#virginity fic

[winxanity-ii]

SECOND [2/?]

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 😭😭😭

PRT.1 - First

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

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.

[whataboutthefish]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Chrissy Cunningham/Gareth Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Chrissy Cunningham, Tommy Hagan, Jason Carver, Gareth (Stranger Things), Dustin Henderson Additional Tags: Omega Verse, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Steve Harrington, Alpha Eddie Munson, Virginity, Loss of Virginity, Knotting, Foreplay, intersex omega, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Slurs, Intimidation, Steve has a plan, he is also wrong, Omega Chrissy Cunningham, Omega Gareth, Alpha Tommy Hagan, Alpha Jason Carver, author is processing some shit, Positive First Time, Light Angst, Happy Ending, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), author picks and chooses from canon Summary:

A stupid knot lay between Steve and his reputation, one single knot. Steve needed to lose his V card and he needed to do it soon.

[winxanity-ii]

PALACE LIFE [3/?]

ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader warnings: non-explicit ( class tension / palace politics / protective!Telemachus goes FERAL ) word count: 7.8k (my lil apology/comeback~) a/n: *sigh* i'm so happy to finally get the chance share all my little writings with y'all again 😭😭 it was torture just writing, writing, writing, without getting the chance to sit down and edit,, but YES I HAD TIME!!! everythings calming a bit before the holiday season pick up, once again so thankful for y'all for being patient!! I've been making so many one-shots etc, so imma try to just post them after going through them etc. as my little gift to y'all. I know y'all been waiting for 'godly things' but i been lacking in writing it cuz i gotta be careful to not create any plotholes/wanna make all the stuff coming up hit lolol❤️ also WHY did I put so much symbolism on the veil. like halfway through I was like "okay stop mentioning it" and then immediately mentioned it again 😭😭😭 y'all better PRETEND it was intentional literary depth or I'm gonna cry pls

PRT.1 - FIRST | PRT.2 - SECOND

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

Time didn't move the way it should after that night—after the way Telemachus' arms wrapped around you, tucking you in like he was shelter and shield.

Days slipped into each other like spilled ink, staining the edges of your memory in warm, hazy colors you couldn't separate. Was it three nights? Ten? A month? Sometimes it felt like more. Sometimes it felt like less.

But you remembered him. Gods, you remembered him.

Telemachus came whenever he could—always quiet, always during the softest hours.

Sometimes just after midnight. Sometimes right before dawn when the sky was still bruised and blue. Sometimes when the brothel was asleep and the hallways felt like a dream you both wandered through.

Those visits were... everything.

No heat. No pressure. No claiming. Just him.

Just his arms slipping around you from behind as you folded sheets. Just his voice—low, rough from training—telling you stupid stories about goats predicting weather, or how he tripped in front of an ambassador, or how Odysseus had beat him at a board game again.

Sometimes he brought bread. Sometimes he just crawled into bed with you, curling his body around yours like it was natural, like he'd always slept there. Sometimes he kissed you until your head spun.

Sometimes he just held you. Nothing else.

Those dawn-hours felt like clarity—like the storm outside the walls paused, letting you breathe in a world that wasn't yours, but could be. Should be.

And each time, when he whispered "Goodnight, love..." even though it was morning, you felt something dangerous blooming in your chest.

But today was different.

Today he came in the morning—bright, golden, far-too-public morning.

You were in the back rooms, arms full of soiled bedsheets, warm from bodies and the heat of lanterns still burning low. The brothel wasn't busy—rain had let up, sailors had left early, and the air smelled like old wood and fresh water.

You were humming under your breath, sleeves rolled past your elbows as you pushed open a door with your hip—your mind still soft with the memory of him pressing a kiss to your shoulder hours earlier.

You didn't expect to see anyone.

Least of all him.

Telemachus stood in the doorway, sunlight spilling behind him, turning his curls gold. He wasn't dressed for secrecy. No cloak. No hood. Just him—prince of Ithaca—standing in the hallway of a brothel like it wasn't the most reckless thing he'd ever done.

Your breath caught, surprise turning into something bright and warm in your chest.

"Tele—" Before his name could fully leave your lips, your face lit instinctively, almost painfully. "M-My Prince. I-I'll be done in just a moment," you rushed out, accidentally dropping a sheet as you scrambled to gather it. "I didn't know you were coming—just let me wash these and I'll—"

"____."

His voice cut through your ramble.

You froze.

Not because he sounded angry. No. This was worse.

He sounded... nervous.

Truly nervous.

You looked up, and he was staring at you like he didn't know how to hold the words in his mouth. His fingers twitched once at his side—then he reached out abruptly, catching your wrist before you could bend down for another fallen sheet.

His grip wasn't tight, but it was urgent. Like the kind of touch you give someone right before something breaks.

"We need to talk," he said softly.

Your lips parted. Your stomach dropped.

He looked pale. Not sick—just... shaken. Like something had happened. Something he didn't know how to tell you yet.

You swallowed, nodding once, though your pulse hammered against your ribs so hard it hurt.

"O—Okay," you whispered, setting the sheets aside with trembling fingers. "Just... just tell me."

Telemachus didn't answer.

Not yet.

He only threaded his fingers through yours carefully—like you might run if he held too tight—and led you away from the yellow lamplight, away from the hall, away from the morning warmth.

Into something colder.

Into something waiting.

And from the way his hand trembled around yours, you knew—

Whatever he was about to say was going to change everything.

