Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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When Telemachus had challenged Antinous to a wrestling match, he didn't really think about the consequences. He was blinded by his anger as the man dared to disrespect his family yet again. Well, it didn't take him so long to realize what he got himself into when he saw the devilish grin on the man's face. Still, backing off wasn't an option; no, he wouldn't let the suitor think that he was scared of him. That would only grant him permission to cross the lines again and again. However, Antinous was much sharper than Telemachus gave him credit for. Acting like he couldn't care less, his grin twisted into a mockery.

"As tempting as it is to beat the shit out of you in front of everyone, prince Telemachus..." He started, voice dripping with sarcasm. A deep, low chuckle resonated in his chest.

"I don't need an occasion to do that, do I? So tell me, little wolf, what's in it for me to accept your little challenge? Because I don't see how this will benefit me."

Telemachus was left speechless for a few moments. He had never doubted that the man would jump at such an opportunity. It took him only seconds more to realize what Antinous was implying.

"A wager..." he whispered, almost to himself. The satisfaction on the other's face confirmed his assumption.

"I have to admit, you're catching on faster than I expected."

"Just spit it out already. What do you want?" His words came out impatient, not even slightly amused by the trap he had been lured into.

"Hmmm... let me think." Antinous pretended to weigh his options, fingers resting on his chin, brows furrowed as if he were truly considering it. Telemachus only rolled his eyes.

"So...?" He raised an eyebrow, his short fuse already burning.

"Short-tempered, I see," Antinous mused. Telemachus sighed and averted his gaze—only to regret it immediately.

The next thing he felt was the suitor’s presence invading his personal space.

"Didn't know I was that charming—I stole your breath away," Antinous teased, making Telemachus realize he had been holding his breath. "I will NOT speak favorably of you to my mother."

Telemachus took a step back, creating some space between them. It didn’t last long.

"Actually, that’s not what I had in mind."

Antinous didn’t hesitate to close the distance again. For a brief moment, the smirk on his face faded, replaced by something unreadable as he studied the prince. His expression was neutral—too neutral.

Then, his grin returned, sharp as a blade.

"After I finish giving you another harsh lesson in the courtyard..." He leaned in, voice dropping into a low murmur. "You’ll be mine."

The sound of Telemachus’ hitched breath was satisfying.

"For a week," Antinous added, watching with delight as the prince’s eyes went wide.

"W-what?"

Telemachus’ mind was suddenly out of reach. The hand that brushed against his waist jolted him back to reality, and he pressed both palms against the solid wall of muscle before him, shoving the man away. He wasn’t even sure if he had actually moved Antinous or if the suitor had simply stepped back of his own accord.

"What do you mean by that?" he finally managed to ask.

Antinous only shrugged lazily.

"You’ll do as I say, whenever I say it. A proper little servant."

Telemachus wasn’t sure how Antinous could say something so degrading in such a casual tone, but it only made his blood boil more.

"Unless..." The suitor tilted his head, smirk widening. "The prince of Ithaca already knows he stands no chance against me."

"Not if the gods themselves willed it," he spat, his face a mix of disbelief and disgust. He turned sharply, aiming to leave the corridor.

"Suddenly getting cold feet, little prince? I always knew you lacked bravery, but this... this is astonishing."

"What did you say?!" His head snapped back so fast it nearly hurt. He didn’t bother hiding his outrage, which only earned him an amused chuckle from the suitor.

"I said you're a coward," Antinous repeated, slow and deliberate.

Telemachus’ jaw tightened. The idea of being at Antinous’ mercy for a whole week was unnerving, but backing out now would be humiliating. He knew he’d regret this—unless, by some stroke of luck, he actually won.

Fine. If he was going to risk his dignity, he was going to make it worth it.

"Fine. But if I win, you withdraw your suit to my mother and leave."

A burst of maniacal laughter filled the space, echoing off the stone walls. It took a while for Antinous to regain control, his chuckles tapering off as he wiped away the lingering tears. When he finally straightened, his expression was one of pure entertainment.

"It's a deal then, little wolf."

He extended his hand, waiting.

Telemachus hesitated, a flicker of unease creeping in. But he refused to let it show. Swallowing down his doubts, he reached out and grasped the suitor’s hand.

"Deal," he muttered.

A chorus of warning sirens blared in Telemachus' head the moment his back slammed against the ground. Antinous' weight bore down on him, arms locked around his torso, trapping him. He bucked and twisted, but it was useless—he couldn’t create even the smallest gap to slip through.

Warm breath ghosted over his neck. Antinous was there. He tried to shrink away, his body recoiling from the unwanted closeness.

Then, the pressure tightened.

A pained gasp left his throat. He could swear Antinous' intention was to crush his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his vision blurred. Another sharp cry escaped his lips. If the suitor squeezed any harder, he was sure his ribs would break.

Desperation overrode pride. His free hand flailed blindly before tapping—weakly, barely reaching the man's back.

A clear signal of surrender.

The arms wrapped around him loosened, now resembling more of an embrace. Antinous lifted his head, staring down at the panting mess beneath him. His body was covered in dust and sweat, just like Telemachus.

A hand brushed against the prince’s forehead, sweeping damp strands of hair away. His gaze held a deep thoughtfulness, his mind—no doubt—already plotting ways to humiliate him over the next seven days, Telemachus assumed. But maybe he was wrong. For once, Antinous actually seemed… confused.

He watched as the suitor slowly shifted, his face unreadable again.

Telemachus had braced himself for mockery, for that insufferable, cocky grin—but this? This was new.

Then, without another word, Antinous stood, his back to him, and began to walk away. Just before disappearing from view, he lifted a hand in a lazy wave, as if he were certain the boy was still watching.

"On your feet, little wolf. Your week of servitude starts tomorrow—let’s see how well a prince obeys."

The words dripped with mockery, yet something in his tone was off. It made Telemachus’ brain malfunction all over again.

Chapter Text

Telemachus wasn't ignoring Antinous. No. He convinced himself. He was simply busy. A prince has his duties to take care of, after all. So he wasn’t hiding in his private quarters—he was actually doing royal duties. Like trying to figure out what would happen if he left his chamber.

He didn’t need food, duh. Actually, it was time his body got used to fasting. Sailing to lands unknown, he might not always be able to find something to eat, so he had to be prepared for the day he finally left the palace and started his own adventures.

So he was just going to spend the rest of the day—ahem, the week—locked in here, away from everyone else, especially a certain suitor called Antinous. He almost swore the man would break into his room at any moment, but nothing happened. Everything was quiet—more quiet than usual, if he had to be honest.

Well, it’s not like he was in any condition to resume his training. His body didn’t fail to remind him of the blow he took the previous day.

He cursed. Suddenly, the realization hit him—despite his decision to spend his days in his bedroom for gods know how long, he still had to check on his mother, as they had already scheduled a catch-up for the afternoon. It wouldn’t hurt if he went early, though. The suitors were probably still busy feeding by now, treating each meal as a feast.

He just needed to move swiftly—back and forth to his mother’s quarters.

