Would you be able to do a SFW/NSFW alphabet for telemachus? I really love reading those alphabets, but terrible at executing them lol
Telemachus SFW/NSFW alphabet!!!
A/n: this is my first time doing an alphabet.. Lwk love IT. (Went a bit overboard with the nsfw part though...)
Warnings!: Nsfw!, breeding kink, praise kink, cum descriptions, very detailed lines bout his dick, very very very nsfw. Oh and a rp mention.
Before an assembly, Telemachus can’t sit still. He keeps adjusting his cloak, pacing the room, mumbling about saying the wrong thing. You take his hands, grounding him, reminding him that he doesn’t have to be perfect—just honest. He exhales slowly, pressing his forehead to yours for courage before he goes.
He’s never liked confrontation, but when someone speaks poorly of you, Telemachus straightens and answers calmly but firmly. His voice shakes, but he doesn’t back down. Later, he admits he was terrified—but he’d do it again without hesitation.
Telemachus lingers at your side throughout the day, finding excuses to stay close. He walks you from room to room, sits beside you even when there’s space elsewhere, and reaches for your sleeve absentmindedly when he’s unsure. You never pull away, and each time you don’t, his shoulders relax a little more.
He learns your routines without meaning to—when you wake, what you forget, what makes you smile. He quietly rearranges his day so he can be there when you need him, never asking for praise, only relieved to be useful to you.
When he confesses his feelings, it’s halting and unpolished. He stumbles over words, cheeks flushed, hands shaking slightly as he admits how deeply he cares. There’s no performance—just truth, raw and sincere.
Everything feels overwhelming to him. He overthinks hand-holding, gets flustered by prolonged eye contact, and lies awake replaying moments where you smiled at him. Loving you feels like learning an entirely new language.
He handles you like something precious—never grabbing, never rushing. When he touches you, it’s careful, reverent, as though he’s afraid of hurting you even by accident.
Telemachus finds comfort in holding your hand. When the world feels too loud, his grip tightens slightly, a silent plea for reassurance. You squeeze back, and he steadies instantly.
On quiet nights, he asks if you’re happy with him. Not accusatory—just hopeful and afraid. When you answer yes, he closes his eyes like he’s committing the sound of your voice to memory.
When someone else makes you laugh, Telemachus doesn’t interrupt. He just grows quieter, staying closer to you afterward. If you notice and reassure him, he melts, embarrassment and relief written all over his face.
He remembers the smallest details—how you like your food prepared, which songs you hum when you’re distracted, what makes you anxious. He uses that knowledge gently, always to comfort, never to control.
Even when you’re sitting right beside him, he watches you like you might disappear. There’s something aching in his gaze—not possession, but gratitude that you’re really there.
You talk late into the night beneath the stars. He tells you his dreams hesitantly, unsure they’re worth sharing. You listen as if they matter deeply, and he realizes they do—because you heard them.
When you’re unwell or exhausted, Telemachus becomes attentive to a fault—bringing water, checking your temperature, staying nearby in case you need anything. He won’t sleep until he knows you’re comfortable.
After a conversation, he worries he spoke too much—or not enough. He asks if he upset you, if you’re sure you’re alright. When you reassure him, he relaxes, smiling sheepishly at his own fears.
He steps between you and danger instinctively, even when afraid. His protection isn’t loud—it’s steady, intentional, and rooted in care rather than pride.
Some of your best moments are spent in silence. Sitting together, reading, watching the fire burn low. Telemachus rests against you, content simply to be near.
He needs verbal reassurance more than he admits. When you tell him you’re not going anywhere, he believes you—slowly, carefully—and holds onto those words like a lifeline.
You become his emotional anchor. When things feel overwhelming, he seeks you out, grounding himself in your presence. With you, his thoughts slow and his breathing evens.
He didn’t realize how much he craved affection until you gave it freely. Now, small touches—a hand on his arm, a gentle hug—mean everything to him.
Love with you teaches him that closeness doesn’t always lead to loss. That some people stay. That he doesn’t have to brace for heartbreak every time he’s happy.
He tells you things he’s never said aloud—his doubts, his guilt, his fears of becoming someone he doesn’t want to be. You listen without judgment, and it changes him.
Telemachus never rushes you. He waits patiently, trusting you to come to him when you’re ready. Love, to him, is something earned gently.
He ensures you’re always welcome in Ithaca—your space prepared, your comfort considered. Hospitality becomes intimacy, care turning into affection.
Even after you’re together, there’s a soft ache in him—a desire to protect, cherish, and hold you close. Not because he fears losing you, but because he treasures you.
Telemachus loves with his whole heart. Awkward, sincere, and unwavering, he gives himself fully—no half-measures, no conditions.
A = Aftercare (What he's like after sex)
Telemachus is the embodiment of gentle aftercare. He's a worrier by nature, and his concern for you multiplies tenfold after he's been inside you. He'll press soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temples, your lips. He'll get you a warm, wet cloth to clean you with, his hands shaking slightly from the intensity of it all. He'll pull you into his arms, wrapping you both in the furs, and just hold you. He needs to feel your heartbeat, to know you're real and you're okay. He'll whisper praises against your hair, not about the act, but about you. "You're so perfect," "Are you comfortable? "Tell me if you need anything." He'll probably fall asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around you, his face buried in your neck, as if afraid you might disappear in the night.