☆

☆

The carriage jolted over a stone in the road, making you jump. The wooden seat creaked under your weight. The wheels clattered loud against the packed earth, and every bump seemed to rattle straight up your spine.

Your foot bounced on instinct—nerves you couldn't control. Your hands wouldn't stay still either, fingers twisting the hem of your chiton, picking at invisible threads, clenched, unclenched, clenched again.

A shawl—no, a veil—had been draped over your head; a soft Ithacan blue, thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide your face. The edges brushed your cheeks when the wind shifted. Everything around you was tinted in that dim ocean color, turning the world muted and blurry.

You felt like you were underwater.

You couldn't see much beyond the blue cloth—just shifting light and shadow, the shapes of passing houses, people turning their heads as the carriage rolled by. Ithaca was awake. Loud. Alive. And you were moving through it like a ghost sneaking across daylight.

Your heart wouldn't slow down.

You didn't know if you were supposed to breathe slow or fast.

You didn't know if you were supposed to cry yet.

Your pulse thudded in your ears like footsteps chasing you.

Then—

Warmth.

A large hand slid over yours—firm, steady, solid enough to pin your fidgeting fingers in place. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles, slow circles meant to calm you, but it only made your throat tighten more.

Telemachus' voice broke through the rattling of wheels, low and warm and careful.

"Hey," he murmured. "It's okay. Don't... don't worry. We're almost there."

You swallowed hard. Your mouth felt dry as clay. Slowly—like your bones were made of wet sand—you lifted your head toward him.

Through the blue haze, he was just a soft, blurred shape.

Just dark curls and broad shoulders and gentle hands. He couldn't see your face beneath the fabric—not fully.

Maybe that was a blessing.

You stared up at him anyway, letting your eyes linger on the outline of his jaw, the strain around his mouth, the way his other hand rested on his knee like he was fighting the urge to reach for you again.

Your lips wobbled before you could stop them.

You tried to smile. It came out weak and shaky—a small twitch of your mouth under the cloth, more hope than confidence.

"Okay..." you whispered, though your voice cracked halfway through, soft and breathless. "Okay."

The word lingered in the rattling carriage, but it wasn't really meant for the present.

Because your mind—your chest—was already slipping backward.

Back to the moment everything shifted.

It had been minutes ago. Or an hour. Or yesterday. Time didn't behave around him.

Telemachus had led you away from the back hall of the brothel—past the linen baskets, past the worn carpets that always smelled like incense and spilled wine. Past the door to your tiny room. Past everything familiar.

He didn't stop until he reached the far corner of the courtyard, where the morning light hit the cracked stone floor in a way that made the air look soft.

You blinked up at him, confused, breath still uneven from how fast he'd pulled you along.

"Telemachus...?" you tried.

He didn't answer at first, just exhaled—a deep, shaky breath like he was bracing himself—and ran a hand through his curls.

Then he lifted his eyes to you.

"____," he said quietly.

Your heart stuttered. He only used your name like that when something real was coming.

"It's time," he said.

You frowned. "Time for... what?"

He hesitated—only a moment—but it was enough to make your stomach twist. And then he said it:

"For you to leave the brothel."

You stared at him, then laughed a small, shocked puff of air that burst out before you could stop it.

"Telemachus—what? Don't joke like that." Your hands flew up in a helpless gesture. "You don't have to do this. Really. I told you before, I'm fine here. I can save up, I can—"

"____."

He said your name again—but this time, something in his tone made the rest of your words die in your throat.

Soft. Firm. Unshakable.

You looked up, and he was giving you that look.

The one he gave you in the dark hours of dawn, when he held your face and whispered promises you were too scared to believe.

The look that said: I mean every word.

Slowly, he stepped closer—closing the small distance between you, his hand rising to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin gently, like he was afraid you'd flinch.

He leaned in just enough that his breath warmed your lips.

"I told you," he murmured, voice trembling with a mix of fear and certainty, "I want you with me."

Your chest tightened.

He didn't stop.

"I don't care what it takes. I don't care what anyone says. I don't care how long I have to fight for you. I want you safe. I want you out of here." His forehead touched yours, soft, steady. "I want you beside me."

Your lips parted, but nothing came out except a faint, shaky breath.

He swallowed hard, searching your face through the morning light.

"I need you to trust me," he whispered—barely audible, raw with emotion. "Please."

Your eyes burned, fingers trembling.

You whispered his name and he stepped even closer, hand sliding to the back of your neck like he needed to keep you there, needed to anchor you.

"Trust me," he said again, voice breaking. "Let me take you home."

Home.

The word alone knocked something loose in your chest.

Silence stretched between you—long, heavy, warm. Your heart felt like a fist inside your ribs.

Finally, finally, your breath steadied. You pressed your forehead fully to his, and you whispered it.

"Okay."

It was small, barely a sound at all.

But it was enough.

The moment you said it, his hands trembled—just slightly—as he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like he was scared you'd vanish if he let go.

You didn't know if you hugged him back or if he hugged you first. You only knew that you felt his heart pounding against yours.

Everything after that happened too fast to hold onto.

You moved through the brothel you'd lived in for years, a place you thought you'd die in someday, and now you were passing through it like a shadow.

You remembered the other girls staring—whispering behind their hands, some with surprise, some with envy, some with pity you couldn't stomach.

Then Anemone appeared.

Her usual soft, teasing smile was there, but it didn't reach her eyes this time. She cupped your cheeks, brushing your hair back like an older sister trying not to cry. She clicked her tongue, forcing a joking tone:

"Oh, little dove... look at you. Look at what you're doing to us."