Well… things didn’t go as planned, it seemed. The moment he opened the door, his gaze immediately caught a familiar angry face. Telemachus wasn’t sure he remembered how to breathe—or to move—since he just stood there frozen, staring at the man who didn’t look pleased in the slightest.

He parted his lips, then clamped them shut, unsure if he could utter something that wouldn’t make the suitor even more pissed off.

Antinous stepped closer, and Telemachus started calculating whether he could manage to crawl back inside—but the hand resting on the doorframe blocked that thought.

“You dare call yourself a man when you can’t even accept your defeat and keep your word?”

No chuckles followed, no smirks or teasing expressions.

Telemachus swallowed.

His pride was wounded—by the words and by the fact that he almost started shaking under the suitor’s terrifying gaze.

“So, what do you say? Will you come out, little prince, or are we going to spend some quality time in your room—behind closed doors?”

Telemachus wasn’t stupid. Okay, scratch that—he wouldn’t have dared to challenge the man in the first place if at least half of his brain cells were functioning. But at least he realized that staying inside with Antinous—alone—might be worse. Away from prying eyes, Antinous had all the power, with no one to stop him. And Telemachus wasn’t sure how far the man was willing to go. But stepping outside was a problem on its own. It would mean facing the suitors, showing weakness in front of them. Did he really want to be at Antinous’ mercy, humiliated and degraded where everyone could see?

But look on the bright side, Telemachus! At least you'll stay alive. You can't protect your mother if you're a dead body. He had to stay beside her no matter what. And with that, the little voice in his head finally convinced him of the choice he had to make.

Telemachus summoned all his courage, collecting himself.

“Move aside,” he muttered, watching as Antinous raised an eyebrow, hesitating for a second as if worried the boy would rush back inside if he wasn't there to block the door.

He pulled away, though, his face slightly relaxing as Telemachus inched closer.

“Just get it over with alr—”

Before he could finish, a hand yanked his hair, jerking his head back. A sharp gasp left Telemachus’ lips.

Instinctively, his hands flew up to grab the suitor’s wrist, trying his best to stop him from damaging his scalp any further, only for Antinous to tighten his grip.

“Tsk. That’s no way to speak to your master, little prince.”

His smug face, his taunting tone… they were all back.

Telemachus’ glare burned hot, his nails digging into the man’s flesh—only to hear a low chuckle.

“What are you? A woman?”

Antinous finally let go of his abused strands. Only seconds of freedom before he shoved him against the wall, chest pressed against the cold stone. And without warning, a heavy slap landed on his lower half.

He couldn’t help but let out a yelp, earning an amused laugh from the man behind him. The suitor used only one hand to hold both his wrists firmly above his head. He hated how much bigger they were compared to his, always reminding him of the size difference. 

Another slap. Another yelp.

His covered bottom burned beneath the man’s touch. His face wasn’t any better—though it was another kind of burning. Different shades of red crept up his skin as he struggled to gather his words.

“Apologize.”

The whispered command tickled his ear. Too close—again.

Another slap, and Telemachus lost the ability to think properly. Damn, the suitor’s hands were no joke. It hurt. He only shook his head, earning a sigh from the man.

"Is that how it's going to be, little wolf? You really want to test me? Do I need to teach you some manners in front of the others? Is that what you want—an audience? Because if you won’t listen here, I wonder how well you’ll obey with all the suitors watching you bent over and spanked."

The prince’s body tensed. His breath hitched. His pupils dilated.

“Y-you wouldn’t dare.”

He tried to sound firm, but the words came out weak. Uncertain.

Antinous clicked his tongue.

“Wrong answer, little prince. You’re mine, and I can do whatever I want.”

A fresh series of spanks followed, and Telemachus fought the urge to let the tears gathered in his eyes spill.

But the little voice in his head returned, helping him think. He hated looking pathetic—but looking pathetic in front of Antinous alone, despite how much he despised the man, was still better than being treated this way in front of the others. If they saw him like this, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t continue even when the week was over.

"I... I'm sorry."

The slaps stopped.

“What was that, little wolf? Speak up.”

Gods, how much he wanted to murder him.

"I shouldn’t have acted like that. Please, forgive me."

The suitor hummed—almost satisfied. Almost.

“Say it, little wolf. Tell me you’re my obedient servant, and that you’ll do whatever I command.”

His hand lingered, fingers massaging the tender flesh—admiring even.

Did Telemachus say he wanted to stay alive? Now he wanted to die. A wish Antinous wasn’t going to grant.

Defeated, his body trembled, as if rejecting the words before he even spoke them.

“I’m… your obedient servant. I will do as you say… happy?”

“This will do—for now.”

The man let go of him. Telemachus didn’t need to look to know what kind of ugly smirk was plastered on his face.

When the prince begged Antinous to let him check on his mother first, he saw no reason to deny him. In fact, it was for his own benefit—he wouldn’t want the woman worrying and coming to look for her son, ruining whatever pleasure he intended to take.

So here he was, waiting in the dining hall where he told the boy to meet him. The kid wasn’t smart, but he wasn’t stupid enough to hide from him again. Antinous had made sure he understood the consequences.

Still, what really occupied his mind wasn’t whether the prince would return—but the little problem he’d had yesterday. Not that it was actually little, but fortunately, Telemachus hadn't seemed to notice.

Not once had his gaze flickered downward, not once had he given any indication that he felt anything pressing against him. Maybe he was too preoccupied with his own misery. Or maybe the pain had numbed him too much to even register it.

Either way, it was a relief.

Not that it mattered. If he had noticed, Antinous would have simply turned the tables on him, claiming that his pathetic whines—too much like a woman’s—were to blame.

Whatever the real reason was, Antinous didn't want to think about it.

He didn't want to think that despite himself, he had spent last night with the prince’s insufferable face still lingering in his mind. Or that his own hands had been forced to take care of what the boy had started.

Antinous would have hated being interrupted—if he didn’t recognize the owner of the faint footsteps behind him.

In an instant, he dismissed his thoughts, turning his attention to the wavering figure of the boy.

The dining hall was empty, the suitors long gone after stuffing their greedy mouths.

"How does it feel to make a man starve?" Antinous tilted his head, watching as the boy’s expression twisted in confusion.

"I haven’t eaten yet. I was waiting for you to serve me," he added, finally getting the reaction he wanted as the prince shook his head in disbelief.

"You’ve lost your mind if you think I—"

"Careful, little wolf. You wouldn’t want me thinking you need another lesson in obedience."

Antinous interrupted smoothly.

Telemachus wondered if the man was even capable of holding a proper conversation without cutting someone off.

"And I don’t even need to summon anyone. Your little cries carry far enough to bring them running all on their own."

Telemachus gritted his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. Antinous watched in delight, knowing that no matter how much the boy resisted, he had no choice but to surrender.

Taking his silence as compliance, Antinous sat down. His fingers tapped lazily against the table in a slow, rhythmic pattern as he waited.

The boy moved, his jaw tight but his hands obediently serving as ordered.

When Antinous wasn’t looking, Telemachus didn’t hesitate—he spit into the food, barely suppressing the ghost of a smile.

Antinous took his time eating, savoring every bite. He made the boy pour his wine again and again, his sharp ears catching the hushed curses muttered under his breath.

