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Telemachus has tried everything to remove the suitors from his home – speeches to rouse their conscience, threats of godly retribution, pleas for decency – but they only ever tease him for his efforts. 

He was at the cusp of adulthood when they arrived four years ago, older than his own father had been when he ascended the throne, and still they had taken one glance at him and promptly deemed him undeserving of their time. As the prince of Ithaca, he ought to have commanded a modicum of respect, but at best they dismissed him and at worst they were eager to remind him of just how powerless he was against their might. 

The son of silver-tongued Odysseus he may be, but he is no diplomat, and though Spartan blood flows in his veins from his mother’s heritage, he is no warrior. There was never anyone around to teach him, and the suitors were more interested in using him as target practice.

He made that mistake, once, a few months into their siege, and it was the first time he was face to face with his own mortality. 

A cluster of suitors were throwing spears and sparring in the courtyard when he came across them. He hung around to observe their form and technique, thinking himself at a safe enough distance to elude their notice, but Antinous caught sight of him and decided to offer him a hands-on demonstration. 

He still recalls distinctly the moment of terrified apprehension in his mother's expression when she sought him out after someone tattled to her and found Antinous hovering nearby while the physician tended to him. 

“The prince wanted to try his hand at sparring,” Antinous said, the quick look he threw Telemachus while Penelope fussed about him daring him to refute it. “I promise you, faire Penelope, that we were looking out for him, but surely you understand that bruises and scrapes are nigh unpreventable when men get a bit rowdy. The blame for the laceration, however, I concede should fall on me. I must have been wool-gathering for no more than a moment when I heard his cry of pain. Ctesippus is, regrettably, not very gifted with a sword, and yet he was most eager to help the prince. I confess I cannot fathom how the injury came to be, but I brought the prince here straight away.”

The truth, naturally, was not what Antinous claimed. Rather, he came up to Telemachus in the courtyard, and his grin should have promptly sent Telemachus running, but by the time he perceived Antinous’ ill will it was too late. Antinous dragged him into their midst, shouting at the men to gather around for a bit of royal sport, and then he threw Telemachus against the gate wall and told him to stay rooted or it would be his neck on the line.

Petrified, Telemachus watched with mounting horror as a suitor handed Antinous a spear, and he nearly wet himself when Antinous threw it at him but missed by a long shot.

He realised, after four more spears aimed at him failed to hit their mark, that it was not for a lack of skill but rather a lack of intent. Had Antinous wanted to kill him that day, he would have. Any of the suitors could have snuffed him out like a bucket of water on a fire, but Antinous wanted to warn him off, and Telemachus was not the only one to take it to heart.

“Be careful,” Penelope urged once they were alone. “Evade their eyes, ignore their taunts, and do not under any circumstances invoke their anger. Do not give them any reason to kill you. If they believe you to be a threat –”

The bruises and scrapes were of little consequence, but the gash in his thigh was a parting gift from Antinous and required sutures. 

“Please, child, I couldn’t bear losing you as well,” she implored, clasping his hands tightly between her own as her lips wobbled. “Promise me that you won’t give me any more sleepless nights.”

Telemachus gave his word.

No one respects him less than Antinous. He is always telling him to just eat and drink and to leave politics and state affairs to men, always condescending and derisory. Telemachus stays as far away from him and the others as possible, their rowdy conduct grating on his nerves and ears. Today is no different. He is so tired of their insolence and continued presence, but there is nothing he can do. If only his father would return –

“Boy,” Antinous calls, gripping his hand as he’s about to retreat to his room for the evening. “When is your tramp of a mother going to choose a new husband?” 

Telemachus bristles, but Antinous is not done, yanking him into his chest with a leer. “Why don’t you open her room so we can have fun with her?”

“Don’t you dare –” 

“Or what?” Antinous snarls. “There’s no one left in this gods damned kingdom to stop us from having a little fun, is there? Your father took every able bodied soldier with him when he left for war, twenty years ago, leaving behind a mere woman and a braggart boy. We are the best Ithaca has to offer. Do you truly believe anyone could deter us if we decided to break down the door to your mother’s room?”

Antinous laughs, and several of the onlookers, always eager to follow him, join in. Telemachus tries to pull his hand back, but Antinous refuses to let him go. “If I want to fuck your mother in her own bed, I will. If every damn suitor wants a turn at her, they will.”

They have never outright threatened Penelope like this, and it is a terrifying development that means she is wearing their patience thin, but instead of giving up they are getting restless, and restless men are dangerous. He has gotten used to the unease that has settled over him like a second layer of skin with the awareness that his life hangs in a taut thread held between the suitors’ fingers, but until now, they have usually put in the effort to behave respectfully towards and around her. 

“She is your queen!” Telemachus roars, latching on to the fury rather than giving in to the fear. He is clawing at Antinous’ fingers wrapped around his hand, but Antinous merely tightens his grip until he swears he hears the bones creak and he winces.

“A queen who takes good men for fools,” Antinous hisses. “Do you think she’ll cry when I breach her?”

Telemachus is throwing a punch before he can think it through, but Antinous catches his hand and grins. “Will she pray for a dead man to come to her rescue? You? Should we take you with us to listen to her whimpers, helpless as always to do anything about it?”

“Stop,” Telemachus cries. 

Antinous is laughing, shoving Telemachus away forcefully enough to propel him straight into the barrier of suitors that have gathered around them, which is unnervingly similar to the incident with the spears. The suitors are the only reason he doesn’t end up sprawled on the floor, but he would much prefer that over the hands grabbing him as Antinous, smug bastard, comes closer with languorous steps. 

He struggles against them, kicks and snarls, but they only laugh and keep him rooted in place. The thought of his mother, violated by these vile men – he cannot bear the thought. 

“If you harm her,” he says, swivelling his head to glower at all of them, “you will die here and never be avenged.”

Antinous’ eyes gleam sinisterly, and he leans in to whisper, easily dismissing Telemachus’ threat, “Will she scream until she realises it’s futile to resist? Will she stop struggling and let everyone get a taste of her?”

“Stop.”

Antinous is undeterred. “I will ruin her. She will be on her back for us,  and I will have her mouth until her jaw aches and my spent paints her lips. She will care naught for what happens to Ithaca or herself when we’re through with her.”

Telemachus feels faint, his expression going through several emotions before he settles on imploring. “Antinous, please.”

The look in Antinous’ eyes, the leer on his mouth, the jeers from the suitors – he doesn’t think they’re bluffing. Antinous is right. Telemachus can fight it, but if he tries he’ll be beaten within an inch of his life, if not outright killed, and then his mother will truly be alone. The servants and the few guards left, for all that they are loyal, cannot hope to stop them.

“Will she moan for me?” Antinous murmurs, his gaze faraway as though he’s already envisioning Penelope under him. “Will she beg for my cock?”

“Take me instead.”

There’s a roaring in Telemachus’ head, reminiscent of the waves crashing against the boulders at the coast during a storm, but everything else falls eerily silent. The suitors look between themselves, caught between disbelief and glee, and Antinous – 

Is looking straight at him with renewed interest, eyes alight.

“You?” Antinous says, distinctly amused. Telemachus clenches his hands, unwilling to back down now even if his blood curdles. “Whatever made you think that you would make an adequate trade for your mother?” 

He falls back to the centre of the make-shift barrier, and with a slight nod, Telemachus is released and pushed towards him, stumbling but finding his footing before he can fall at Antinous’ feet. Small mercies, he thinks bitterly.

He understands, distantly, what he’s offering, but in his fervour to save his mother from their savagery, he cannot stop to consider the gravity of his actions. “I will keep quiet about it,” he says, meeting Antinous’ stare. 

Antinous huffs out a laugh. “That’s it?” He throws out his arms and the suitors whoop in response; the way Antinous so effortlessly leads them makes Telemachus sick (but above all else, he envies it. It is an ugly emotion, especially when in relation with anything concerning Antinous, but he cannot deny the yearning for even half of the sway that comes so naturally to Antinous, a born leader that people of all ages and genders find themselves drawn to and trusting). “If they are merciful, they might not talk until I’m done with you, but that’s all you can hope for. Everyone will know if I agree to take you in her stead, prince.” 

His smile is cruel when he says, more quietly, “Your mother will know what you gave up for her.”

Panic claws at Telemachus’ throat, and though the thought of everyone knowing he got on his back for another man mortifies him, he will bear it if it means they will stay away from his mother. He will worry about her reaction later, but how can he convince Antinous? 