But her voice shook.

She helped you dress—pulling a clean chiton over your head, smoothing the fabric down your sides, fingers lingering just a fraction too long. She tied a sash around your waist, patting it gently, murmuring half-sweet, half-sad things under her breath.

"You'll be safe there. He'll take care of you, I know he will," she whispered. "You deserve better than this place. You always did."

But her hands trembled as she fixed the folds.

The Madam appeared in the doorway once, arms crossed, eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. She didn't come in, didn't help dress you, didn't speak.

She just looked at you—long, steady—and dipped her head once.

A blessing, or a goodbye. You couldn't tell which.

Then she waved you over, muttering something about payment, agreements, paperwork, the prince's seal—words that slid right past you because you couldn't feel anything except Telemachus' hand still holding yours.

After that, the shawl was pulled gently over your head by Anemone.

Her fingers brushed your cheek one last time through the veil.

"Don't forget us," she whispered.

Your throat burned too much to answer.

And then you were outside.

Telemachus helped you into the carriage, his hand steady at your back like he was helping you onto a throne instead of into a rattling wooden box.

The door shut. The wheels turned. The brothel vanished.

And now—

Now you were here, swaying inside a carriage with a veil shading the world blue and your heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown out the hooves on the road.

Telemachus' thumb brushed over your knuckles again, trying to comfort you.

But the air outside had changed—thickening, tightening—in a way that made your stomach twist.

The palace was waiting.

And even without seeing it yet, you could already feel them.

The whispers. The stares. The judgment.

You could feel the wolves sharpening their teeth.

☆

☆

The rest of the ride blurred again.

The road grew smoother under the wheels, the clatter softening into a steady rumble as the carriage climbed the long path toward the palace. You could hear faint echoes—voices in the distance, guards calling to each other, the heavy groan of the main gate opening.

Your stomach sank.

Then the carriage slowed.

Telemachus breathed in once, steadying himself, then turned toward you.

"Before we go inside," he murmured, keeping his voice low so only you could hear, "I want you to know what to expect."

You nodded, even though your hands were already trembling.

He continued, thumb brushing your knuckles slowly:

"I didn't want to overwhelm you. So I only told a handful of servants. Just the ones I trust." He paused, swallowing. "My parents... they're expecting us. We're going straight to their study. No wandering the halls yet. No questions from the staff."

You nodded again. "Okay."

Telemachus let out a soft huff of breath—half-laugh, half-worry.

"Gods... I hope I didn't break you," he joked gently, lifting the veil just enough to slip his hand under it so he could cup your cheek directly. Warm, calloused, careful. "All you've said for the last hour is 'okay.'"

That pulled a tiny laugh out of you. You reached up, covering his hand with yours, leaning into his palm.

"It's all I can manage right now." Your voice soft and half-apologetic. "Everything's just... happening so fast."

His smile softened immediately, eyes warm and tender as he swept his thumb across your cheek.

"I know," he whispered. "But you're doing perfectly."

Your chest tightened. You opened your mouth to answer—

A firm knock thudded against the carriage door.

Both of you froze.

A low voice spoke from outside, respectful but muffled through the wood.

"We're ready for you, my prince."

Telemachus inhaled, shoulders squaring. His hand lingered on your cheek for a heartbeat longer before he let it fall.

"Thank you," he called back, the confidence sliding into his voice like armor. "We'll step out now."

He gave you a small nod—steady, warm, reassuring.

You nodded back, even though your heart was thudding painfully hard against your ribs.

Then the carriage door swung open.

Sunlight flooded in. Cold air rushed inside. And the world outside—the palace steps, the guards, the stone walls you'd only ever seen from a distance—waited for you like a held breath.

Telemachus stepped down first, offering his hand back into the carriage. And slowly, one foot trembling before the other, you reached for him.

His fingers wrapped around yours—warm, steady, grounding—before helping you down from the carriage. Your sandals touched the stone, still cool from the morning shade, and the moment you straightened—

The sun hit. Bright, sharp, blinding even through the veil.

You flinched, instinctive, blinking fast as the light bled blue across the thin cloth draped over your face. Everything glowed in soft shapes and shifting shadows. You couldn't see details—but you could feel them.

You heard the whispers first.

Soft. Quick. Biting.

"Is that her?""Prince Telemachus brought a girl—did you see the veil—?""Does anyone know where she comes from?"

You felt the stares next. Hot. Heavy. Like hands pressing against your skin, testing, judging, trying to peel back the veil with nothing but their eyes.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Telemachus noticed instantly.

He stepped closer—so close his arm brushed yours. His body angled toward you as if he could shield you with his own shadow. Without a word, his hand found yours again and grasped tighter than before.

"Come," he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear it.

He guided you up the marble steps, his pace firm but not rushed. The guards straightened as he approached, armor shifting with small clinks. Two of them pushed the heavy palace doors open, and cool air rushed out, brushing your skin.

Some servants stood gathered inside the entry hall—too curious for their own good. You could feel their eyes on you like needles.

"Back to your duties," a stern voice snapped from somewhere behind them.

The servants scattered immediately, footsteps echoing down different corridors, the air filled with muttered apologies and the rustle of linen uniforms.

Telemachus didn't slow.

He kept your hand in his, pulling you gently but firmly through the entrance and deeper into the palace. The moment you crossed the threshold, everything felt bigger—colder—heavier.