After satisfying his hunger, Antinous dragged the prince along, not giving a damn about the way he stumbled time and time again.

"Don’t you have training to do? Or something better to waste your time on?"

Antinous was starting to wish his company had a mute button. Then again, that sharp tongue of his would only serve to justify what he had plotted for him.

When they reached his chamber, he shoved the boy inside. And if Telemachus thought being alone with this man in his own bedroom was a bad idea, then being trapped in his room was far worse.

Not that he had a choice. But he could still try to resist, right?

…Or probably not.

A backhand caught him off guard. The sting barely registered before he found himself staring at Antinous, watching as the suitor's patience began to wear thin once again.

Telemachus averted his eyes. He didn’t want to see it.

He didn’t want to deal with that Antinous again—the angry Antinous.

The door shut behind them with a heavy thud, sealing the kid’s fate.

Now, Telemachus was completely at his mercy.

Shit.

He could do whatever he pleased, and no one would be able to stop him.

He could kill him now.

The edges of Antinous’ lips curled at the thought, pure ecstasy lighting his gaze.

But not yet.

He didn’t want the heir dead.

Not yet.

He had other plans for now—better plans.

Taking a seat on the bench, he turned to face him fully.

"Kneel."

Telemachus froze, his mouth parting slightly—speechless. His pupils quivered, his body stiffened.

Antinous, ever patient, only watched.

He was a man well-versed in control. He knew that rewards came to those who waited.

So he waited.

And waited.

The silence between them thickened, swelling with unbearable tension.

He didn’t need to read the boy’s mind to know his thoughts were in turmoil. So, out of generosity, he let him wrestle with them in peace.

And then—his eyes lit up.

It was happening.

The prince of Ithaca, on his knees.

For him.

His breath was unsteady, his fists clenched on his thighs. He reeked of shame.

And Antinous loved it.

He loved how pathetic he looked. How his tears threatened to spill.

He loved how broken he looked.

And he swore he was going to break him even more.

His foot reached out, brushing Telemachus’s chin, tilting it slightly.

His gaze was still defiant, but—oh—he was so helpless.

Antinous almost got another erection.

"Right where you belong. You fit so well down there," he murmured, stroking the prince’s cheek with his bare foot.

"Wash them."

Silence.

The words struck like a slap.

"Excuse me?" Telemachus managed to stutter.

"What, are you deaf now? I said—wash my feet."

Antinous didn’t mind repeating himself. He made sure the boy understood the assignment.

"Antinous… please, you don’t have to go this far," the prince begged.

"Spare me the sulking and get to work," the suitor snapped, his tone harsh, commanding.

He pointed to a basin on the other side of the room.

And once again, Telemachus was left with no choice but to obey.

Chapter Text

  Telemachus kept shifting in his bed, his pillow trapped between his arms, something to squeeze whenever shame became too much to bear.
His mind was trapped in a loop, replaying the events of the day over and over.

He couldn't rest. He couldn't sleep. Not when every part of him burned like a flame. He tried to convince himself there was nothing to be embarrassed about—he was simply a man of his word, fulfilling his part of the bet. But he knew the truth. He hadn’t really had a say in the matter.

Telemachus wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. Anger? Resentment? Pain? Or was it something far worse—disgust at his own weakness?

He didn't want to keep thinking. Gods, please, he just wanted to sleep, to erase every memory of the past hours. But his body ached, and his groans continued to fill the empty room.

Antinous was a cruel man—everyone knew that. But to degrade him in such a way on the very first day… the whispers of doubt and fear invaded his mind. He feared what the man had planned for him even more than what had already been done.

Even when his knees were sore from kneeling, from washing the man’s feet, Antinous hadn’t been satisfied.

Tearing the prince's tunic brutally, he had kicked his back, making the boy’s body tremble against the cold floor.

The patter of his feet grew distant as he searched for something. It didn’t take long for Telemachus to realize what it was.

A violent sound.
A sharp crack ripped through the air.

Telemachus’s breath shuddered. He knew that sound. A whip.

"An obedient servant mustn’t end his day without having his manners corrected," Antinous had said.

Then, it started.

The leather lashed out, striking across Telemachus’s bare skin, and all he could do was scream and whimper helplessly.

Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memory away. But he knew—Antinous hadn’t used his full strength. A whip like that could cause deep cuts, broken bones even, in severe cases. But that wasn’t his goal. No, Antinous had wanted him to feel the terror and humiliation of being beaten like an animal.

He had made sure to strike only where Telemachus’s tunic would hide the marks.

When the sun’s rays crept into his room, Telemachus realized he had wasted the night. Sleep had eluded him, leaving him restless and on edge. And now, he would have to deal with the man again soon enough.

The thought iced his veins. He wanted nothing more than to hide.

When it was time to leave his chamber, he barely made it a few steps before he was confronted by him.

Antinous.

Telemachus straightened instinctively, masking his fatigue as best he could. He refused to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him in such a state. Powerless as he was, he could at least hold onto this shred of dignity.

He braced himself for some teasing remark, as always. But instead, Antinous simply grabbed his wrist and started dragging him along. The destination wasn't clear at first—it wasn’t the way they had taken yesterday to his bedroom.

Before he could overthink it any further, Telemachus found himself in the baths.

Without a hint of shame, Antinous stripped off his clothes and reclined in one of the many tubs arranged there. He snapped his fingers once, and Telemachus understood what he wanted.

The prince exhaled sharply. He was too drained to put up a fight, too worn down to act defiant. So he stepped forward, kneeling behind the tub.

His fingers, slick with oil, moved over the man's shoulders. His jealous eyes couldn’t help but wander—taking in the cords of muscle that covered his body.

Antinous’ posture eased under his touch. His eyes fluttered half-closed as Telemachus started to massage his muscles, and a low sigh slipped from his lips.

Telemachus moved to his back, working out the tension that had gathered there, pressing deeper into tight knots, and Antinous’ low groans slipped away. The man used all his willpower to suppress his thoughts from imagining those fingers wrapped around something else—something he wouldn’t be able to hide this time, not with his body fully exposed.

"That’s it, boy," Antinous murmured, his voice thick. "Right there."

Telemachus rolled his eyes but decided to ignore him. At least the bastard wasn’t immune to his skilled hands—that thought made him feel slightly better.

They both chose to ignore the unwanted company.

From across the room, a pair of perplexed eyes watched them.

Ctesippus.

He stood there, utterly bewildered by whatever this was. He didn't dare question it, though. How could he? When Antinous made sure to shoot him sharp glares whenever he seemed to remember his existence.

It was clear—the man had no intention of sharing the prince. Without a word, Ctesippus turned and left the baths.

 They barely noticed. 

Antinous shifted in the water, and the prince's hands had slowed, unsure. Then, the suitor patted his lap—offering it as a seat.

"Get in the water," Antinous murmured, resting his head against the rim of the tub.

Telemachus stilled for a moment, startled.

It was ridiculous.

The jerk had chosen a tub that was barely large enough for one, let alone two.

Antinous only raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as he stared at him. And Telemachus didn’t need to be told twice. He swallowed his pride and obeyed.