“Please,” he implores, taking a step towards Antinous, and another, until he’s close enough that he can pitch his voice low so as to hopefully not be overheard by the suitors. “I’ll do anything. Just – leave her alone.”

Antinous licks his lips as his eyes rover over Telemachus’ body. There’s something in his gaze, something terrifying that squeezes Telemachus’ heart in his chest, but he wills himself not to quiver beneath it. “Hmm.” Antinous puts a pair of fingers under his chin and tips his head back, studying his features with a thoughtful purse of his mouth. “You do resemble your mother.”

Antinous’ touch leaves him feeling chilled to the marrow, but he endures it, wringing his hands as Antinous begins to circle him in a manner that is disturbingly predatory. Antinous’ hand comes to rest at his neck, an implicatory weight before it trails all the way down his spine. 

“Your stature is rather feminine,” Antinous murmurs, coming to a halt behind Telemachus. Telemachus hates having him out of his sight, but a hand wrapping around his throat stills him. “If I take you in your mother’s stead, will you be as sweet for me as she would?”

“She would bleed you dry,” Telemachus bites out, grunting when Antinous’ hand squeezes his trachea. 

“If I fuck you,” Antinous whispers into his ear, lips brushing the shell, “you will be docile. Compliant.”

Fuck.

“You will not fight me,” Antinous continues, and the smile in his voice is obvious without Telemachus needing to see his face. “You will partake in the act, as eager to please me as any woman.”

Telemachus abruptly, despairingly, wants to take it all back; wants to throw Antinous off him and flee the hall and forget this ever happened. But he cannot abandon his mother to their mercy. 

He has to protect her no matter the cost or he will never forgive himself.

“Well?” Antinous prompts.

His hand around Telemachus’ throat is loose enough for him to twist around until their chests are flush. He glares up at Antinous’ smug face, but he needs Antinous to agree to just one thing. 

“Only you,” he stresses, hoping the suitors aren’t straining to catch his words. “The others will not touch me, or my mother.”

Antinous huffs, brows lifting into two perfect arches. “Do you truly believe you are in a position to be making demands?” 

Telemachus swallows dryly, eyes dropping from Antinous’ mirthful stare. His dignity can survive Antinous, but he cannot – he cannot stand the thought of anyone else laying their hands on him. The thought of being reduced to some – whore to be shared between the suitors –

He grips Antinous’ arms and looks back up. “Please,” he begs. “I will be good, I promise, but only you can touch me.”

Something flashes in Antinous’ eyes. “All right,” he says lowly. 

Telemachus feels he should be able to breathe easier, knowing he has Antinous’ assent, but instead he finds himself trapped under Antinous’ stare and the dawning understanding that Antinous’ reaction to his words may spell a bad time for him. There’s something dark in his eyes, a hint of something Telemachus doesn’t recognise but cannot help but dread. 

What is the word of a brute even worth?

“Tomorrow night,” Antinous says, and the spell breaks, Telemachus instinctively lowering his gaze, “I will come to you. Tell your guards whatever pleases you, but they will let me through.”

A day. Telemachus has a day to brace himself for the fate he has brought upon himself. It will be enough.

He has no other choice.

“I will make sure of it,” he says, but he cannot make himself look up from Antinous’ nose.

“Good,” Antinous purrs, caressing the side of Telemachus’ face. Telemachus jerks at the touch, eyes shutting tightly. “I look forward to it, little prince.”

The suitors clamour around Antinous the moment he backs off, eager to know what’s happening. Sometimes it’s a relief to be so easily dismissed, and right now Telemachus is in dire need of it. He feels like the ground has opened up under him, and the air in the hall is too thin, so he flees before anyone can think to detain him. 

He needs to clear his head and come to terms with the sacrifice he is making. 

One day, and then he will be entirely at Antinous’ mercy.

~

Hypnos bestows upon him a dreamless sleep that night, and Telemachus cannot help but wonder if it’s out of pity. He feels well-rested when he wakes up and goes about the day refusing to dwell on what the evening has in store for him. He evades the suitors, spending long minutes hugging walls and columns as he waits for them to pass him. 

They know what he offered Antinous in exchange for his mother’s safety, so Telemachus will not be caught dead alone with a bunch of them anytime soon when they will undoubtedly leer at him and offer lascivious remarks. He could never trust Antinous with his life, with anything, so he fully intends to ensure the suitors don’t think they can bully him onto his back as well.

Still, he prays that Antinous holds enough sway with them that they will back off and settle with grinning lewdly at him over dinner. 

While he wishes it were not so, it is impossible to avoid all one hundred and eight men that occupy his home. Antinous and his cohorts are sparring in the courtyard when he needs to get through, and without meaning to, he glances up and catches Antinous’ eyes.

Dark promises swirl within the depths of his irises, and his stomach swoops with a rush of anxiety. The suitors notice and hoot after him as he hurries past them, laughing and jeering.

Antinous’ grating voice isn’t amongst them, and he doesn’t know what that means. 

Later, he passes Antinous alone in the hall on his way to his room to prepare for the evening feast. Antinous catches him by the arm before he can turn around or hide.

“You do not seem terribly excited about tonight,” Antinous drawls. 

Telemachus attempts to throw off his grip, but it tightens instead, and Antinous hauls him in front of him, back against the wall.

“I never promised to be compliant until we’re – fucking,” Telemachus spits. Gods, what has he gotten himself into? 

Everything he says seems only to amuse Antinous, who scoffs and leans in, supporting himself with a hand on the wall next to Telemachus’ head. “I suppose that’s true. Doesn’t matter much; this is more fun. Are you that scared to be beneath me?”

Telemachus stills when Antinous noses along his jaw. He has half a mind to fight back, but he’s terrified of angering him and voiding their – arrangement. So he clenches his fist against the wall instead and says, “I will never be scared of you.”

Antinous chuckles, stroking up his neck. “Is that a challenge, little wolf?”

Thanatos take him, but he won’t stand for this. He shoves Antinous off and backs away, breathing hard for some reason. He lifts his chin and glares down his nose at Antinous. “You will have my compliance tonight, and not a second sooner, or ever again. You will not touch me until then.”

The malicious glint of hunger in Antinous’ eyes makes the small hairs at the back of his neck rise. “Oh,” Antinous breathes, “I do so want to hurt you.”

Telemachus does not stick around to hear what else Antinous wants to do.

What else he will do.

~

Penelope does not show up for the feast, which is a small mercy. Telemachus has no illusions that the suitors would have kept their mouths shut about his looming ruination around her, and he hasn’t yet thought about what he’ll say to her when she finds out, and he resolves to not do so now. 

He tends to merely sip at his wine while eating, but when he notices the slight tremble in his hands after enduring the burn of Antinous’ stare for minutes that feel drawn out into short lifetimes each, he downs the entire kylix before he can question the wisdom of it. 

Courage, liquid or otherwise, is something he would desperately welcome right about now. 

A slave pours him another fill from the krater and this, too, he downs while picking at his meal. He cannot stomach any food, he realises, and because he’s determined to further his own torment, he seeks out Antinous through the crowds of disorderly suitors.

Antinous is already looking at him. Telemachus swallows, the queasy feeling in his gut unrelated to the wine, and averts his eyes once more as he gets to his feet.

He almost makes it out of there without reacting to the vulgar hollers of the suitors, but Antinous’ voice cuts through them like a barbed arrow. “I look forward to having you kneel for me tonight, prince.”

Telemachus sucks in a fortifying breath, hand falling against a pillar for support as he looks over his shoulder at Antinous’ smug grin. “I kneel for no one.”

“You’re a prince!” Eurymachus calls, raising a mocking toast to him. Many of the other suitors follow suit, laughing so hard Telemachus wishes they’d choke and die. “Ought royals not be the foremost to keep their word as a paragon for everyone else, Telemachus?”

Outrage boils his blood, and he glowers at Eurymachus. “I fully intend to uphold my promise,” he snarls, “but that promise comprised of me being a willing participant, not a subservient – slave. What I am most concerned about is your honour and whether you will stick to yours.”

“You promised to be eager, I believe,” Antinous drawls, grinning lecherously when Telemachus’ glare shifts to him. “You swore to please me, and it just so happens that I would be immensely pleased to have you on your knees.”

“Never.”

Antinous hums. “We’ll see. I assure you we are men of our word, so your mother will not be harmed so long as you don't put up a fight. Perhaps, after tonight, your legs will quiver with the urge to drop to your knees whenever you see me.”