The floors gleamed like mirrors. The ceilings arched so high your breath caught. Gold caught the sunlight everywhere, blinding in quiet flashes.

It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

You swallowed hard, trying to look without staring, trying to breathe without sounding scared. Every step echoed louder than the last.

Telemachus glanced back at you—just for a heartbeat—and softened.

The two of you moved through a wide hall, past painted columns and polished amphorae, the faint scent of olive oil lamps mixing with cool stone. He didn't drag you. He didn't rush. But he did lead—confident, sure of the path, sure of your place beside him.

Every so often he paused—listening for footsteps, waiting out passing servants—then gently guided you into quieter corridors.

Once, he tugged you into a narrow side hall you wouldn't have noticed on your own. The marble walls here were plain, the air cooler.

"This way," he murmured. "Fewer eyes."

Your heart squeezed. He knew the palace so well—its corners, its shortcuts, which halls were watched and which ones were dead quiet.

He was protecting you without making a show of it.

You trailed behind him, close enough that your veil brushed his shoulder when he stopped short in front of a small archway. He peeked around the corner first, scanning the area before motioning you forward.

"Almost there," he whispered.

The winding paths made your head spin. Every turn felt like a secret, every hidden door a reminder of how foreign this world was. You kept squeezing his hand by accident—fear, nerves, maybe both—and every time, he squeezed back.

At last, the halls narrowed into one long corridor lined with tall wooden doors and deep blue tapestry banners—the color matching your veil.

Telemachus stopped.

He turned to you fully now, both hands coming up to gently cup your cheeks through the soft cloth. His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm.

"This is the last turn," he murmured. "My parents' study is just ahead."

Your stomach flipped so hard you almost swayed.

He stroked your jaw once with his thumb.

"I'm right here. I'll be with you the whole time."

Then he took your hand again, stepping toward the last stretch of hallway as the air grew thick—not with heat, but with expectation.

The corridor grew darker as you walked, lit only by small oil lamps set high in the walls. Their flames flickered softly, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Your sandals made faint tapping sounds—too loud in your own ears, too delicate against the vast quiet of the palace.

At the far end stood a door. A tall, heavy one. Dark wood. Solid. Intimidating.

The kind of door only important people walked through.

Telemachus slowed as you approached it. His fingers tightened around yours once—reassurance, or maybe he needed it too—before he let go to raise his hand.

He knocked.

Not just any knock. A specific pattern. Three soft knocks... pause... then two.

You swallowed, your breath catching.

From inside, a low, steady voice answered.

"Enter."

Telemachus inhaled sharply—not scared, but steadying himself. His shoulders rose with the breath, and for a moment, you saw something raw flicker across his features.

Then, in the same heartbeat, that softness vanished.

His face settled. Straightened. Went blank in a way you'd never seen before.

Prince-mode.

He pushed the door open.

But he didn't bring you in.

He stepped inside alone, slipping from your grasp, leaving you in the hallway with the door half-open and your heart pounding so loud you felt it in your teeth.

You stood there—waiting. Trying not to shake.Trying not to think.

And then you heard him.

"Mother. Father."

His tone—gods. It wasn't the Telemachus you knew.

It was deeper. Formal. Careful.

Like he was picking each word out of a fire.

You couldn't hear their replies clearly—just quiet murmurs, low voices that made your stomach twist with nerves. You heard chairs shifting, footsteps, the faint scrape of parchment on wood.

You pressed your fingers together, trying to breathe slow.

Trying not to imagine their faces.

Trying not to imagine what they thought of you.

Then—

Telemachus' voice again.

"Come in, ____."

Before you could think—before you could pull back, panic, psych yourself out—you stepped forward.

Your feet carried you. Your breath wasn't steady, but you moved anyway.

You walked inside.

The room was larger than you expected. Warm lamplight. Tall shelves of scrolls. A wide table with maps pinned down by bronze weights.

You didn't look up.

You kept your gaze on the floor, the cloth over your face turning the room into a soft blue haze. The marble beneath you was cool, almost slippery, and your steps felt too loud in the quiet.

You stopped when you reached him.

Telemachus stood tall beside you—close. Closer than necessary.

Your arm brushed his. Your shoulder nearly grazing his bicep.

You hadn't meant to stand so near; your body just did it—instinctively—seeking comfort, familiarity, safety.

And Telemachus shifted just slightly, as if to shield you from whoever sat before you.

His stance widened. His hand hovered near yours. His posture leaned subtly your way.

He didn't touch you.

Not here.

Not in front of them.

But his presence wrapped around you all the same.

A silent message.

Mine. I'm here. Don't touch her.

You felt the weight of two powerful gazes settle on you.

You kept your eyes down, breath locked in your chest.

And the king and queen of Ithaca finally saw you.

Penelope spoke first.

A small scoff cut through the quiet—sharp enough to make your stomach twist. She set aside her weaving tools on the low table beside her, the sound of wooden shuttles clicking together louder than it should've been.

Her gaze swept over you, then dropped to the way Telemachus stood too close. Too protective.

"How you're standing," she said, voice cool, "tells me far more than whatever explanation you think you've prepared."

Telemachus stiffened.

His shoulders jerked back a little—not fully, but enough for you to feel embarrassment ripple off him. His jaw tightened. His stance shifted like he wanted to step closer to you... and also like he didn't want to give his mother more reason to comment.

Penelope didn't wait for him to answer. She reached out, plucked the lone scroll from Odysseus' hand as if taking it was her right—and it was—and unfurled it with a practiced flick.