As he stepped in, Antinous' hand moved.

Slipping beneath his tunic.

Telemachus stiffened, heat rushing to his face. The touch was teasing—but it wasn’t what he feared.

His fingertips traced lightly over his skin, moving higher and higher.

Then—

A featherlight touch brushed against a bruise.

Telemachus flinched.

The fingertips continued their slow path, ghosting over the marks Antinous had left the day before.

Telemachus clenched his jaw, holding back his pained moans. But Antinous saw it—the way his body shivered, the way he bit back a muffled sound.

He knew that it hurt.

The suitor's hands stilled, and they both stared into each other's eyes for many long minutes. The silence grew uncomfortable as neither of them knew what to say.

Telemachus, once again, couldn't read the man's expression. The man always looked at him with either a smug face or a blank one.

Antinous hummed, his hands moving, gently weaving his fingers through the prince’s hair. Then, he tightened his grip—tighter and tighter—before pushing back, exposing Telemachus’ throat.

"Open up," he commanded.

And Telemachus? Genuinely confused, he obeyed.

Antinous gathered a thick wad of saliva and, with a guttural grunt, forced it into his open mouth.

Telemachus gagged, his stomach churning with disgust. He tried to expel the foreign substance, but Antinous made sure he swallowed it.

His eyes were a mixture of terror and shock. Antinous chuckled, amused once again.

"You really think I didn’t notice you spitting in my food?" He leaned in, tapping the boy’s cheek in a light, mocking rhythm.

When he finally let go, it wasn’t for any good reason. Antinous pushed the prince onto his back, his hands pressing down on his neck, forcing his head under the water.

Telemachus struggled to free himself. He wasn’t good at holding his breath at all. Was Antinous planning to drown him and be rid of him once and for all? Panic pierced through him. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His limbs flailed chaotically, frantic and frightened.

Then, the pressure vanished.

Telemachus barely had time to lift himself up, coughing miserably, before he felt a warm liquid splashing across his face.

He opened his eyes, and his whole world started to shatter.

Antinous was pissing on him.

    Antinous, forced to wait year after year for the queen to choose a new husband, only grew more frustrated. And now, he had finally found the perfect target to vent it on.

The prince had fallen into his web, and Antinous aimed to test how far he could go—how far he could ruin him.

Humiliating the heir to the throne was supposed to be fun, but instead of satisfaction, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. It bothered him. He was winning, but he wasn't enjoying it the way he thought he would.

Telemachus’s cries under the lash didn’t arouse him. He had thought they were the reason for his excitement the day of the match—so was he wrong?

The idea of not being able to enjoy the prince’s pain unsettled him. Something was off. And when he found himself staring at Telemachus, watching him blush on his lap—almost affectionately—he knew that whatever this feeling was, he needed it gone.

So, he was willing to push the boy to his limits until he was reduced to ashes. And he did.

Antinous wanted to prove his superiority, his dominance. The way he found himself so lost in the prince’s eyes only served to provoke his anger. So he didn’t overthink his actions. He didn’t question his morals.

Then, he did overthink.

His chest ached.

The broken look in Telemachus’s eyes, the way his lips parted in disbelief and desperation—it tore at his heart.

He stood there, staring at the mess he had made of the prince, and he wasn’t proud.

His hand left his cock, reaching forward. But he couldn’t bring himself to touch the boy and wipe his tears. Why did he even want to do that?

Frozen in place, he could do nothing about the choked sobs and sniffling.

There you go, Antinous. You broke the kid. That’s right—he may be an adult, but he’s still inexperienced and soft-hearted, just like a child. That realization troubled Antinous. He had pushed too far, and now he was exposed to those confusing feelings… a strange discomfort… guilt?

What an empty victory, he admitted.

He couldn’t watch the boy’s breakdown any longer. He moved to put his clothes on and left.

His feet moved on their own. He didn’t know where he was heading, but he kept going. He needed it gone—he needed Telemachus’s image out of his head.

He was in the middle of the courtyard when a voice called his name. Eurymachus. He wasn’t in the mood to play along with the man, but then again… maybe it would help. Maybe a fight would be a good distraction.

By the end of it, Eurymachus was on his back—another victim of Antinous’s uncontrollable frustration. Antinous watched as his friend dabbed at the blood on his nose, casting him a dubious glance.

"Won’t you share with me what’s in that head of yours?"

Eurymachus finally asked, but Antinous remained silent. He wanted to. He wanted to let out whatever was weighing him down, but how could he put it into words? Antinous was bad at expressing himself, and Eurymachus knew that.

His friend sighed before slinging an arm around his shoulders, earning an annoyed grunt from Antinous—one that Eurymachus chose to ignore.

"Enough brooding! Come on, Antinous. Let’s go drink and drown our sorrows, my friend."

 Antinous had to admit—this was the first time Eurymachus had come up with a good idea. All his other proposals would have led them straight to the underworld.

                                     —

   Now it was Eurymachus’s turn to regret his own idea as he struggled to stop his miserable companion from drinking himself to death.

"Drowning yourself in wine won’t fix whatever’s eating at you. Enough of this, my friend. Should I have someone warm your bed? A far sweeter way to forget—lose yourself in pleasure instead. I’ll bring you someone soft and obedient. A pretty servant will do."

Antinous didn’t seem to like the suggestion. His brows furrowed as he shook his head, slurred words tumbling from his lips—words Eurymachus barely caught.

"I have… a servant."

Eurymachus raised his hands in surrender, giving up on trying to understand whatever was going on in Antinous’s head. He shoved some bread into the man’s mouth before helping him to his room. As a final gesture before leaving, he made sure there was enough water to dilute the alcohol in his system, hoping the man wouldn't get an alcoholic poisoning.

And then, silence.

Antinous lay in bed, restless. Hours passed. Sleep? Never said hello.

Propping himself up, he ran a palm over his face. He wasn’t sober yet, but the strange discomfort was already creeping back in.

Outside, owls hooted and screeched—it was late into the night, and still, he wandered his room like a lost child. The thought almost made him laugh.

But then.

The door cracked open. Someone stormed inside.

Antinous took a moment to process the figure standing before him.

He let out a faint breath.

It was Telemachus.

Chapter Text

Telemachus's clothes still clung to him. It didn’t seem like he had left the baths any sooner. But when he did, he hadn't had a plan. He had simply moved, storming through the halls until he was there.

The door slammed against the wall, and he stepped inside, chest heaving and eyes still rimmed with red. He didn't know why he was here, why he needed to face the man. But after being abandoned earlier, he felt like he would never be able to face the suitor again if he didn’t force himself now.

Antinous looked up at him, waiting.

Telemachus shivered under his gaze. He wanted to run away and start a new crying session in his room. But the man didn’t mock him yet, didn’t tell him how pathetic he looked. He just watched.

Telemachus’s lips parted, but no words came out—only a shaky sound. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe again. Tears rolled down, burning his skin. His whole body was tense, but Antinous didn’t move closer. He didn’t demand an explanation for his sudden intrusion.

His fists clenched, his jaw tightening. Telemachus was dripping with anger, “Who do you think you are, treating me like that…?” he whispered. But from the confused look on Antinous’s face, he knew the man hadn’t heard him.