B = Body part (his favorite body part of his and also yours)
His favorite part of himself is probably his hands. He's spent years training with a sword, and while he doesn't have the brute strength of a seasoned warrior, his hands are deft and calloused. He loves the way you react when he touches you, the way his rough palms can send shivers down your spine. His favorite part of you is your neck and shoulders. He loves the elegant curve of your neck, the way you tilt your head when you're thinking, the delicate strength in your shoulders. He'll spend hours just kissing and nipping at that sensitive skin, leaving a trail of marks that are more a testament to his reverence than his possession.
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum)
He's a bit messy and shy about it at first, but he loves the sight of his cum on your skin. It's primal, a mark of his possession. He loves coming on your stomach, your thighs, watching it paint your skin. He'll be fascinated by it, maybe even dip his fingers in it and bring them to your lips, his eyes dark with a mixture of awe and lust. He loves the taste of you, and he loves the taste of himself on you. The idea of coming inside you is both terrifying and intoxicatingly intimate, a secret he guards jealously.
D = Dirty Secret (A dirty secret of his)
His dirtiest secret is that he thinks about you when he's alone. He'll be in his chambers, trying to read or sharpen his sword, and his mind will drift. He'll remember the way you looked at him across the banquet hall, the way your scent lingered in the air after you'd left, and he'll get hard. He'll wrap a hand around his cock, stroking himself to the thought of you, imagining your hands, your mouth, your tight heat wrapped around him. He feels a deep sense of shame afterwards, like he's defiled something pure, but he can't stop. He's completely obsessed.
E = Experience (How experienced is he?)
He has zero experience. You are his everything. His first kiss, his first touch, his first everything. He's a blank slate, eager to learn, desperate to please. His inexperience makes him incredibly attentive. He watches your every reaction, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you arch your back. He's a fast learner, and his enthusiasm more than makes up for his lack of technique.
He loves any position where he can see your face. Missionary is his go-to because he can watch your expressions, kiss your lips, and look into your eyes as he moves inside you. But he also loves having you on top. He loves the sight of you above him, your head thrown back in pleasure, your breasts bouncing as you ride him. It gives him a perfect view, and he can reach up to play with your nipples or grip your hips to guide your movements.
G = Goofy (is he more serious in the moment?)
He's mostly serious, but there's a youthful awkwardness to him that can be endearing. He might fumble with the ties on your chiton or get his limbs tangled in the blankets. He'll blush furiously and apologize, but a genuine, breathy laugh from you will put him at ease. The moment the passion takes over, though, he's all focus. His eyes get this intense, worshipful look, and he's completely lost in you.
H = Hair (How well groomed is he?)
He's a prince, so he's well-groomed. He keeps himself clean, his dark curls trimmed and neat. He doesn't have much body hair, just a light trail that disappears beneath his tunic. He's never really thought about it, but if you were to show a preference, he would absolutely keep it that way for you.
I = Intimacy (How is he during the moment, romantically?)
It's deeply intimate for him. Sex isn't just a physical act; it's a profound emotional connection. He's incredibly romantic, whispering words of love and devotion against your skin. He'll hold your hand, intertwining your fingers as he thrusts into you. He makes love to you like you're a goddess he's worshiping at the altar of your body. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss filled with meaning.
J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)
He does it often, usually late at night when he can't sleep. It's always you in his thoughts. He's quiet about it, muffling his groans in his pillow. He'll imagine your scent, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice. He likes to draw it out, teasing himself until he's leaking and desperate, his whole body trembling with the need for release. When he finally comes, it's with your name on his lips, a choked, desperate whisper in the darkness.
He has a praise kink, both giving and receiving. He lives for your praise, for hearing you tell him he's doing a good job, that he feels so good. It makes him swell with pride and desire. In turn, he's constantly praising you, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you feel, how perfect you are for him. He also has a secret, budding breeding kink. The thought of filling you up, of marking you from the inside out, of carrying on his line with you, is a powerful, intoxicating fantasy that makes him impossibly hard.
L = Location (Favorite places to do the YK. )
His bed. He's a prince, and he's a bit of a romantic. He wants you in his space, surrounded by his things, where he can take his time and worship you properly. He's also fond of secluded, outdoor spots—a hidden cove, a quiet grove of olive trees. The thrill of being caught, of having you in the wild, under the open sky, is a potent aphrodisiac.
M = Motivation (What turns him on, gets him going)
It's the little things. The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. The flash of your ankles beneath your chiton. The scent of your hair as you walk past him. But the biggest turn-on is when you're assertive. When you challenge him, when you stand up to him, when you look at him with that fire in your eyes. It reminds him that you're his equal, a force of nature, and it drives him absolutely wild with desire.