Telemachus' eyes flicked away, cheeks flushing with something between frustration and shame.

You swallowed hard.

Odysseus finally spoke.

"I see your mother is not wrong," he said mildly, though the words held teeth if you listened closely. He didn't look away from the two of you. Not once. "Your posture reveals more than your tongue ever will."

It wasn't a compliment.

Or an accusation.

Just a fact. A cold, observing fact.

Penelope hardly seemed to notice her husband's voice as she skimmed the parchment she'd taken, her brow rising just slightly—just enough to make your breath catch under the veil.

Odysseus sat back in his chair, unbothered by her taking it, arms resting against the carved wooden arms like he'd been waiting for this moment long before you ever came into their world.

He spoke again, calmer. "Sit. Both of you. There will be refreshments shortly."

As if on cue, a servant in the back slipped out the door, quiet as a shadow, no doubt sent for the items the moment Telemachus first arrived.

Telemachus nodded once.

Wordless.

He stepped forward, moving toward the pair of chairs set before his parents' table. Without even thinking, he pulled one out—slow, careful—and held it steady for you.

You blinked, then sat.

The wooden seat was cold beneath you, the cushion thin, your back stiff as you kept your gaze lowered to the marble floor. Your hands folded tightly in your lap, fingers trembling just enough to notice.

Telemachus sat beside you.

Not close enough to touch you openly. Not far enough to distance himself.

Just close enough that you could feel him. Like a silent promise you could lean toward if the world got too loud.

Your eyes stayed firmly downcast.

But you could feel their eyes—Penelope's sharp, Odysseus' unreadable—take in every detail of you.

The veil. Your posture. The tremble in your breath.

And the boy who sat beside you, tense as a bowstring pulled too tight.

The judgment had already begun.

Penelope didn't wait. She didn't even look at Telemachus.

Her focus locked onto you like an arrow finding its mark.

"Name," she said.

You jerked slightly, sitting up straighter. "I—I'm ____."

"Age?"

"Twenty, almost twenty-one."

Penelope hummed. Not approval. Not disapproval. Just... calculation.

"And to whom do you offer prayer?" Her tone was sharp. Too sharp. "Which god or goddess do you keep patronage with?"

Your chest squeezed. You shifted in your seat, fingers twisting in your lap.

"Athena... mostly," you whispered. "But sometimes... sometimes Demeter. I—I don't know if I count as a follower, I just—pray."

Penelope's lips pursed.

Odysseus didn't blink.

Before another question could fall like a blade, a servant slipped between the four of you—silent, efficient—setting small platters on the low table.

Honey-cakes, sliced figs, warm bread.

You flinched when the platter was set in front of you, the ceramic clinking too loud in the quiet.

Penelope barely spared the food a glance, she leaned forward instead, hands folding neatly over her knee.

"Tell me," she said. "Are you trained? Do you read? Do you know how to keep accounts? Have you served in a noble house? Do you have family here? Why were you in—"

"Mother—" Telemachus finally burst, sitting up so fast his chair creaked.

But he didn't get another word out.

Odysseus didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

He turned his gaze on his son—slow, heavy, ancient—and Telemachus froze mid-breath.

The king wasn't glaring.

He wasn't furious. He wasn't even warning.

He was simply... watching.

Assessing.

Waiting to see whether the boy beside you was truly a man yet.

Telemachus' jaw flexed, throat bobbing. You saw his fingers curl tight against his knee.

And then—

He stopped.

He clenched his jaw and sank back into his chair with a controlled inhale, his posture stiffening until he looked carved from the same stone as the pillars outside.

Penelope's eyebrow arched—just slightly—but she didn't comment.

She resumed as if the interruption had never happened.

Her questions came sharper now, faster, threading dangerously close to the parts of your life you tried not to think about. Her voice was calm, but it sliced clean through the air.

"Where do you work, ___?"

Your breath hitched.

Before you could find the words, the servant stepped forward again, setting small ceramic cups before the four of you. She moved gracefully, professionally—reaching for the pot of steeped tea beside the cakes, pouring for the king and queen first.

Penelope didn't wait for you to answer.

"And how," she continued, "did you and my son meet?"

Through the veil, you could barely see Telemachus' hands balling into fists over his knees. He turned his head just enough to glance at you—silent, worried, begging you not to feel cornered.

You looked back at him for a heartbeat.

Just a heartbeat.

That was all it took.

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting in his chair, eyes flicking toward the servant currently pouring his tea.

"Mother," he began carefully, "I already explained—"

"Yes," Penelope cut in coldly, not even turning her head. "You did. And I am inclined to believe you... left out details."

Telemachus froze.

She continued, her tone sharp as a loom's shuttle snapping in half:

"I would like to hear it from her."

Then—your name.

"___."

She said it like she was testing how it felt in her mouth.

You swallowed hard, fingers clenching in the fabric of your dress.

You answered. Small. Timid.

"I... I worked at the—at a brothel, my queen. In the lower markets. I did laundry. And—" Your voice cracked. "—I met your son because he came in one night and requested a girl. I—I was chosen for him."

The room stilled.

Not just quiet. Not just tense.

Stilled.

Like the air itself froze in place, thick and unmoving, pressing against your lungs.

The servant pouring your tea had been silent until then—her movements smooth, precise, respectful.

But at your words—

The pot in her hand jerked, her eyes snapping to you.

Wide. Sharp. Full of something you knew instantly.

Judgment.

Disgust.

Fear.

Contempt.

Everything at once.

She recovered fast—but not well.