“I said… Who do you think you are, treating me like that?!” he snapped.

Antinous moved closer, but Telemachus shoved him back. Shaking, screaming. His hands treated the man's chest like a punching bag as he kept yelling at him. The words tumbled out in a desperate loop, again and again, as if saying them enough times would make sense of his pain.

The boy was a mess again, and Antinous stood still, accepting every hit in silence. His movements finally slowed, exhausted. Head down, fists resting on the man's chest, no strength in them, as he whispered faintly, “Why push me so far…?”

Silence met his question. Not that he truly expected a response, yet… a faint hope lingered that the suitor might offer some kind of explanation—however flimsy—for his actions.

Telemachus panted, his breath hitching with each sob. He didn’t dare look the man in the face, not even when Antinous’ hand brushed his waist, sending a jolt of surprise through him and leaving him strangely flustered.

“K-Keep your hands off me,” he hissed, but it wasn’t nearly as commanding as he intended—just another soft whisper. He wanted to push him away. He needed to. But Antinous’ touch was so light, so careful, as if the man himself didn’t know what he was doing.

Then Antinous’ fingers pressed more firmly, sending a shiver up the prince’s spine. His other hand rested against the back of his head, a deliberate pull until Telemachus’ forehead met his chest.

Telemachus, caught between resistance and surrender, took a moment to realize—this was the suitor’s clumsy attempt at a hug. His heart pounded in his ears at the unfamiliar situation. His fingers curled into the fabric of the man’s tunic, gripping it tightly as he kept sniffling.

The hand on his head drifted to pat his back—hesitant, awkward. Antinous was genuinely trying to calm him down. He shouldn’t let himself look so vulnerable in the suitor’s presence. But it was hard to resist the warmth—the kind of warmth he’d never truly had before.

Minutes passed. They both lost track of time. But at some point, Telemachus realized he was finally… calm. Then—

“I’m sorry." Antinous’ voice broke the silence, sounding just as surprised by the words as Telemachus was. But they were still sincere.

Telemachus tilted his chin up, wide eyes staring at the man, “…Are you drunk by any chance?” His voice was hoarse, his tone wary, doubtful.

Antinous nodded.

Telemachus let out a shaky breath, “…That makes more sense.” He whispered it as he buried his face against the man’s body again.  

  When morning came, Telemachus had no clue how he had ended up stirring with Antinous’ arms wrapped around him. The gentle shift disturbed the man's sleep, and his eyelids fluttered open as well.

Their eyes met and held. Time seemed to slow. Memories of the previous night flooded back—how he had stormed into Antinous’ room, how he had broken down, how the man had held him and kept him warm until morning. He remembered the way that embrace had felt.

No matter how much his mind screamed that this was wrong, he still wished those moments could last a little longer. Just a little more. But then reality hit.. He was still bound to the wager’s terms. He was still at Antinous’ mercy.

Telemachus averted his gaze, lowering his head. He shouldn’t let a fleeting gesture get to him, “It’s the third day.” The words were meant as a reminder to himself, but the unspoken question hung heavy in the air: What do you want to do to me today?

Antinous hummed, seemingly unsure himself. His fingers threaded through the prince’s hair, a soft, absentminded gesture of comfort, “We’ll see,” he finally replied, as if the question had actually been spoken.

Telemachus bit his lip, his whole body tense. Antinous' gaze lingered there, on the way the prince worried his lip between his teeth. A strange unease settled in him. His brows furrowed as if he intended to scold him— But then the sound startled them both. 

A loud, unmistakable growl.

Antinous blinked slowly, taking in the scene before him.Then, a smirk, “You heard that? I think it’s saying, ‘Feed me, little wolf.’” He chuckled, watching as the prince’s cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink.

Another rumble, louder this time. Antinous’ expression shifted, “Now, for real—when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

Telemachus pressed a hand to his complaining stomach, his face scrunching in thought, as if he had just remembered that food existed, “…Two days ago?”

“Is starving yourself some kind of royal practice or something? No wonder you and your mother look so fucking pale.”

Telemachus frowned, taken aback by the suitor’s sudden frustration. But he didn’t question it. He was too hungry to argue.

Antinous finally pulled away, rolling out of bed. Telemachus hesitated, unsure if he was supposed to follow. The answer came faster than expected.

“Don’t act like a worn-out mistress who’s been up all night,” Antinous scoffed. “Is there a reason your legs shouldn’t be working? Go get some food before you drop dead.”

Telemachus moved before he could think—his hands grabbing the nearest object. The pillow hit Antinous square in the face.

Silence.

Then, realization hit. Telemachus bolted, fleeing before he had to face the man’s reaction.The door slammed shut behind him. A beat passed. Then, Antinous burst into laughter.

What a childish prince. 

The suitors watched as the prince of Ithaca ate like a possessed man, showing no signs of restraint—much like they usually did. Eurymachus simply assumed that Telemachus was happy due to the absence of the man he despised most —Antinous— while Ctesippus seemed ready to argue.

With his stomach finally full, Telemachus wasted no time grabbing a heaping plate of fruit and another piled with meat before rushing to the queen's chambers, making sure she ate every bite.

As he watched his mother, concern settled deep in his chest. The suitor had been right—she was far too pale. His insides twisted with agony, his mind a storm of chaos as he tried to think of a way to help her. But he swallowed down his thoughts before they could show on his face. She had enough to worry about already. He had to be her source of comfort, not the other way around.

When he finally stepped outside again, letting his mother rest in peace, the memories of the previous night haunted him, dragging his thoughts back to him. The very person whose existence he had been trying so damn hard to ignore.

Telemachus decided it was best to keep himself busy. He walked through the halls, observing. The suitors weren’t causing any trouble, and the servants were busy with their work—they didn’t need any instructions. He sighed, low-key disappointed that he wasn’t needed.

Instead, he decided to spend time with Argos—the one soul in the palace who never seemed to tire of his company.

The dog wagged his tail as Telemachus petted his head, soaking up the attention. They both craved it. Guilt pricked at him—he had neglected the poor creature these past few days. He was grateful that Eurycleia had always been there to take care of Argos, ensuring he was well-fed.

But Argos was old. It wasn’t long before he tired and dozed off. Telemachus smiled fondly at the sleeping dog before leaving for his room. And then the thoughts returned.

Telemachus scowled at himself. He shouldn’t care. He should be relieved that the wicked man wasn’t anywhere near him. And yet…

He kept glancing at the door, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. Almost disappointed when he heard nothing. He shook his head, astonished at his own inner voice. But the longer the hours stretched, the more restless he became. His patience was wearing thin.

He hated Antinous. There was no doubt about that. He hated how the man tormented him, how he made every moment unbearable. But now? Now, he felt… ignored. The realization only made his frustration worse.

Getting up, he walked toward the door. He took a deep breath—then slammed it open, only to be met with…

Nothing. Antinous wasn’t there. He wasn’t waiting outside his bedroom. Telemachus frowned. Then frowned even more when he realized he had actually been hoping the suitor would be outside his bedroom. He returned to sit on his bed. But only for a few minutes. Because soon enough, he was back at the door. Checking.