Telemachus is doing himself no favours by sticking around and arguing with men who will never see him as anything more than mindless entertainment, so instead of deigning to answer, he turns on his heel and marches out to howls of laughter. 

Hatred coils like a venomous snake around his heart, but it brings along a sense of dread and not a small amount of hassled anticipation that makes sweat gather in his palms. 

For all of Antinous’ threats and lewd remarks, he doesn’t actually know what to expect of tonight. He doesn’t know what Antinous wants from him. A lover? A conquest? Is it something primal that steers him, or is it the chance to humiliate him? Will it be predominantly painful or pleasurable, or a bit of both? 

Argos is astonishingly old for a dog, but his head lifts from his front paws and his tail starts wagging the moment he notices Telemachus’ approach. With a painful pang, Telemachus cannot help but wonder how much time his loyal dog and only friend has. It is absolutely not a thought that helps his fraught state of mind, but seeing as the noose he wrapped and tied around his own neck is already beginning to gnaw at his skin, what’s one more reason to feel miserable?

He doesn’t know when exactly Antinous will appear at his door, so he doesn’t stay with Argos for much longer than half an hour, trying and failing to get a grip on himself. He cannot afford for Antinous to think he has bowed out, and he needs the guards gone before Antinous shows up anyway. 

The later his mother learns of this, the better. If only never were an option.

He struggles to keep himself in check as he orders the guards stationed at his room to relocate to his mother’s, citing rumours of the suitors wanting to harm her. It is not untrue, per se, though he prays for the nth time that he is not offering himself up to Antinous only for them to break their promise.

He has so little faith in them, and yet he is resolved to see this through.

He cannot hold back a bitter laugh. He is a gods damned fool.

The servants are ordered to stay away for the night. To Eurycleia, he claims the desire for solitude and implores her to stick with his mother for the rest of the evening. She looks at him with a frown, and he wonders if she already knows what he has condemned himself to, but she leaves without protest, wishing him a good rest, and then he is utterly alone.

No guards, no servants. He is still dressed – and oh, the thought of being stripped and vulnerable around Antinous makes him sick – but he has never felt more exposed in his life. With nothing else to do but wait, his heart is already pounding against his ribs and he feels clammy under his clothes, but he will not give Antinous the satisfaction of greeting him in a state of undress like a wanton whore. 

Gods, the wine from earlier must have been more water than grapes. He indulges so rarely, yet wine does not easily get to his head. He has never wanted that to change, loath to let down his guard around the suitors, but tonight he craves for something to take the edge off. 

He pours himself a cup from the pitcher the servants always keep stocked and fresh. It is undiluted, a water jug and a bronze bowl next to it meant for mixing, but he throws down the entire thing without a second thought. The wine is sweet on his tongue, but that’s about all he notes, too rattled to really savour it.

To busy his hands, he ensures all the braziers are lit, and then he stops to wonders if total darkness would be preferable to actually seeing Antinous when –

He desperately needs for this to be over, but he also dreads the moment he hears Antinous’ footfalls outside his door. 

He paces inside his room, nibbling at his cuticles – an old habit he thought himself rid of – as he counts the seconds, minutes.

Hours. 

Antinous is toying with him. It’s the only thing that explains his delay. He probably knows Telemachus’ nerves are getting the better of him, even if the wine has slowed the pulse under his skin. He should be feeling more heady at this point, surely. Perhaps his nerves are so terrible that even the wine won't be of any help to him tonight.

If nothing short of a blackout can soothe the tension in his body, he might be unable to get through this. 

He promptly straightens his back and chastises himself. He is the prince of Ithaca, the son of Odysseus and Penelope, and he will not allow Antinous to break him. Antinous may take his body tonight, and Telemachus is not so naïve as to think it might not also even feel good, but this is extortion. The only thing he wants from Antinous is his solemn vow to stay away from his mother, and if he were to trip into a puddle of water and drown, that would be great, too.

It is just sex, when it all comes down to it. It may be degrading, being mounted by another man, but surely it would be far more shameful to have stood by and let them have their way with her. 

He will see this through. He will do what must be done, be what Antinous wants, and tomorrow he will meet Antinous’ eyes without flinching, knowing he did what he had to do to protect his mother. 

He eyes the wine, contemplating another cup, but before he can make a decision, he seizes up at the sound of footfalls. They halt outside his door, and he breathes out through his nose when there’s a sharp knock against the wood.

“It’s open,” he calls, refusing to greet Antinous at the door. The asshole can let himself in just fine. He looks over his shoulder to see Antinous slip inside. The sound of the bolt falling into place is like the final toll of fate. 

More wine sounds like a splendid idea.

He pours another cup, but then Antinous is by his side in an instant, seizing it before Telemachus can stop him.

Antinous looks between him and the wine with unveiled amusement. “That anxious, huh?” he says, bringing the cup to his mouth, but instead of drinking, he merely sniffs it. “Undiluted, even. Do I frighten you, little wolf?”

“Hand it over,” Telemachus demands instead of replying.

“Is this how you intend to get through tonight?” Antinous hums, dangling the cup in front of him. “By drinking until you forget our consummation?”

“We are not consummating anything,” Telemachus hisses. 

Antinous smiles, a small thing at odds with the glint in his eyes. “I rather think we are,” he murmurs. “It is a marked change in our… relationship, isn’t it?”

“The only thing that exists between us is contempt.”

Antinous hums thoughtfully. “I want you to remember tonight, but I will not refuse you a few more sips if you truly need it.”

“You do not get to decide how much I drink,” Telemachus says.

“Ah, that’s where you are wrong.” Antinous’ smile morphs into a wolfish grin. “Too much wine will knock you out, and while I am not against taking you one day when your head is too muddled to fight and you won’t remember why your body aches in the morning, you did swear to please me tonight.”

Telemachus glares at him. “Fine.”

“Good,” Antinous says, and lifts the cup to Telemachus’ mouth. “Then drink, prince.”

“What?” Telemachus bats the cup away, precious drops spilling over. “I will not accept it from your hand.”

Antinous’ eyes narrow dangerously. “You are not off to a promising start. Mouthing off, rejecting me, meeting my kindness with such animosity…”

For a few long seconds, Telemachus considers turning down the wine, but he is desperate for the sips Antinous offers. Perhaps it will be just enough to make this sufferable; to cloud his thoughts enough to render them unobtrusive so that he may get through this without the tendrils of doubt and self-loathing that are choking him. 

He closes his eyes, praying for patience, and when he blinks them open again, he says, “All right.”

Antinous’ gaze scorches him when he lifts the cup to his mouth once more. Telemachus opens up and allows Antinous to pour, gulping down the mouthfuls as Antinous’ gaze drops to his throat when a few drops spill across his lips and down his chin. 

Then the cup is abruptly replaced by Antinous’ mouth, his tongue swiping up the droplets of wine on Telemachus’ lips. The cup clatters to the ground, forgotten, as Antinous swallows his startled gasp. He walks him backwards, hands sliding down his arms to intertwine their fingers and raise his arms above his head when his back hits the wall, and there he keeps them pinned as he steals the breath from his lungs.

The kiss is demanding, and Telemachus has to remind himself to let it happen without resisting. He hadn’t even considered that Antinous might kiss him. He had thought he’d be unceremoniously shoved onto the bed where Antinous would have taken his time as he at last was given the chance to act upon the malice he bore towards Telemachus, ripping screams from his mouth and coaxing blood from his skin, and then he would have fucked him until he was sated.

He whimpers when Antinous’ teeth nip his bottom lip – not enough to pierce the flesh, but enough to smart – before dragging his mouth along his jaw, wet and hot against his skin, down to his clavicle and up his throat. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Antinous says, breathing in Telemachus’ scent like one might the sweet fragrance of a garden in full bloom.

Telemachus doesn’t register the words at first, but then the magnitude strikes him like a bolt of lightning straight from Zeus’ own hands. 

“What?” he whispers.

Antinous laughs lowly, the puffs of his breath on Telemachus’ skin sending a shiver up his spine, or maybe that’s the foreboding feeling creeping into his chest. “You. I have wanted to taste you for months, wanted to claim you for a year.”

No. No. Telemachus feels the blood drain from his face. “You... Did you mean for this to happen?”

Antinous hums, and even that sounds smug. “Your mother is beautiful, but it has been a long time since I stopped desiring her.”

No.

