just held her. He kissed her. He told her how proud he was of her, how much he loved her, how beautiful she was like this, bare and vulnerable in his arms.
And when it was over, when he finally pulled away, his first instinct wasn’t to take care of himself, but to take care of her. He kissed her forehead, brushed the damp strands of hair from her face, whispered, “You did so good for me, sweetheart.”
And she believed him.
Her body felt different, tender, a little sore, but wrapped in a warmth that had nothing to do with the sheets tangled around them and everything to do with him. She barely noticed the way her breath still came unevenly, her muscles weak and trembling, until Harry was shifting beside her, brushing the back of his fingers down her cheek.
“Let me take care of you, love.”
She didn’t protest when he pressed another kiss to her forehead and slid out of bed, moving with quiet purpose toward the bathroom. The distant sound of water running filled the air, accompanied by soft rustling—cabinets opening, bottles clinking together. The warm, floral scent of rose and vanilla drifted into the room, and her lips curled into the faintest smile.
He was drawing her a bath.
The realization sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing over her, something deep and overwhelming settling in her chest. She’d always known Harry was thoughtful, always so gentle and attuned to her, but this—this was something else entirely. This was devotion.
By the time he returned, she was blinking sleepily at him, her body too heavy with exhaustion to move. He chuckled softly, crouching beside her, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from her face.
“Come on, sweetheart. Bath’s ready for you.”
She let him lift her, his hands strong but careful as he carried her to the bathroom. The air was warm, steam curling through the soft candlelight, and the sight that greeted her nearly took her breath away.
The bathtub was full, the surface of the water dotted with delicate rose petals, their deep crimson and soft pink hues floating amidst the gentle foam of bubbles. A few flickering candles lined the counter, casting a golden glow over the space, the light catching on the deep amber bottle of bath oil he’d added to the water. The scent of roses was richer here, blending with the faint traces of lavender.
She turned to him, her heart swelling. “Harry…”
“I wanted to make it special for you, baby.” He ran a soothing hand down her back. “You deserve it.”
Carefully, he helped her into the warm water, easing her down as her sore muscles sighed in relief. The heat wrapped around her like a cocoon, soothing the ache between her thighs, and a soft moan of contentment slipped from her lips.
Harry smiled, his dimples peeking through as he knelt beside the tub, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt. “Feels good, yeah?”
She nodded, already sinking deeper, letting the petals drift lazily around her arms as she closed her eyes for a moment.
Harry didn’t just leave her there. He stayed, always so present, his fingers tracing along her arm before he reached for a soft washcloth. He dipped it into the warm water, then ran it over her skin, slow and reverent, as if cleansing her was an act of worship. He worked gently, wiping away the lingering remnants of sweat and love, murmuring sweet praises all the while.
“So beautiful.”
“M’so proud of you, angel.”
“Love you more than anything.”
His voice was a balm, each whispered word soothing her more than the water ever could.
At one point, he reached for the bottle of shampoo, pouring some into his palm before working it through her hair with practiced ease. His fingers massaged her scalp, and she sighed, tipping her head back slightly as he washed away the remnants of the night with the same patience and tenderness he had shown her in bed.
When he was done, he kissed her temple and whispered, “Stay as long as you want, sweetheart. I’ll be right here.”
But she didn’t want to stay in the water forever—not when Harry was waiting for her.
When she finally let him help her out, he wrapped her in a thick, fluffy towel, pressing a kiss to her damp hair as he whispered, “Let’s get you comfy, yeah?”
Back in the bedroom, he dressed her in one of his oversized shirts, the hem brushing just above her knees, the fabric swallowing her up in a way that made her feel impossibly small and safe. He tucked her into bed, then climbed in beside her, pulling her against his chest.
His arms curled around her, holding her close, his fingers drawing slow, soothing patterns on her back.
“D’you need anything, baby? Water? Something to eat?”
She shook her head, sighing against him. “Just you.”
His grip tightened ever so slightly, his lips pressing to her forehead. “Always, love.”
As her eyelids grew heavier, she heard him whisper one last thing against her skin, a quiet promise she knew he would always keep. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖
Hey hey hey! I hope this question is okay… Would you ever write a companion fic where Will and Mike have their "first time"?
hey hey hey! we have a few different asks abt this in our inbox rn, so i’ll attempt to answer them all at once (we have sort of answered questions like this before?) but yes — we do have a shared google doc in which we have been collaboratively writing mike and will's First Time in this universe! like we've said before, this part of their fwb dynamic is actually incredibly important to the way their relationship develops throughout the course of the acswyverse, especially in the context of will's breakup with his boyfriend in the corresponding companion fic. and although we've definitely alluded to some ambiguity regarding the details of their fwb arrangement on this blog, we didn't really feel comfortable explicitly acknowledging this part of their relationship until the overall shift that occurred in the fandom’s attitude regarding E rated fics. tbh, if this wasn't ever the case, acswy would probably have been M to E rated from the get-go! the biggest obstacle re: progress on our wip rn is not a fear of posting explicit content, but more so that we both take a lottttt longer to write nsfw content than sfw content lol. and because we started out writing this fic Only for our own enjoyment and no one else's, it's very important to us that it remains something we do for fun, true to our characterizations of mike and will, and not something we feel pressured to upload or cater to our readers' requests/demands. it's 100% contingent on whenever we end up getting it done, but it exists and it's very important to us, and if we ever finish it, it will go up for you to read!