And then checking again, and again.

He wanted to scream at how much it bothered him. Had Antinous lost interest in tormenting him? Had he already grown bored?

This was becoming too much to bear, and Telemachus wasn’t doing a good job of handling it. Pacing pointlessly in the room wasn’t helping either. Then his impatience got the better of him.

"You’re just going to check that he’s not plotting anything bad," the little voice in his head whispered. A satisfied little smile curled on his lips. He was starting to love this voice.

He scanned the courtyard, the dining hall, the corridors… but the suitor was nowhere to be found. Could it be that he had been in his chamber all this time? He rushed to the man’s room and kicked the door open.

“Antinous! Wh—” His words faltered.

The two men inside had very different reactions. One was dumbfounded, while the other raised an eyebrow at him, amusement flickering in his eyes. The look on his face said it all: You dare come back again?

Eurymachus shifted his gaze between them, clearly puzzled. Why would the heir of Ithaca come to his friend’s bedroom at such an hour?

Antinous didn’t bother to explain. He simply gave Eurymachus a pat on the back, a silent signal that their conversation would continue later. With no choice but to bite back his curiosity, Eurymachus took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

Telemachus was still frozen in place, awareness dripping into his mind—always delayed. Antinous swirled the wine in his glass, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips as the boy shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I see you’ve developed a habit of seeking me out, little prince” His teasing tone made Telemachus’ skin prickle, but he fought the urge to turn around and escape. He had already run away the last time—he didn’t want to be seen as a coward.

“Cat got your tongue?” Antinous chuckled when no reply came. He crossed one leg over his knee, setting his cup down with a soft thud. “Strip”

Telemachus’ breath hitched. This man’s tricks never ended. He instinctively took a step back, but as if reading his mind, Antinous added playfully, “I wouldn’t try to run if I were in your shoes” And Telemachus cursed under his breath.

“Oh, come on. We’re both men, aren’t we? Besides, you’ve seen me naked before—seems only fair.”

Telemachus watched as the man left his seat, stepping toward him, “Unless, of course… you’d prefer my hands to do the work?”

“No!!” The sound echoed in the room. His hands flew to his clothes, gripping the fabric tightly, “I’ll… I’ll do it.”

Antinous watched as Telemachus' hands moved hesitantly, untying the knot at his shoulder. His eyes followed as the chiton loosened and was pulled over the prince's head, landing carelessly at his feet. He left his loincloth on to cover himself, and Antinous decided to respect his limits—for now.

With an intense gaze, he took in the sight of the boy before him. Telemachus’ cheeks were deeply flushed as he shifted awkwardly under his stare.

Stepping behind him, Antinous traced slow circles across his back with thick fingers. The boy gasped. “C-cold…” he stammered in explanation. But that wasn’t enough reason for Antinous to stop.

“Damn, kid. I didn’t even hit you that hard.”

Telemachus wasn’t sure if the man’s tone was concerned or impressed—probably both. But it made him aware of why Antinous was touching him in the first place—he was checking his wounds again.

Antinous didn’t miss the small reactions he got from the prince: the way he almost jumped at every touch, the way he held his breath without realizing it, the red tint creeping from his cheeks down to his neck.

It made him want to tease him more, just to see what other reactions he could pull from him.

Wrapping his arms around the prince’s waist, he kept him in place. One hand rested on his stomach while the other hovered over his chest. His thumb brushed against a nipple, and Telemachus shivered.

The man smirked.

Then he pinched.

Telemachus let out a loud moan before slapping a hand over his own mouth, mortified. Antinous’ laugh did nothing to ease his embarrassment.

Trailing his nose along Telemachus’ flushed neck, he smirked, hot breath teasing his skin. "Tell me, little wolf, why did you come here?" His hand slid down to grab Telemachus’ thigh possessively, and the boy whined at the sensation. His fingers continued their torment, teasing hardened nipples, making him squirm helplessly in the suitor’s hold.

Antinous was panting now, drinking in every little reaction. He could feel his own body responding, heat pooling between his legs. It was impossible not to be aroused, and it was becoming painful to hold back, “Answer me, little prince,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “Did you miss me? Is that why you came running back?”

Telemachus moaned in response, too overwhelmed to form words, his body betraying him. It drove the man insane. Antinous’ hands tightened around his hips as he pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together eagerly—

Telemachus let out a choked sound, his entire body burning. At first, he didn’t understand what that hard thing was, pressing against him, threatening to push through the fabric—until Antinous rolled his hips forward.

A sharp, high-pitched cry tore from Telemachus' throat as he wrenched himself away. His wide, terrified eyes locked onto Antinous’.

Now he understood. He remembered this feeling… during their wrestling match that day. He had felt it then too.

Antinous groaned in frustration, running a hand through his hair. Telemachus' gaze drifted downward—his throat bobbing as he took in the obvious bulge. He swallowed hard.

“Stop staring,” Antinous muttered irritably. He grabbed a blanket from his bed and tossed it at Telemachus, a silent permission to cover himself again. The prince wasted no time obeying, quickly reaching for his clothes instead.

“You should leave,” Antinous said. It wasn’t a suggestion. And Telemachus was more than happy to obey.

Antinous wasted no time. The moment the prince was gone, his hand was on his cock, stroking himself with desperate, defeated movements. He gave in, finally submitting to the knowledge that he craved to feel the boy. When pleasure overtook him, he didn’t stop. It wasn’t enough. He needed more. His mind conjured Telemachus countless times that night, again and again, until his orgasms ran dry.

And Telemachus—he wasn’t doing any better. Humping his pillow, panting into the sheets, his hands never failed to remind him of how good those touches had felt. The way they left him aching, wound with want and need.

Chapter Text

Just when Antinous thought he could show some mercy, let the kid rest, Telemachus had shown up at his door—willingly. And in trying to tease him, Antinous had ended up in a tight spot himself.

Frustration burned in him—both from his own arousal and the boy’s sudden retreat. He had actually expected Telemachus to mock him, to sneer at his desire, but instead, the prince had just panicked and backed away.

No matter how much he hated to admit it, there was no denying it anymore. He wanted the prince. He had already fucked him in his head more times than he cared to count last night.

But that was a desire he needed to get rid of. He didn’t know how he had managed to hold back yesterday, and he wasn’t sure he could resist if he had another opportunity. And unlike everything else he had done to Telemachus, he wasn’t so sure he could get away with that easily.

Why had Telemachus come to his chambers in the first place? Why had he chosen to return? The moment passed without an answer.

Now, Antinous was curious—eager, even. He wanted to touch the prince again, to see how far he could push, how much Telemachus would allow next time. Because he’d be lying if he said he could truly keep these thoughts at bay. The boy’s flushed face, the sweet sounds he made—they lingered in his mind, tempting him. He wondered what it would be like to get Telemachus aroused too, to make him crave his touch the same way he did.

What if the prince didn’t pull away next time? Would he have his way with him? Take him? Would Telemachus allow himself to be taken like a woman?