He seizes Telemachus’ chin, heedless of his unravelling mind. “You may take comfort in the knowledge that you did save your mother’s honour tonight.” A smirk steals over his face. “The suitors are restless, you understand. Anyone could have rallied them against the queen, but it just so happened that I was the one to plant the seed in their heads.”

Telemachus’ heart constricts as he stares into Antinous’ cruel eyes. He had – begged Antinous to take him instead. And all this time, that had been what Antinous wanted? He had made promises he fully intended to uphold even if it repulsed him to do so because Antinous had demanded he convince him – when really, Antinous would have agreed in the end regardless of what he said. 

The wine threatens to come back up, even as he acknowledges the truth in Antinous’ words. If he hadn’t offered himself up in his mother’s stead, Antinous would have unquestionably followed up on his threat and encouraged the suitors to take action. 

Antinous had played him and won.

“Scared now?”

“Fuck you,” Telemachus breathes, clenching his hands around Antinous’ and hoping it hurts. 

Antinous’ voice has always grated on Telemachus, but now it is even worse, his laughter derisive and darkly amused. “In due time, boy, I will have you. But first…”

He leans in and mouths at his jaw. “Bathe me,” he says, and Telemachus goes rigid. He can feel Antinous’ grin against his skin.

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Antinous says, flicking the shell of his ear with his tongue. “You heard me.”

“I will not bathe you,” Telemachus says, appalled.

Slaves and women bathe people. Telemachus is neither of those. The only person he will bathe is his future wife, and he will do so happily out of love, hoping to have something that comes even close to what his parents share (though he has yet to see it for himself, but his mother’s devotion so many years later speaks of a love blessed by Hera herself). 

“Need I remind you,” Antinous murmurs, “that there are one hundred and seven other suitors, a few of whom I know would relish the chance to violate you? Attending to me is the least you can do to show me how grateful you are that I convinced them to stay away from both your mother and you. Or perhaps you changed your mind?”

“You lied,” Telemachus hisses.

“I never lied,” Antinous says. “I deceived you. You agreed to the terms, and I held up my end of it. Are you man enough to hold up yours?”

“You coerced me.”

Antinous digs a knee between Telemachus’ legs and nudges it against his groin; Telemachus squirms away from it, but stops immediately when it just rubs his cock more firmly against Antinous’ leg. “What does it change?” Antinous demands. “You agreed. If at any point you change your mind, I will gather the suitors and lead them to your mother. While they share her spoils, I will take my time with you. As for the suitors who would still like to bend you over, I will personally hold you down while they get their fill.”

Antinous pitches his voice low, a growl more than speech, “So for the last time, because my patience is wearing thin: Will you, or will you not, uphold your part of the bargain?”

There’s nothing Telemachus can do to get out of this.

“I will,” he says and hates how much it sounds like a whimper, but any control he thought he had over the situation is slipping through his fingers and he wishes Antinous didn’t care that he drank until he passed out. 

He would much rather wake up sore tomorrow with vague memories than have to live through this. 

“Then get to work, boy,” Antinous says. The goosebumps that rise on Telemachus’ skin at the lack of Antinous’ heat makes him want to claw at his arms, but he steels himself and does as ordered. 

A slave usually attends him when he bathes, but he is familiar enough with the process to know how to do it himself. His bathtub is in the far right corner of the room, and when he turns towards it with a jug of water, he nearly drops it at the sight of Antinous already nude. 

The man is muscular, which is no surprise with how often he spars against the other suitors; how often he wins. Scars litter his tanned body, and his cock –

Is already curving slightly to one side, half-erect from the simple act of kissing. Telemachus wouldn't put it past him to have also derived some pleasure from threatening him.

Antinous catches him looking and smirks knowingly as he gets into the tub, head craning to follow his every little movement.

Telemachus resolves to not look below Antinous’ waist again and walks over with the water. He knows it’s playing with fire, but before he can think better of it, he upends the full contents of the jug over Antinous’ head.

Antinous’ fingers wrap around his wrist and yank him forward with enough force to send him sprawling halfway across the tub. 

“Careful,” Antinous hisses, looking more like an angry but soaked dog now, his hair falling limply around his face. It’s a better look on him.

Telemachus straightens, pulling his wrist out of Antinous’ grip. “It slipped,” he says, knowing it won’t fool Antinous but unable to put more feeling into it. He snatches the jug and leaves to get more water. Upon his return, he pulls a stool towards the tub and sits down. 

He knows Antinous expects him to attend him no differently than he would be attended himself. He wishes he had the strength to overpower Antinous and drown him in the bath water, but those thoughts will remain a fanciful daydream.

He does not empty this jug over Antinous all at once, but if he is more forceful than is considerate, well, who can blame him? 

“Is this how your servants attend you?” Ah, right. “Is this how you would treat an esteemed guest? Your xenia is sorely lacking.”

“You are not a guest,” Telemachus mutters darkly. “You are an intruder.”

Antinous twists his neck to look at him. “Willing and compliant, boy. I’m getting tired of having to remind you.”

Telemachus shuts his eyes and focuses on his breathing for a few seconds. He can get through this. There is no other choice.

“I’m sorry,” he says tersely, grabbing a cloth to scrub Antinous’ skin, keeping above his waist and eyes never straying further down. It is repulsively intimate, but he soldiers on. He pours water on Antinous’ head, carefully this time, and cards his fingers through the wet strands of hair and massages his scalp. 

He keeps this up until the hot water is ready, and after he has fetched it, he resumes the scrubbing until Antinous, once again, snatches his wrist. 

Both Antinous and the suitors have always been fond of doing that, manhandling him in ways that scantily leave any bruises other than those on his soul as he claws in vain to get out of their grip; impressing upon him time and time again the fear that he won’t be free of them until the day they haul him to the coast and offer him up as a sacrifice to Poseidon.

“Wash me with your hands,” he says lowly, gaze dropping to Telemachus’ throat for a spell. “Don’t be shy.”

Telemachus hangs the cloth on the bathtub’s rim and slides his hands down Antinous’ shoulders; imagines, for a moment, wrapping them around his throat and squeezing until he stops struggling. 

“Will I be your first?” Antinous asks. Telemachus doesn’t deign to answer. “Touch me like you mean it, prince. You’re acting like a chaste woman.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Telemachus asks dryly, grimacing when Antinous pulls his hand down –

To touch his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. Telemachus wilfully keeps his eyes on Antinous’ clavicle, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You promised me eagerness,” Antinous says.

“I also promised to be docile.”

Antinous growls and pulls at him until they’re breathing the same air. “I might stuff your mouth if you keep this behaviour up,” he sneers. “With such a wild tongue, I’m starting to think it would be incredible on my cock.”

Telemachus wraps his palm around Antinous’ cock to hopefully rid his head of thoughts about his mouth anywhere near it. Antinous draws in a sharp breath, but his smile is all teeth. “That’s better. Do you need a man to lead you, boy?”

Antinous’ cock twitches in his grab, warm and thick, and suddenly it occurs to Telemachus that the night will end with it inside him. The thought makes him briefly grip Antinous tighter than must be comfortable, but Antinous fortunately just hisses through his teeth and does not punish him for it.

Instead, he says, “Get in the water.”

Telemachus falters. “It’ll be too tight.” His bathtub is certainly large enough to fit him comfortably, but it was crafted to fit one person. Not two. 

“It will be,” Antinous hums, and offers nothing more. He just watches Telemachus expectantly, one side of his mouth pulled up into a knowing smirk.

Telemachus sucks in a breath. He’ll have to – sit in Antinous’ lap to fit. Still, Antinous did not say anything about him undressing first, so before he can make any such demands, Telemachus unties his sandals and steps out of them, then swings one leg over the tub. He belatedly realises this will have him facing Antinous, but he hesitates for only a split second before he carries on. 

The water is pleasant enough, filling two thirds of the bathtub. He practically straddles Antinous, a leg pressing against each side of the tub, though he made sure to place himself far enough down Antinous’ legs that their cocks won’t risk touching. His half-soaked tunic rides up his legs in a way he ought to have anticipated, but at least Antinous can’t see his crotch even if he can certainly feel his naked flesh on his knees. 

Antinous’ hands come to rest on Telemachus’ hips, his thumbs absentmindedly kneading into his lower back as his eyes rove down his body. 

“You are almost kneeling,” he says, licking his lips and grinning when Telemachus snarls. One of his hands lifts to seize the front of Telemachus’ chiton and yank him down. Telemachus grips the edges of the bathtub tightly as Antinous takes his mouth.