She set your cup down with more force than necessary. The ceramic clicked hard against the wood.

Too loud. Too sudden.

Then, under her breath—barely audible, but the tension made it echo—

"Filthy," she muttered.

The veil suddenly felt too heavy, the air underneath it hot and stale as your cheeks burned.

The servant finished pouring the tea with stiff wrists and a burning face before stepping back, eyes averted now as if she couldn't stand to look at you again.

Telemachus' entire body went rigid beside you.

You didn't dare look up.

Your fingers tightened in your lap, your breath trembling, and before you could stop yourself—before you could think, before you could swallow the instinct—

"I'm... I'm sorry," you whispered.

The words slipped out like a bruise reopening.

Like muscle memory.

Because you'd said them before.

Too many times.

To strangers in the market. To wives who didn't like seeing you near their husbands. To vendors who stepped back the moment they realized where you worked. To guards who told you to walk faster, look lower, speak less.

You'd learned to apologize just for existing.

You'd done it on the streets. You'd done it at the brothel.

Eventually the Madam kept you inside—"You're too soft for that world," she'd hissed, pushing the coin pouch out of your hands. "People smell it on you."

And now—

Now you'd done it in front of the king and queen of Ithaca.

And the servant who insulted you.

Telemachus moved before the apology even finished leaving your lips. His chair slammed back against the marble as he shot to his feet, the force so sudden you flinched.

"What did you just say?" he barked.

The servant froze.

Telemachus wasn't just angry—

He was livid.

A heat rolled off him you hadn't seen before, something sharp and ancient, a flicker of a warrior, of Odysseus' bloodline boiling under his skin.

"I-I said, I-I meant—" the servant began, voice small, trembling.

"No," he snapped, voice booming so loud it echoed. "Repeat it. Repeat what you called her."

He took a step forward.

She stumbled back, nearly tripping over her own feet. The jug wobbled in her grip, sloshing tea across her fingers. Her eyes went wide with fear, darting between him and the queen and the king and you—

But Telemachus didn't look away.

"Say it again," he snarled. "I want to hear it from your mouth."

Your heart slammed painfully. You'd never heard him like this. Never seen him erupt so violently, so instantly.

You tried to hold your posture still, even as your stomach churned and your mind spun and shame curled tight in your chest, but you were reeling.

Telemachus took another step.

His jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch. His hands were fists at his sides, trembling with the effort not to do something he'd regret.

"Telemachus." Penelope's tone was warning, sharp as a snapped thread.

He didn't hear her, or he didn't care.

"You forget your place." His voice was dangerously low, a stark contrast to the thunderous anger on his face. "The next time your tongue dares to form her name, I will have it cut out." He growled at the servant. "You will not touch her, you will not look at her like that, and you sure as Hades will not call her—"

"Enough."

Odysseus' voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Final.

Telemachus stopped mid-breath.

Stopped mid-step.

Stopped mid-threat.

His whole body locked, shoulders heaving, anger still boiling under his skin like hot oil. You could see how close he'd been—one more breath, one more insult, one more moment—and he would've said something he couldn't take back.

The servant stood frozen.

Eyes wide.

Face pale.

Tea dripping from her shaking fingers onto the floor.

If Telemachus hadn't stopped, she might have dropped the jug completely.

Odysseus leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, gaze fixed only on his son.

Penelope folded her hands again, calm as ever, though the air hummed with tension.

You sat perfectly still—heart pounding, veil trembling with each inhale, hands clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ached.

Penelope's gaze slid from you to the servant—sharp, cool, final.

"You may go," she said.

The servant jerked, bowing so fast she nearly dropped the jug again. Tears had gathered in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. She whispered a string of prayers under her breath as she backed away, thanking the queen, thanking the king, stumbling a little as she fled.

She never once looked in your direction.

The door shut behind her, an echo that lingered far too long.

Penelope turned to you, her voice was softer than before, though it didn't lose its edge.

"Never apologize for their disrespect," she said. "Lift your chin, child."

The words hit harder than you expected.

A lesson.

A command.

A warning.

You swallowed, trying to straighten your back even as adrenaline still shook through your limbs.

Then she looked at her son.

"Sit down and enjoy the cakes," she said. "They're your favorite."

Behind her, Odysseus sighed—long, tired, like he'd lived through a thousand of these tense, too-loud family moments. He lifted his cup, the wine catching the lamplight as he took a slow sip.

Telemachus didn't move, he still stood there, jaw set, hands tight at his sides, glaring at the spot where the servant had been as if she were still standing there.

"Telemachus," Penelope repeated, sharper now. "Sit."

He didn't sit.

Instead, his voice came out tight, bitter, low:

"Why did you stop me?"

The queen didn't answer.

Odysseus did.

"A king must not bleed in front of wolves."

Telemachus' head snapped toward him, eyes hot, a silent glare that held more hurt than anger. His breath came sharper now, controlled but shallow, like he was swallowing every retort he wanted to throw.

"Then tell me," he bit out, voice raw, "how to keep her safe."

The room stilled again.

Penelope didn't blink. Odysseus didn't shift.

Neither offered him an answer.

Because there wasn't one easy enough for this room.

Telemachus' jaw flexed hard.

Then—without warning—he turned on his heel.

He reached for you, his hand finding yours with force softened only in the last moment. His fingers slid around yours, warm and firm, tugging you up to your feet before you could fully react.

"We're finished here," he said, his tone flat, almost mocking. "I'm not feeling well."