Antinous considered whether that was the satisfaction he had been chasing all along. Hurting the boy’s pride with cruelty had given him nothing but frustration and a heartache. But breaking him in another way, in bed—maybe that would bring him pleasure.

Maybe that was all this was. Pride and power. Maybe it wasn’t desire after all. He didn’t want Telemachus. He just wanted to dominate him.

"Why not just gut the prince in a ‘fair’ fight and be done with it?"

Antinous’ head snapped toward the audacious suitor—Agelaus.

"Finally, someone speaking sense. We've been rotting here for far too long. I say we finish this now! One good slash, and the problem solves itself."

Across the hall, Peisander leaned forward, his impatience clear, his thirst for blood barely concealed.

"Oh sure, let’s just stab the heir to the throne in broad daylight. What could possibly go wrong?"

Ctesippus rolled his eyes. He wasn’t the brightest among them, but even he could see how reckless that plan was.

"No one will mourn a weak prince who couldn’t hold his own."

Agelaus let out a dark chuckle, and for an instant, Antinous considered crushing his throat just to silence him.

"I want no part in this."

Amphinomus' voice cut through the air, his distaste evident.

"You never had any guts, Amphinomus!" Peisander sneered before turning back to the others. "I've had enough of this. When the brat shows up, let's stir up a fight. And the first chance I get—I’ll drive a blade through him myself."

A low murmur rippled through the room. Some nodded, entertained by the idea, while others remained skeptical.

"We play this smart, not reckless. You really think the people will just let us get away with murdering their prince? Before you know it, we'll all be swinging from a rope. Think, damn it."

Eurymachus rubbed his temple, exasperated by their heedlessness. Then, tilting his head toward the only man in the room who truly held sway over them, he said, "What do you say, Antinous? It’s not like you to hold your tongue."

Antinous took his time, scanning their faces. The tension was suffocating. He knew these men had grown bolder, sharper, impatient. And Telemachus? He was nothing but an obstacle; a target, a convenient release for their growing rage.

Killing the prince wasn’t a bad idea—but not yet. Not like this.

A smirk played on his lips.

"I'd say a few broken bones never hurt anyone."

The suitors erupted in laughter, momentarily sated but not truly satisfied. Antinous had made his stance clear—he would not let them kill the boy. Not yet.

The discussion was still ongoing when the prince finally entered the great hall. Silence descended the moment he stepped inside.

Telemachus could feel that something was off. The air was heavy, the shift in the suitors’ energy palpable. But his focus went straight to the man who had occupied far too much space in his mind these past few days.

And the way Antinous was looking at him now… it was different. Uncomfortably different. Telemachus quickly averted his gaze, trying—and failing—to fight back the memories of last night.

As he walked through the hall, his only purpose was to assert his presence. But the further he went, the more aware he became of the eyes hunting his every move. He felt like prey in a lion’s den.

Telemachus tried to brush off his unease—until some suitors approached, their faces twisted with menacing grins.

They circled him. Someone shoved him. Then another. Hands grabbed at him, pushing and pulling before balling into fists that knocked the air from his lungs. Punches came from different angles—those bastards never fought fair.

From across the hall, Antinous watched, unimpressed. What was entertaining about watching a pack of grown men beat up a kid? If any of them were outnumbered, they'd be in the same pathetic position.

He was about to shift his gaze elsewhere when he caught sight of Peisander reaching for his thigh—pulling out a dagger. Antinous’ expression darkened. The others were too caught up in their fun to notice. The dumbass was actually going to try it.

Antinous cursed under his breath. He needed to stop this mess. So he did what had to be done.

Telemachus barely had time to react before a forceful backhand sent him stumbling to the ground. The other suitors stepped aside instantly—none of them dared interfere when Antinous was the one throwing the blows.

Antinous crouched, grabbed a fistful of Telemachus' hair, and yanked him up roughly. The prince yelled in pain.

"You little shit," Antinous sneered, shoving him against the nearest table. Telemachus gasped, clutching his back as pain flared through him.

Laughter echoed from the suitors, though Peisander’s frustration was obvious. He had just lost his chance.

Antinous loomed over Telemachus, trapping him between his arms against the table. Normally, the boy would have started throwing insults by now. Instead, his eyes held something different—something Antinous hadn't seen in their fights before. A quiet, wounded sadness. Something almost like betrayal.

Antinous didn’t like that.

His hand moved on its own, delivering another backhand that split the prince’s lip. "Don’t look at me like that," he muttered, more to himself than to Telemachus.

You should be thankful, he wanted to say. At least it’s me. Not one of them. Not someone who wouldn’t stop.

But the way Telemachus looked at him again brought back the same feeling from the baths two days ago, and Antinous found it hard to keep up the act. Still, this was necessary—if he didn’t prove to the others that he was keeping the prince in check, it wouldn’t be long before his body was left to rot in some alley.

So he struck again. Not with his fists—no, that would be too much. Open-palmed slaps cracked against the prince’s flushed skin, leaving him dizzy, humiliated, his pride crushed beneath Antinous’ hands.

Antinous leaned in close, his voice low that only Telemachus could hear. "This is mercy, prince."

Then, without another word, he grabbed the prince by the collar and dragged him toward the doors. The great hall fell silent as they watched, entertained by the show.

At the threshold, Antinous shoved Telemachus outside. "Suit yourself," he muttered. Then he turned on his heel and strode back to his seat as if nothing had happened.

The laughter resumed. Some praised Antinous for the way he had degraded the prince, while others mocked how weak and helpless the boy looked. Then, at last, their focus started to shift—to their drinks and stupid games. That was the point.

Yet, the unfamiliar feeling in Antinous’ chest never left, and he wasn’t capable of keeping it under control.

His feet moved on their own, leaving the great hall behind. He didn’t go far, though, as his ears caught familiar sobs. He followed the sound to a storage room—the closest one to the great hall. It held weapons, treasures, and large jars of wine and oil.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the muffled cries became clearer. Stepping inside, he scanned the dimly lit room. And there, in one of the corners, was a curled-up figure—Telemachus.

His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees, his forehead pressed against them. His shoulders trembled with each breath.

Antinous inhaled deeply, moving cautiously toward the weeping prince. His hand brushed through his hair—hesitant but tender—and Telemachus stiffened, only now realizing he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t lift his head, though. He wasn’t that brave. Not ready for whatever cruel words the other might throw at him.

"Telemachus," Antinous called, his voice softer than it should have been.

No answer. Just the sound of more sobs caught in the prince's throat as he tried to suppress them.

Antinous frowned and withdrew his hand. He joined him on the floor, leaning his head back against a pillar and staring at the ceiling. Waiting.

The silence stretched, longer than either of them could endure. Antinous cleared his throat. His next words came out confused, uncertain.

"Is it because of me?"

No response again, but the way Telemachus tensed—his fingers clenching against his arms—somehow delivered the answer.

Antinous sighed, then reached out again, curling a strand of the prince’s hair around his finger.

"Quit whining already. I didn’t even hit you that hard."

And he hadn’t. He really had been considerate. Just hard enough that the others wouldn’t doubt the act.

He leaned in, his nose brushing the boy’s ear.