The wine has dulled his senses somewhat, but it doesn’t relieve the tension in his body or quell the nausea in his stomach as he makes himself kiss Antinous back, reminded painfully of his promise to be an eager participant when Antinous’ grip on his hip tightens enough to bruise. 

Antinous releases his tunic to splay his fingers on one of Telemachus’ buttocks and jostle him forward. Telemachus reflexively moves his hands to Antinous’ chest to not collapse on top of him, which still puts him much closer than he wants to be, but Antinous seems to have gotten what he wanted and licks inside Telemachus’ mouth with a pleased hum. 

Antinous’ chest rises rapidly beneath Telemachus’ hands when he finally breaks the kiss. Telemachus hates that his own breathing is more strained than Antinous’, that the simple act of kissing is already affecting him like this. He wishes he could be calm like the depths of the sea and firm like the rocks along the shore. 

“I have a challenge for you,” Antinous murmurs, mouthing along his jaw. Telemachus grunts in answer, craning his neck away from him although it serves only to make the task of mapping his skin easier. “The faster you make me come, the less I’ll hurt you later.”

Telemachus wants nothing more than to pin Antinous with an unflinching glare and declare that not even the threat of pain could make him do such a thing, but the truth is that he is terrified of what Antinous might do to him. If this had just been a simple matter of carnal desire – if Antinous had just shoved him onto the bed the moment he arrived, or against the wall, or, fuck, the damned floor –

If Antinous had just wanted sex from him, this would have been so much easier. Telemachus could have distracted his mind from the assault on his body if Antinous only cared about getting his cock inside Telemachus, but of course Antinous, the quite possibly haughtiest and most heartless of all the suitors, is not here solely to satisfy his carnal desires. 

He has never been shy about his disdain for Telemachus. He was the first of the suitors to approach him, and the first to realise there would be no repercussions for his actions if only he were careful with the way he went about it. No one had gone so far as to physically assault him after the spears, but laying their hands on him (shoving him aside, seizing his wrists, ruffling his hair) was fair game.

Antinous wants to exert his power over him in every way possible. He will not stop until he has been brought to his knees and concedes his defeat at Antinous’ hands. 

With Antinous, it is always about control.

Telemachus does not know how to win this fight. He doesn’t know if he can. Will it be his victory if he suffers the full scale of the hurt Antinous itches to inflict upon him? Will his defiance be enough to deter Antinous or will it simply fuel his determination to break him?

Will it be his victory if he yields and allows himself to derive pleasure from Antinous’ body? Will his genuine eagerness deprive Antinous of his entertainment or will it only serve to spur him on?

He doesn't know if the wine will be enough to help him see past everything wrong about this and actually try to enjoy it.

Will it be enough for him to know that his mother is safe because of his sacrifice? Will that victory suffice?

He fears that no matter how he goes about this, Antinous will twist the aftermath in his favour and Telemachus will still feel violated. He will still hurt and he will still be forced to feel pleasure from something out of his control. 

He sends a wordless prayer to Dionysus (please please please let the wine soon take his mind and relax his body) and puts his hands on Antinous’ chin to draw him into another kiss, parting his lips for Antinous’ exploratory tongue and swallowing the small sound of delight that escapes Antinous.

Antinous wants submission. Eagerness. Participation. 

Telemachus will give it all to him and take everything Antinous doles out whether it be pain or pleasure or both. He will neither be shamed for protecting his mother nor feel guilty for pleasuring and being pleasured by someone who could probably have them murdered in their sleep and see little to no backlash. 

He will not be broken.

His father has been gone for twenty years. For each day that passes, the hope of him ever returning dwindles a little more. He doesn't know when that flare of faith within him flickers out, but he cannot wait any longer for someone else to save them. 

He will get through the night, and tomorrow, he will take the first step towards proving himself worthy of being the son of godlike Odysseus and steadfast Penelope. Ichor runs in his veins, however many times diluted, as does Spartan vermilion. He will find a way to free his mother and himself from the suitors’ reign of terror before they can get it into their heads that the easiest way to the throne is to execute the two people blocking the path.

Antinous breaks into laughter when Telemachus determinedly wraps his hand around his cock. “Oh?” he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Telemachus’ mouth. “Eager, are we? Did you grow up so coddled that the threat of pain is all it takes to encourage you? Men welcome pain, boy.”

“So fuck me until I scream,” Telemachus says, and flicks his wrist.

Antinous’ cock twitches, and he draws in a hissed breath. Telemachus doesn't know how to undo a man, but he knows how to take himself past the edge during desperate nights when he’s pent up from everything and needs release. 

“Is that a challenge?” Antinous asks in a low timbre that should have Telemachus’ hackles rising, danger potent in his tone, but his sense of self-preservation ditched him the moment he decided to play the game.

Or maybe this is liquid courage finally rearing its head. 

“If you want it to.”

Antinous laughs again. “Oh, the little wolf has bite. Let's see how you do. Entertain me.”

His voice still irks. Telemachus figures the easiest way to shut him up is to ensure his mouth is otherwise preoccupied, so he goes in for another kiss. 

Antinous desires power. He wonders if Antinous will reach his climax faster if Telemachus gives a bit of himself, and decides he has nothing to lose by testing the theory and possibly learning what makes Antinous tick.

“Touch me,” he sighs against Antinous’ lips.

He feels Antinous’ smile. “Where, prince?”

He needs more time before he can handle Antinous’ hands anywhere near his private parts, so he says, “My upper body.”

Antinous huffs, amused, but indulges him. His fingers skitter across his back and down his spine, brushing past his hips and stroking his chest. 

“Unmarred beauty,” Antinous says, sounding almost reverential, and Telemachus briefly wonders if he meant to be overheard, but then the world rights itself when the compliment warps into a slight. “A prince untouched by life. Have you ever even held a weapon?”

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

“No scars mar your skin,” Antinous continues, thoughtful. “Perhaps I should do you a favour and give you one so that you will always be reminded of how you gave yourself to me to save your mother.”

It requires a truly herculean amount of strength to not part Antinous’ cock from his balls when he can't seem to resist bringing up his mother, but Telemachus knows it's to get a rise out of him; a test. He does thumb the tip of his cock, knowing the feeling is at best an acquired taste; he is rewarded with another hiss.

“No?” Antinous says, but Telemachus detects a hint of breathlessness that spurs him on more than any threat could have hoped to. “Would you rather I tarnish your skin with scars to remind you of me?”

He catches Antinous’ mouth again, not caring if Antinous figures out his strategy. He does not want to talk of scars when the one on his thigh already serves to remind him of Antinous as well as his own shortcomings, and now is not the time for Antinous to learn about it. He keeps the kiss brief to focus on mouthing along Antinous’ jaw, hoping it will propel him towards his undoing. 

The asshole is probably putting everything into not coming just to draw this out for as long as possible. 

He needs Antinous to find himself in a position of power. He is hesitant to outright provoke him, but in desperate times… 

He digs his teeth into Antinous’ throat, enough to cause a sting but not enough to taste blood, and Antinous’ hand immediately grabs a fistful of his hair to haul him off. He grunts, doggedly meeting Antinous’ flashing eyes. “I thought you liked my bite,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes innocently.

Antinous’ nostrils flare, eyes narrowing in silent contemplation. Trepidation floods him when something shifts in Antinous’ gaze, and then Antinous tugs his head back to expose his throat. 

Telemachus yelps when Antinous bites down, piercing through his flesh, but Antinous’ grip in his hair keeps him in place as he squirms. He squeezes his eyes shut when Antinous’ tongue laps up the blood from the smarting wound.

“Your hand stilled,” Antinous remarks, haughty, so with a pained whimper, Telemachus picks back up because he had indeed stopped stroking Antinous’ cock the moment his teeth sank into him. 

His scalp is starting to sting, Antinous’ grip unyielding, and the attention he is lavishing Telemachus’ neck draws a strangled moan from him.

Antinous’ cock twitches. 

Telemachus pounces on that. Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he stops fighting against Antinous’ grip in favour of baring his throat further. He arches his spine, encouraging him with small whines whenever his tongue passes the wound, and stomps down the mortification that rears itself when his ballsack presses against Antinous’ thigh with the forward shift of his hips. 

Antinous utters a low growling noise that sounds like it’s coming straight from the depths of his chest and presses his palm to Telemachus’ lower back. It is slightly uncomfortable, his bits squeezed between himself and Antinous. His cock is stirring, ever so slightly, so he promptly vows to himself that whatever happens to arouse him will be forgiven by his guilty conscience and banished to the far reaches of his memory until he forgets.