N = NO (Something he wouldn’t do)
He would never do anything to cause you pain or humiliation. He's too gentle, too much of a worshipper. Anything overly aggressive or degrading is a hard no. He couldn't bear the thought of you looking at him with fear or disgust in your eyes. Your pleasure and comfort are his top priorities, always.
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He loves giving oral. He's a little clumsy at first, but he's an eager student. He could spend hours between your thighs, learning your every fold, your every sensitive spot. He loves the taste of you, the way your thighs clamp around his head, the way you pull his hair when you're close. He finds it incredibly intimate and empowering to be able to bring you to the brink of ecstasy with just his mouth. He's not opposed to receiving, but he's shy about it, often too focused on your pleasure to ask for his own.
P = Pace (is he fast and rough? Or Slow and sensual?)
He starts off slow and sensual, wanting to savor every moment. But as his passion builds, so does his pace. He's not rough, not really, but he can be fast and deep, his movements driven by a desperate, primal need. He'll lose himself in the rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck.
Q = Quickie (his opinions on quickies)
He's not a fan of quickies. He's a romantic at heart, and he wants to take his time with you. He wants to explore every inch of your body, to draw out your pleasure until you're begging for release. However, if you were to initiate it, pulling him into a dark corner or a storage closet and kissing him with a desperate need, he wouldn't be able to resist. The sheer naughtiness of it would be too much for him to handle.
R = Risk (is he game to experiment?)
He's hesitant at first, but he's willing to try anything for you. He trusts you implicitly... Which is why he tried out roleplaying (he came 6 times.)
S = Stamina (How many rounds can he go for?)
His stamina is surprising. He's young and athletic from his training, and his desire for you is a boundless fuel source. The first round is often quick, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of being inside you. But don't you dare think that's the end. He's insatiable. He'll recover quickly, his hands already roaming your body as he catches his breath, ready for round two, and then three. He could go all night, chasing your pleasure and his own, until you're both a boneless, sweaty tangle of limbs, utterly spent.
T = Toy (Do y'all own toys? Will you guys use them?)
He doesn't own any toys. The concept would be foreign and a little shocking to him at first. But if you were to introduce one—a smooth, polished piece of olive wood or a silken phallus—he would be blushing and curious. He'd be hesitant, but his desire to please you would win out. He'd want to watch you use it on yourself first, his eyes wide and dark, learning what you like before he'd try using it on you, his movements careful and experimental.
U = Unfair (How much he likes to tease)
He's not a natural teaser, but he's learning. His early attempts are clumsy, but endearing. He'll hover his lips over yours, pulling away just before you can kiss him. He'll trace patterns on your inner thighs, deliberately avoiding where you need him most, just to see you squirm. When he finally gets a reaction—a frustrated whine, a desperate arch of your back—it gives him a rush of confidence. He's discovering the power of holding back, and he's getting dangerously good at it.
V = Volume (How loud he is, what sounds he makes)
He's surprisingly loud, but in a soft, breathy way. He's not a moaner or a shouter; he's a whimperer. He lets out these choked, desperate little sounds against your skin, especially when you're doing something he particularly enjoys. He'll gasp your name like a prayer, his breath hitching in his throat. When he comes, it's a broken, sobbing moan of pure release that he tries to muffle in your neck or shoulder.
W = Wild Card (A random headcanon)
He has a secret fascination with your scent. He's not just talking about your perfume. He loves the way you smell at the end of a long day—the faint trace of sweat on your skin, the scent of the kitchen herbs on your hands, the unique musk that is purely you. Sometimes, when you're not looking, he'll pick up a discarded chiton or a scarf and just breathe it in, the scent alone enough to make him hard.
X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
He's lean and wiry, all corded muscle and sharp angles from his training with the sword. His chest is defined but not bulky, with a light dusting of dark hair that trails down from his navel. His skin is pale from a life spent mostly indoors, a stark contrast to the sun-kissed skin of a sailor. His cock is beautiful, in his opinion. It's a perfect size, thick and flushed a deep red when he's aroused, curving slightly upwards. It's heavy in his hand, leaking constantly when he's excited, and he's secretly very proud of it.
Y = Yearning (How high is his sex drive?)
His sex drive is constantly, painfully high. It's like a low hum of arousal under his skin at all times, and you are the only thing that can make it roar to life. Just seeing you across a room is enough to get him half-hard. He yearns for you with a deep, aching intensity that borders on worship. He thinks about you constantly, in the most innocent and the filthiest of ways. He wants to talk to you, to hold your hand, and he wants to bend you over the nearest table and fuck you until you can't remember your own name.
Z = Zzz (How quickly he falls asleep afterwards)
He fights it. He wants to stay awake with you, to talk and hold you and memorize the feeling of you in his arms. But the combination of the emotional intensity and the physical exertion is overwhelming. He'll be whispering sweet nothings to you, his voice thick with sleep, and then his words will start to slur. His grip on you will loosen, his breathing will even out, and he'll be gone, dead to the world with a peaceful, contented smile on his face, usually within minutes. He's just a boy who's completely and utterly exhausted by his love for you.