Penelope's eyebrow twitched.

Odysseus watched him with a thoughtful tilt of his head.

Telemachus didn't care.

"And I don't trust anyone else to escort her," he added sharply. "So we'll see ourselves out."

He didn't wait for a response.

He didn't bow.

He didn't apologize.

But you did.

It was a reflex, a desperate, jerky dip of your head as he pulled you toward the door, the words tumbling out in a rushed, breathless whisper—

"Forgive us—thank you—good day—"

The apology was a ghost on your lips, automatic and utterly pointless, swallowed by the sound of your own frantic heartbeat.

Your steps hurried to keep up with Telemachus, heart hammering as the study fell away behind you.

The door slammed shut, echoing up the marble halls.

And just like that—

You were out.

And heading gods-knew-where—

With a prince whose anger still vibrated through your bones.

.☆.       .✩.             .☆.

Telemachus moved fast, his strides long and sharp, each footfall hitting the marble with purpose, with fury.

He muttered curses under his breath as he walked—low, vicious words you'd never heard from him before.

"Filthy—she called you—""Unbelievable—""In front of my mother—""No one talks to you like that—"

He didn't care who heard.

Servants froze as the two of you passed. Some gasped softly, startled by his pace; ohers stepped back so quickly they nearly tripped over each other, bowing hastily.

But every single one of them stared at you.

Wide-eyed.

Confused.

Judging.

You felt each stare on your back like tiny needles, tracking you down the hall as if your veil didn't hide you at all.

The palace seemed endless. Hall after hall, corridor after corridor—and still Tele­machus didn't slow.

Your breath quickened trying to keep up.

Each of his steps took two—three—of yours.

Your sandals scuffed against the floor as you half-jogged behind him, veil fluttering, hand squeezed too tightly in his.

It was too much.

Finally—

You yanked.

Hard.

Telemachus stopped mid-stride, thrown off balance as you tugged him out of his storm of anger and momentum.

"Telemachus—!" you huffed, breathless. "Slow down! I—I can't walk that fast. Every step you take is three of mine!"

You didn't mean for it to come out as a scold, but it did.

And it worked.

His whole body froze.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

His anger cracked—splintering into something softer, something more ashamed. His shoulders deflated, chest rising and falling as he exhaled shakily.

"Gods," he whispered. "I—I'm sorry."

His voice sounded small for the first time since you'd entered the palace.

He looked around quickly, searching—then gently guided you toward a small alcove just off the hall. A little nook carved into the wall with a wide stone windowsill overlooking the inner courtyard and Ithaca's gardens.

Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the marble in warm gold. Outside, olive trees swayed gently in the breeze. The faint sound of workers in the courtyard drifted through—rakes scraping dirt, distant chatter, birds calling from the treetops.

Telemachus ushered you to the windowsill, hands soft now, almost trembling.

"Sit," he murmured.

You leaned against the edge, the cool stone pressing into the back of your thighs, veil brushing against the sun-warmed light leaking in.

Telemachus stood in front of you, breath still uneven, eyes flicking from your veil to your hands to your face under the cloth.

He swallowed hard.

"I didn't mean to drag you like that," he said quietly. "I just—" His jaw clenched again, but this time it wasn't anger.

It was fear. Embarrassment. A heartbreak you could see around the edges.

"I couldn't... think."

He ran a hand through his hair, curls falling messily over his forehead.

"You apologized to someone who disrespected you," he said, voice low, still shaking, "and something in me just—snapped."

You watched him.

Watched the way he tried to breathe through it.

Watched the way his hands kept flexing, as if trying to hold onto control again.

Watched the way he stared at you like he was terrified he'd hurt you too—without meaning to.

You reached out, and rested your hand gently over his.

His breath caught.

And finally—

He calmed.

You saw the exact moment it happened—the tension drained from his shoulders, his jaw loosened, his breath finally slowed.

You said his name softly. "Telemachus..."

He lifted his head at the sound of it, eyes still storm-dark, but softer now. You reached for him—slow, careful—and your fingers brushed his cheek.

He froze, then leaned into your touch like he needed it to breathe.

You gently turned his face fully toward you, cradling him between your palms. His curls tickled your wrists. His skin felt warm beneath your hands.

"Hey," you whispered, thumbs caressing his cheekbones. "Don't get upset. I'm okay. Really."

His eyes searched yours beneath the veil, guilt pooling in them thick and heavy.

You sighed softly.

"I froze because..." You hesitated, breath catching. "Because apologizing is... kind of second nature for me."

You felt him stiffen.

His face scrunched—pain first, then anger, then deeper hurt. His mouth tightened, brows pulling together like the thought alone made him furious.

"But she made you—" he started, voice cracking with restrained rage.

You laughed quietly, cutting him off before he could spiral again. You traced a faint line down his jaw just to soothe him.

"There you go," you teased gently, smile trembling but real, "getting upset over me again."

His cheeks flushed, frustration simmering but redirected, softened by your tone.

"But she was right," you whispered. "Your mother. I shouldn't apologize for their disrespect. Not anymore."

Your voice trembled, but it stayed honest.

"And where I worked... it doesn't define me. Even if I had been on rotation. Even if I had been one of the girls." You swallowed. "It's just a place. A circumstance. Not... me."

Telemachus inhaled sharply—like the words hit him in the chest.

He lifted a hand—slowly, almost reverently—and reached for your veil.

"May I?" he murmured.

You nodded.