His legs are aching somewhat, the position on Antinous’ lap not a particularly comfortable one when he doesn’t want to make it so, so he needs to put more effort into coaxing Antinous over the edge. He has an inkling as to what Antinous likes from him, but he’s limited with the space he has to work with. Even if he wanted to, he can’t put his mouth on Antinous’ cock. 

He can, however, put it elsewhere, if Antinous would stop obsessing about his claim on his neck for just two seconds. At least the water makes the slide of his palm on Antinous’ cock easy; he teases the sensitive flesh with his nails, a mere negligent pressure, and categorises the grunt from Antinous as a good one.

He puts one hand on Antinous’ shoulder and pushes him back against the tub, the bite wound stinging from Antinous’ treatment. He follows him forward, twisting his fingers into the hair at the back of his head and putting his lips to his collarbone. He strokes Antinous’ cock relentlessly as he sucks his skin between his teeth to tease at it, peppering kisses all over his upper chest. 

“Eager for my spent to coat your hands?” Antinous whispers, but he’s noticeably straining to control his breathing and his hips twitch as though he can’t decide whether to thrust into Telemachus’ hand or continue to let him do all the work. He must be getting close. Telemachus has no sense of how much time has passed – five minutes? Fifteen? – or what Antinous considers sufficiently fast, or if this is simply another method of torture meant to chip away at Telemachus’ resolve.

Antinous wields the power tonight, and he gets off on exploiting that. Telemachus could’ve made him spill within the first minute of this challenge, but if Antinous decided it wasn’t fast enough, there was nothing Telemachus could do about it. 

Antinous tips his head backwards with a guttural groan. “Gods, by the time I’m buried inside you, my seed trickling out of your ass…”

That does it. His cock pulsates, and then hot spent spurts across Telemachus’ hand and his chiton and into the water. He strokes him through it, knowing it will quickly become almost painful, and he wants Antinous to hurt.

“Enough,” Antinous soon growls, seizing his hands. His eyes shimmer from gratification, but his cock is still half-hard. Telemachus swallows dryly. “Clean me up, why don’t you?”

Telemachus gets out of the bath, wishing he could replace the wet tunic with a dry one but knowing it’s no use. He’d rather endure the uncomfortable way the fabric clings to his skin than undress before he’s told to. 

The hot water has cooled somewhat in the time it took Telemachus to make Antinous come, so it’s lukewarm when he pours it over Antinous and scrubs at his skin, wilfully ignoring the residue of spent in the bathwater. He dries Antinous with towels and fetches the jar of oil to anoint him before Antinous can demand it. 

He might as well get it over with.

Antinous stands still while he rubs the oil into his skin, his unwavering stare coaxing a shiver from him when he catches his eyes and glimpses the whirlpools within them that will sweep him under if he isn’t careful.

He scrapes off the excess oil with the strigil and backs off when he’s done. Antinous hums and dips two fingers into the jar. They come out glistening with oil, and then he steps back into Telemachus’ orbit. 

“This is your reward,” he says, his smile one of dark amusement. 

Telemachus frowns, eyeing Antinous’ fingers suspiciously. “Oil?”

“Had you taken too long,” Antinous murmurs, throwing an arm around Telemachus to pull up in his chiton until his rear is exposed to the chill air, “I would have fucked you without it.” His palm kneads at Telemachus’ buttocks, fingers sliding between the cleft of his ass, and it takes everything in him to stay still. 

His heart might burst free from his chest, but this is how the night was always meant to end. He has no other choice but to let it happen.

Antinous’ oiled up fingers join his other hand on his ass, nudging the rim of his hole, and he gulps in a hissed breath when Antinous slips one finger inside him.

“Such a tight ass,” Antinous says, grinning wickedly. Then he suddenly withdraws, leaving Telemachus confused and clenching around nothing. He snatches one of the used cloths to wipe off the oil as he says, “Your reward, boy, is fucking yourself with your fingers until you think you are ready to take me.”

Oh.

Antinous tuts. “Get out of that soaked chiton,” he says. “Bend over the bathtub, and make sure the oil is within reach.” He laughs when Telemachus hesitates, stare wavering. “Unless… Do you want me to wreck your ass, little wolf? I might tear something. You won't be able to think through the pain, but perhaps that is what you want? I will deny you the escape of insobriety, but I will oblige you if pain is what you desire.”

“No,” Telemachus whispers, willing himself to move. He unclasps the pins at his shoulder. “No, I'll… I'll do it.”

He shrugs it off, the fabric pooling at his feet. He steps over it to grab the jar and dips his fingers into it, faintly recalling that more is better, and determinedly ignores Antinous’ stare scorching his naked skin as he approaches the bathtub. 

He hasn't touched himself before like this. He knows vaguely what to do and what to expect, but it'll be awkward and Antinous is going to be insufferable as he gets to enjoy every excruciating second. 

He dithers at the tub for a moment, but then he decides that he would rather not watch Antinous watch him as he fingers himself open for his cock, so with his back to Antinous, he puts the jar at his feet and bends over the tub, his forearm on the furthest edge to support his weight. The rim digs into his hips, but that discomfort will likely give way for pain.

He breathes through his nose, bracing himself, and then he bites down on his lip and nudges two fingers inside himself.

It is awkward, and it is terrible, and it hurts. Still, any pain he inflicts on himself is nothing compared to what Antinous might do, and he has no interest in drawing this out any longer than strictly necessary. He doesn't mind a bit of pain, but the thought of seeking out the physician tomorrow because Antinous tore something inside his ass horrifies him, so he needs to be loose enough that it won't be necessary. 

He doesn't bother being gentle, hissing through his teeth as he spears himself on his fingers. The wine has loosened the tension in his muscles somewhat, but he doesn't think anything but oblivion can make this bearable.

He's convinced of this until he's three fingers deep and he grazes something that makes his knees buckle, catching himself just in time on the edge as he slaps a hand over his mouth to strangle the high keening noise he's making.

He had somehow almost managed to forget Antinous’ presence, but he now looms over him, fingers wrapping possessively around his neck.

“Fuck,” Antinous snarls, “you look like a whore like this. Don't stop.”

“No,” Telemachus stutters, mortified. “It's enough, I'm – ready –”

“Don't. Stop.”

Telemachus whimpers, but before he can move, Antinous has seized his wrist and does it for him. He wails at the intrusion, Antinous leading Telemachus’ fingers. He squeezes his neck in warning when Telemachus recoils, and the reminder of his choice to play into Antinous’ hands makes him want to curl up until he withers away.

He can do it. He will do it. He must do it.

Antinous releases his wrist when he trusts him to keep at it without help, but he’s still gripping his neck tightly. 

There's a strange lull; a sense of foreboding, and then Antinous is plunging his head underwater. He jolts, terror seizing his body even as he fights to rein it in because he knows Antinous isn't looking to drown him. This is just Antinous’ particular brand of cruelty, and he will take it like he promised although the primal instinct to fight makes it near impossible to think around the panic as the lack of air quickly turns dire without having had a chance to fill his lungs first.

He grows less certain by the second as Antinous keeps him under. He writhes, clinging to the edges of the bathtub, desperate for Antinous to remember that he needs to breathe, but Antinous does not care; he only tightens his grip as dark spots appear in his vision.

Then his fingers disappear from Telemachus’ neck to instead bury into his hair. Antinous hauls him up, and Telemachus’ chest constricts as he heaves and hacks up water. 

Antinous’ mouth presses against his ear. “This time,” he whispers, “you take a deep breath, and you don’t cease until I bring you back up. Do you understand?”

Telemachus burns with hatred, but he manages a rough, “Yes.”

“Your fingers,” Antinous chides. Telemachus groans and shifts to only hold onto the bath with one hand. He pushes his fingers back inside as he draws several shallow breaths, residues of panic still clinging to him as he struggles to brace for another dip. When Antinous’ grip tightens in warning, he sucks in a last breath before Antinous dunks him again.

He is unable to stop his muscles from seizing up out of fear for his life, his mind screaming at him to fight, but instead he thinks only of thrusting his fingers. He almost prays for Antinous’ cock to take their place if it only means he can breathe.

Antinous keeps him submerged until his sight flickers again; until his lungs burn and he begins to struggle out of pure instinct. He mindlessly thrusts his fingers still, terrified of what Antinous might do if he fails to comply, but his strength slowly seeps out of him. 

When Antinous brings him up for air, he sputters and chokes. He might be crying, too, but he can’t honestly tell. 

Antinous hauls him to his feet, and then into his arms when he stumbles from a wave of dizziness that could be due to the wine or the near-drowning. Maybe even both. He’s not really aware of where Antinous takes him, but when he’s put down, he finds himself on his knees with Antinous sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him.

He’s on his knees. 

Antinous’ hands on his shoulders push him down.

“Stay,” Antinous growls, which is bitterly ironic when he’s the one treating Telemachus like a dog, “or I’ll fetch a dagger and shove it up your ass.”

Telemachus is still trying to catch his breath, but he can glower at Antinous just fine even as he stays put, knowing that now is not the time to test him. 

Antinous is grinning, and he chucks Telemachus under the chin. “This is where you belong. On your knees between my legs, ready to do whatever I ask of you. You will treat me like a king.”

Telemachus bristles. “You are no king,” he snarls.

Antinous cradles Telemachus’ face between his hands and hauls him closer, Telemachus catching himself with his palms on Antinous’ thighs. “Yet,” Antinous says, dark promises in his eyes. “Will you yield once I am king, or will you lay down your life at my feet?”

Telemachus is forcefully reminded of his determination to chase the suitors out of his home. He glares, digging his nails into Antinous’ flesh, and says, “You will never be king. You can hurt me and fuck me – do whatever you want to me – but if there’s one thing I will make certain of while I still live, it is that you never take the throne.”

Antinous laughs. “So you choose death.” 

“I would rather condemn my soul to wander the shores of Styx for all of eternity than see you on my father’s throne.”

“Brave words from a boy who knows nothing of the world,” Antinous says, brushing his thumb across Telemachus’ cheekbone. “I will teach you, and then I will ask you once more. If you still choose death over being mine, I will grant it to you.” He draws Telemachus in for a fleeting kiss. “Let’s put that steadfast resolve of yours to the test.”

He leans back on one hand, but buries the other in Telemachus’ hair. He watches Telemachus as though he’s nothing more than an amusing pet he indulges from time to time. Telemachus looks back, hesitant, so Antinous grins. “Your mouth, boy. I want to feel it around my cock before I take your ass.”

Telemachus swallows and eyes Antinous’ cock, fully erect and curving proudly towards his stomach. 

He’s so close to the end of tonight. He can finish this, and then…

He takes Antinous into his mouth, gagging at the feeling and the taste. He latches onto Antinous’ thighs and swallows him down as far as he can go, which isn’t far before he starts to choke. Antinous pulls him off and cards his fingers through his hair as he coughs. 

“Careful,” he croons. “Relax your jaw and breathe through your nose. Try again.”

Telemachus puts his mouth on him again, billowing out his cheeks and focusing on doing exactly as Antinous said, which helps somewhat. He still gags before he’s even swallowing two thirds of Antinous’ cock – he worries briefly about later, when Antinous breaches him, because if his mouth can’t take him – 

“Better,” Antinous hums, pulling him off again and letting him cough before guiding him back down. “Curious, isn’t it, how your mouth seems better served around my cock than anywhere else.”

Telemachus growls around him, but it only makes Antinous sigh blissfully. 

“Such a pretty view,” he murmurs. “On your knees, mouth stuffed with my cock.” He pushes Telemachus down to swallow more of him, heedless of his gagging or the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. “Stay there. You have a tongue, and I know you know how to use it.”

Telemachus breathes deeply, calming himself, and presses his tongue to Antinous’ cock. He hollows his cheeks and sucks, gags once more, and then Antinous pulls him away again.

“Last time,” he says. “Lick first, then swallow.”

Telemachus licks a long stripe up the length of his cock, mouths at the tip, and then he swallows him down again. Antinous moans softly and keeps him down with a steadying weight on his shoulder. He plays with his hair, the wet locks sticking to his face, and puts his thumb on his upper lip.

“Look at me.”

Telemachus looks up through his eyelashes, and Antinous’ eyes darken at the sight like the sky when a storm is brewing in the distance. 

“Shame you're a boy,” he mutters, pulling Telemachus off him and manhandling him onto the bed on his back; Telemachus struggles at first until he remembers not to. “Your mother is too old to bear a child, but had you been born a woman… I would have taken you as my wife instead.”

“Please,” Telemachus says, realising it's the first time he uses the word today when Antinous’ pupils dilate, “shut up about my mother.”

“I will,” Antinous says, “if you welcome me like a woman would her husband.”

Telemachus doesn’t know what that even means, but he pushes himself up against the backrest to be as comfortable as he can possibly get. Antinous is kneeling at his side, so he parts his legs to hook his ankles around his back and urges him closer. He refuses to feel a shred of shame at the way Antinous ogles his crotch, drinking in the sight of his naked body until he suddenly pauses to squint at something.

Telemachus knows what he has discovered before he leans forward to trail his fingertips across the scar on Telemachus’ thigh. He jerks at the touch despite having ample time to prepare for it, but it is still so intimate and gods, he wishes Antinous weren’t seeing him like this.

“The spear,” Antinous wonders out loud. “I already tainted you.”

“Yes,” Telemachus says through clenched teeth, deeply unsettled at just how fascinated Antinous is; he touches the scar with a reverence usually reserved for an exquisite artefact or a cherished possession, but the ramification of Telemachus’ scarred body being anything like that to Antinous is… terrifying.

He doesn’t catch the whimper in time to muffle it when Antinous stops admiring the scar in favour of circling his asshole with a probing finger. He briefly fondles his balls, weighing them in his hands, and then he moves on to his flaccid cock.

“Do you want pleasure?” Antinous asks.

“I don’t care,” Telemachus says, wishing he would sound as sure as he feels but unable to keep his voice from quivering as Antinous runs his fingers up and down his length.

“Oh, but I do,” says Antinous. “The others would care naught for your pleasure, but I have every intention of showing you how much better it will be for you to yield. I want you undone beneath me until you can no longer touch yourself without thinking of me.”

All Telemachus feels is revulsion and a strong urge to kick Antinous in the face. For someone who never passes up the chance to talk about Telemachus’ mouthiness, Antinous seemingly never tires of hearing his own voice. 

“Shut up and fuck me,” Telemachus groans. The sooner Antinous is sated, the better for his sanity. 

Antinous laughs. “If you insist.”

He hooks his arms under Telemachus’ knees and pulls him down until his backside bumps against Antinous’ pelvis, startling a yelp from him. He has only a moment to steel himself, grasping at the remaining wisps of courage within his heart, and then something blunt is prodding his hole, gently pushing past the rim, and with one final thrust, Antinous sheathes himself fully inside.

Antinous does not hold back the groan that escapes him, but Telemachus clamps a hand over his mouth to trap his own noise behind his teeth. 

Gods, it is overwhelming to have Antinous inside him. He reflexively clenches around him and loathes the way it throbs in answer, each twitch impossible to ignore. He shifts on his butt, feeling too full, and hisses when the movement merely jostles the cock inside him. There’s a faint burning sensation from the stretch, but it hurts less than he expected. He blames the wine and himself for that, and then wonders if pain would have been preferable to – this. 

“Fuck, you’re tighter than a damned woman,” Antinous growls. Telemachus feebly shoves at his chest and then whimpers when Antinous withdraws to the tip only to thrust back inside in retaliation. He digs his nails into the skin on Antinous’ arms instead, needing something, anything, to anchor himself. “You take me so well, little prince, one would think your one purpose in life is this, on your back for me.”

Telemachus opens his eyes – when did he close them? – to glare up at him. “Shut up.”

“Or what, champ?” Antinous grins, setting a frankly torturous pace that has Telemachus digging his heels into the bed, unable to find a position that doesn’t force him to feel each damning slide of Antinous’ cock. He is going so slow, undoubtedly relishing the sight of Telemachus squirming under him with each deep thrust. “What will you do, hm? All you do is yap. Admit that you were never destined for greatness, that you were never meant to lead, and life will be easier for you. Yield.”

“Shut up. Shut up,” Telemachus moans.

Why is he so distressingly slow? Why isn’t he fucking him like the brute he is? Telemachus knows he’s able to, knows he wants to, so why not?

“I am yielding,” he sobs. “What more do you want?”

Antinous hits the spot that Telemachus happened upon earlier, in the bathtub, but it’s so much worse – better; he wants to disintegrate – this time; his back arches off the bed with a wail, awful pleasure coursing through him. His cock stirs to life, and he doesn’t want this, but he knows, he knows, he cannot fight it. 