He pushed the veil back gently, folding it behind your shoulder until your face was bare to the sunlight. The world snapped into focus, colors suddenly too bright after so long behind blue cloth. His fingers brushed your temple, then your cheek, tracing the outline of your jaw tenderly.

His touch was warm. Steady. A different kind of promise than before.

"Still, you shouldn't have to go through that," he whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek as if wiping away words others had thrown at you for years.

"No one should speak to you that way. No one should make you feel small." His voice shook. "Least of all someone in your own home."

Home.

Once again, that word hung between you.

And once again, he didn't take it back, didn't correct himself.

He just kept touching your face like it was the first safe place he'd ever learned to rest his hands.

And something in you melted.

Your cheeks warmed. Your chest tightened—but in a good way. A soft glow rolled through you, filling places you hadn't even realized were hollow until he'd stepped into your life.

A small smile crept across your lips.

You leaned in, unable to help it, your arms sliding around his waist. His breath caught, and then—

You hugged him tight. Your cheek brushed the rough linen of his tunic as you murmured his name softly, "Telemachus..."

He let out a quiet sound—half-exhale, half-laugh—and wrapped both arms around you. His hands settled low on your waist, palms wide and steady, pulling you against him like he'd been waiting his entire life to be held like this.

And before you could think—before you could stop yourself—

You peppered his face in kisses.

Quick ones, soft ones, little ones along his jaw and cheek, your lips brushing wherever you could reach. You giggled into his skin as you did it, unable to hold back the joy bubbling under your ribs.

Telemachus' laugh was muffled against your head. It vibrated through you.

He held you closer, arms tightening, his broad chest shaking with quiet, disbelieving happiness as he tried to return every kiss you gave him—your face, your cheeks, your nose, your temple—both of you giggling like you'd forgotten anyone else existed.

For a moment, it was just warmth. Just the two of you. Just safety.

Then—

He pulled back.

Not far, just enough to see you.

He looked at you like he was memorizing you—eyes moving over your cheeks, your lips, the curve of your jaw, your expression soft and bright from laughing.

A slow smile spread across his face.

He leaned down.

You met him halfway.

Your hand came up to his cheek as his lips pressed to yours—a soft, slow kiss that curled heat into your belly and steadied your heartbeat at the same time. His palm slid up your back, holding you steady, like he didn't want you to drift even an inch away.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far.

He pressed a row of gentle kisses from the corner of your mouth to your cheek, up to your temple, then rested his lips on your forehead—soft, lingering, reverent.

He stayed like that, his breath warm against your skin, before whispering:

"They're afraid," he murmured. "Afraid of what I'll do for you."

You swallowed.

He lifted his head, his thumb brushing your cheek again, gentler now, more certain.

"But I don't care," he said softly, voice steady. "Not about their fear. Not about their judgment. Not about any of it."

His eyes locked onto yours.

"I'm not letting you be alone in this."

You didn't answer.

You didn't have to.

Because the way he held you—arms around your waist, forehead touching yours, fingers brushing tiny circles against your skin—said the rest of the chapter for you.

And in that quiet alcove, in the golden Ithacan sunlight, wrapped in his warmth...

You let yourself believe him.

[winxanity-ii]

FIRST [1/?]

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

PRT.2 - Second

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

The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.

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

And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.

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

So why couldn't he?

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

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

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

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

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

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

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

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

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

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

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

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

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

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

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

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

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

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

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

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

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

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

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

☆

☆

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

"Hey." You flinched.

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

"You're up."

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

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

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

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

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

"I'm not ready."

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

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

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

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

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

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

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

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

The girls exchanged a look.

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

You swallowed hard.

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

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆.      .✩.           .☆.

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

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

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

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

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

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

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

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

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

You took one step. Then another.

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

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

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

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

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

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

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

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

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made him pause.

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

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

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

That confused you. "Back?"

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

You swallowed.

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

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

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

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

He blinked.

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

He was quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...Do you?"

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

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

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

You both smiled, small and unsure.

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

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

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

You leaned in and kissed him.

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind raced.

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

You barely remembered to breathe.

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

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

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

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

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

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

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

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

The words came in flashes.

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

But none of it came naturally.

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

You clutched his shoulders instead.

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

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

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

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

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

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

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

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

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

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

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

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

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

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

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

You swallowed. "Why...?"

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

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

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

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Telemachus moved.

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

Not beneath you. But before you.

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

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

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

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

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

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

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

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

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

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

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

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

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

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

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

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

From how huge his hands felt.

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

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

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

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

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

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

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

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

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

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

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

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

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

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

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

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

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

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

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

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

He looked... wrecked.

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

For a while, neither of you moved.

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

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

Eventually, you found your voice.

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

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

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded.

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

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

You let him.

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

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

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

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

"I can—"

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

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

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

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

And so you did.

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

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

☆

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

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

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

You could feel him.

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

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

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

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

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

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

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

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

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

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

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

You looked at him.

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

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

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

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

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

That made your cheeks burn.

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

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

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

You turned. "What?"

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

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

"I want to."

You blinked.

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

And then he was gone.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

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

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

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

You blinked. "What?"

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

Your lips parted. "Why?"

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

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

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

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

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

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

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

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

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

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

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

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

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

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

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

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

The Madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

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

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

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

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

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

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

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

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

You stopped walking.

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

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

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

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

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

The return of King Odysseus.

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

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

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

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

You looked down at it again.

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

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

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

The Madam didn't stop walking.

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

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

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

You looked back down at the parchment.

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

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

He'd choose you again.