He knows trying will only make him feel rotten.

“This is a mere pretence,” Antinous says lowly. Telemachus’ breath shudders out of him when Antinous pushes into him again and then stays, too much and somehow not enough and Telemachus needs him to either move or drop dead. “For a boy who grew up pampered and sheltered, far removed from the brutalities of life, you are such a haughty brat. Pride does not suit you. You have so much faith in a dead father and too much trust in a mother who whiles away the days guilefully weaving a shroud that will never be finished.” He sneers, withdrawing his cock only to send it plunging back and ripping a strangled groan out of him. “Will it, little prince?”

“I never asked for this!” Telemachus cries, so tired of being belittled and mocked and blamed for something that isn’t his fault. “I want to be – strong, and I want to prove myself to all you assholes –” 

He maybe shouldn’t spill his heart to Antinous, come to think of it, but it’s too late.

Antinous is already wearing him down, and he’s doing it so effortlessly without drawing even a drop of blood. Telemachus thought he had been prepared, but oh, how terribly, frighteningly wrong he was.

“Why do you hate me?” he demands, but it sounds more like he’s begging. He is perched at a chasm and about to take that last step over the edge, tears pricking at his eyes and gods, no, why is he crying? “You have done nothing but deprecate me since you arrived, insulting me and pushing me around at every given opportunity. Why couldn’t you have helped me instead? Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

Antinous wipes a thumb across his cheek, catching an errant tear on the fingertip. “You will never amount to anything,” he says softly. Telemachus looks away, unable to meet his eyes with how his heart aches. “You will never be strong. You will never lead. I am helping you by teaching you how and when to yield. If you get it into your head that fighting is going to save you and your mother, you will die. Not even divine intervention would make you last long enough to make a difference.”

He presses a kiss to Telemachus’ lips, wringing a sob out of him. “You cannot win a war on your own, boy,” he whispers. “You will fail, and then you will fall.”

“Why am I on my own?” Telemachus weeps. “Why am I always alone?”

Antinous shushes him and kneads his hip soothingly. “Legends are written about men. They are strong, and they are shrewd, and they are aided by the gods. Your father was all of this, but where is he now? Your mother, as well, but she has chosen to waste away in her room. The war ended ten years ago, prince. Without a father, and with a mother who cries herself to sleep at night waiting for a man who will never return instead of being strong for her kingdom – is it any wonder you are unloved?”

Telemachus covers his face with his arms, trying and failing – always failing failing failing – to muffle his sobbing.

Antinous is a liar. He is a brute. He is manipulative, he is cruel, he is vile, he resorts to intimidation and violence when he doesn’t get what he wants –

So then why are his words striking a chord?

Antinous ceased his thrusting the moment Telemachus broke into tears, but now he cants his hips and picks back up. He’s still going leisurely, but there’s intent in every thrust now, his cock taking Telemachus apart piece by miserable piece. 

“Yield,” Antinous grunts, seizing his wrists and pinning them above his head, entwining their fingers, “and you won’t be alone.”

“No,” Telemachus whimpers, shaking his head vigorously and squeezing his eyes shut.

He keens when Antinous hits the spot again, like he’s purposefully aiming for it. “Yesterday’s choice to lie with me is only the first of many such choices you must make.”

Telemachus writhes beneath him, struggling against his grip. “No.” 

“Do not fight a war you cannot win,” Antinous hisses, picking up the pace. “Give your mind and your body to me, and I will protect you. Concede the throne, and I will protect Ithaca. I have the approval and backing that you lack and the respect from men you will never have. Learn to play the game the only way you can, and maybe I will come to respect you, too.”

“No.”

Antinous hauls him to his knees, the sudden movement shifting the cock inside him as he cries out. With a hand on his lower back and another on his neck, Antinous manhandles him into the position he desires, with his thighs resting atop Antinous’ and his cock trapped between their bodies. Antinous rams into him from this new angle, and Telemachus grips onto his shoulders and stifles his lewd moan into Antinous’ throat. 

“Move,” Antinous whispers, a cruel reminder of Telemachus’ promise. He pulls Telemachus’ head far enough back that their eyes lock, unwilling to let him hide away. “Yield.”

Reluctantly, Telemachus lifts his hips and meets Antinous’ thrusts when he sinks back down, quivering and groaning for each one. He leans in to catch Antinous’ mouth, telling himself it’s to make Antinous stop talking, but the tears that spill over and burn a trail down his cheeks makes him second-guess himself in a way he wishes he wouldn’t.

It’s the wine. Blame the wine. Blame Antinous and the wine and his mother –

No. No no no. Never his mother. She doesn’t even know what he has done, what he’s doing, because if she had learned of his deal with Antinous in time to stop him, she would have pleaded with him to take it back. She would have demanded to face the suitors on her own, damned be the consequences. She would have never wanted him to take it upon himself, but how could he not?

What can he do, for her or himself or anyone, if not this one small thing? 

He doesn’t realise Antinous is coming until the distinct warmth of his spent fills his insides. Antinous is groaning, thrusting wantonly into him to milk his pleasure for every drop, so Telemachus just clings to him and whimpers, feeling strangely unmoored to himself.

Antinous lets him flop back onto the bed when he’s sated, sweat clinging to his hairline and chest. Telemachus is breathing hard, oddly bereft now that his ass clenches around nothing but air, but then Antinous’ hand is on his erection and he’s panting in no time.

“I promised to make you feel good,” Antinous says, chest heaving from exertion, but his eyes are gleaming. Telemachus tries to curl away from him, but Antinous is having none of it. “I did not hurt you tonight –” he conveniently forgets about the near-drowning, but Telemachus is too strung-up to point that out – “nor did I make you scream. I took pleasure, and now I will reward you for being good. Afterwards, I shall allow you some time to think about your next choice. If you remain stubborn, I will make you bleed next time until you’re begging for pleasure instead.”

Yes. Something for Telemachus to desperately latch onto; a reminder of who Antinous is and the reason he is here, now. Except –

“No,” he moans, unable – unwilling? No no no – to stop Antinous as he deftly fans the already burning embers in his gut, the pleasure building with each merciless stroke and curl of his fingers inside his ass. “No, it was one time –”

“Ah, there it is.” Antinous’ laughter is just as cruel as his hands. “That childish naïvity. The world does not reward you for being good; I do. It rewards you for tenacity and strength, for understanding the role the Moirai chose for you. 

“I held off the suitors this time, but when they get restless again, and I dare wager that will happen sooner rather than later, you will have to convince me once more to sway them into staying away from your mother. And you.”

With another flick of his wrist timed perfectly with his finger striking that spot, Telemachus is sobbing and spilling into Antinous’ palm. He watches through his tears Antinous lick it off his hand, eyes malicious, and he says, “I know my lot in life; my destiny. Do you know yours, prince?”

Telemachus averts his eyes, swatting away Antinous’ hands and curling into himself, wincing when the bite wound stings from the stretch. He feels the bed give under Antinous’ weight as he moves off it, feels his heat when he returns but from the side this time. Antinous strokes his hair, wet from water and sweat now.

“I think you do,” he says quietly. “You know where to find me when you are ready.”

Telemachus weeps, paying no heed to Antinous as he shuffles around in search of his clothes. He returns to Telemachus’ side one more time to tenderly run his fingers up his arm and press a burning kiss to his shoulder, leaving at last with a whispered rest well, pet. 

He cries until the tears dry up, feeling boneless and empty, used and abused. He searches desperately for the defiance he clung to earlier, the faith in his ability to see this through without losing himself.

He needs… He just needs time to unwind, to come to terms with what has happened; to get his bearings and regain a sense of control to not shatter under the weight of everything. His edges are cracked, sure, but he’ll be fine. 

Antinous is a liar. A manipulative bastard. 

Telemachus can endure this for however long he must while he figures out how best to deal with the suitors. He just needs time to scheme and strategise.

He can do this.

He shifts, wincing at the soreness in his body and the ache in his rear, but it’s the feeling of Antinous’ seed between his leg and the marked lack of blood and violence that breaks him again, sobs wrenched from his chest as he hides his face in his trembling hands.

He’s so dizzy, the wine hitting him hard now that all the tension has seeped out of him. If he wakes up tomorrow with a throbbing headache and an unsettled stomach, he vows to never have another sip of wine; not a single one.

He should have emptied the damned pitcher before Antinous got to him.