"You know, if you weren’t such a reckless idiot, I wouldn’t have had to step in."

And that was enough to make Telemachus snap. His eyes—defiant, burning with frustration—would have looked angrier if they weren’t filled with tears.

"How is any of this my fault? I didn’t do anything wrong—I wasn’t even the one who started the fight!"

Antinous’ hand moved again, cupping the prince’s red cheeks. He didn’t know if he was trying to comfort him or trying to hide his bruised face—because seeing it made something like guilt coil in his chest.

"I know," he muttered.

"Then why?" Telemachus managed to say. Another tear slipped out of his control, and Antinous wasted no time wiping it away with his thumb.

"You wouldn’t understand, and I’m not about to explain. Just take my word for it—that this was the better option."

"Why is it that, for me, every option sucks?" His voice cracked on the last word.

Antinous’ lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he guided the prince’s face toward his neck—a silent command. And Telemachus let himself take comfort in the man's warmth. For some long moments, it was just them, their breaths, and a silence that no longer felt unwelcome.

"For someone so full of himself, you really suck at hugs. Just thought you should know." His voice was a dry whisper, but the way he clung to Antinous betrayed his words.

"Ungrateful, aren't we?" Antinous joked, raising an eyebrow. His chin rested on the boy's head.

Telemachus let out a tired chuckle, but it was enough to ease the tightness in the suitor’s chest.

His hands finally moved to press against the man’s chest, pulling away a few inches until their eyes met.

Antinous wanted to say something—to shatter the moment—but a haunting melody drifted in. The notes, distant but present, wrapped around them: the faint sound of Phemius’ lyre, caught once more in the chaos, forced to perform for the suitors.

His lips curled into a dangerous grin, "Wanna entertain me?"

Telemachus chuckled again, disbelief laced in his voice, "And why exactly would I do that?"

"Well, the week's not over yet, is it? That means you're still mine to please." Antinous flashed his eyebrows to tease him, then laughed in amusement at the irritated expression that followed.

"Oh, fine. And what grand command do you have for me this time, my lord?" Telemachus drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Antinous licked his lips, satisfied.

"I could get used to that title," he mused, his voice smooth, almost lazy. Then, with a wicked glint in his eyes, he added, "Tell me, little wolf, music like this deserves to be felt, don't you think?"

Telemachus tilted his head. "What are you talking about?"

"I wonder," Antinous leaned closer. "Does the prince of Ithaca know how to move? Or is the only thing he's good at moving his tongue?"

Telemachus knew what he was doing. That mocking tone was nothing new. Antinous was trying to get under his skin.

"You just want a show," he narrowed his eyes.

Antinous smirked, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur.

"I do. So tell me, prince—will you dance for me?"

Telemachus should refuse, should put up a fight and resist no matter what it would cost him. But something about the way Antinous watched him—utterly sure of his own control—made defiance a lost cause.

He stood, not offering the man an answer, watching as frustration flickered across Antinous’ face. The suitor must have assumed he was leaving. Telemachus lingered awkwardly for a moment—he hadn’t planned for this.

The scent of aged wine clung to his nose. He smiled; it inspired him. He let his body sway, slow and measured. His gaze flickered downward, watching his feet move in silent steps, deliberately avoiding Antinous' intense stare. His arms lifted, trailing across his throat, down his chest. His hips rolled in a slow rhythm.

Antinous’ smirk faltered.

He knew what kind of performance the prince was offering—a mix of Zeibekiko and Dionysian dance. Movements, both forbidden and sacred, matching the sweet melody of the lyre.

He never imagined the boy would be bold enough to stage such a display, but the atmosphere had its grip on them both.

Telemachus' eyes found Antinous again, holding him captive. The flicker of dazed hunger in the suitor’s gaze gave him confidence. He liked the way Antinous was affected by him.

"Enjoying yourself?" he whispered, satisfied.

Antinous let out a shaky breath. "You have no idea."

Telemachus averted his eyes, letting the music consume him. Every gesture was a tease, every roll of his hips a challenge. He could hear Antinous' breathing grow heavier. When he glanced at him again, his heart pounded.

Antinous was looking at him with pleading eyes—almost begging.

An arm reached forward. Telemachus couldn't resist stepping closer, letting himself be pulled in.

Antinous guided him onto his lap, the prince's legs settling around his waist as he urged Telemachus’ arms around his shoulders.

"Dance for me," he whispered, his voice carrying a note dangerously close to pain.

Telemachus felt something pulse through his veins—a response, a warning. He was lost.

"I was already dancing," he murmured. For you. The last words died on his lips, too heavy to speak aloud.

"No." Antinous shook his head, struggling to put his thoughts into words, "Like this."

Telemachus inhaled sharply as Antinous traced the curve of his waist, guiding him to sway on his lap.

A ragged sigh left his throat when he felt the man's arousal pressing against him—a silent request to tear away the clothes that separated them. Panic washed over him, but Antinous held him tighter, afraid he might try to run again. His eyes carried a silent plea, and Telemachus found himself drowning in them, not wanting to disappoint.

So he moved. Hesitant at first, nervous, but as Antinous let out low groans, his own desire began to mirror the other's.

His hips rolled more deliberately, pressing down against the hardness beneath him.

He let his head fall onto Antinous’ shoulder, palms bracing against his chest for stability. He closed his eyes, letting himself be consumed by the sensations as quiet moans escaped his lips.

Antinous' hands never stopped guiding him, urging him on, his own body trembling with need.

Their bodies pressed together, moving in sync, grinding against each other eagerly.

Telemachus let out broken sounds, shameless and desperate, feeling heat pool in his core. He chased the sensation, letting Antinous control the rhythm, circling his hips in ways that left them both breathless. The friction was too much—he needed release, yet he didn’t want this to end.

Then it came. A wave of pleasure crashed over them, consuming them both. Antinous' fingers dug into the prince’s flesh as he gasped helplessly. Telemachus buried his face in the crook of his neck, body shaking. And then—release.

They remained locked together in the aftermath, held close in a warm embrace as the intensity slowly ebbed.

The prince, overwhelmed by the afterglow, trembled in Antinous' lap. Antinous patted his back, earning a weak, half-hearted sound of protest from Telemachus, who didn’t appreciate being treated like a child.

He looked up, eyes heavy-lidded, still lost in pleasure.

"Just what kind of dance was that?" he murmured.

Antinous cupped his cheeks again, his own gaze dazed and unreadable.

"A dance you shouldn’t perform for anyone else."

Chapter Text

Somehow, probably with some god’s approval, they made it to Antinous' room without getting caught. Telemachus wanted to protest—he didn’t want to be in the man’s room again so soon—but Antinous managed to convince him. It was the closest room to where they were, unless the prince wanted to be caught with a wet stain on his chiton. And based on its location, it was pretty clear what it was.

So there he was, lying in Antinous' bed, hiding his naked form under the covers after cleaning himself with the wet cloth Antinous had handed him—too disgusted to wear the same garment again.

"Come on now, don’t play coy. It’s not like I haven’t seen everything already."

Telemachus glared. He wanted nothing more than to cut the man’s tongue out. Why did he always have something to say when it wasn’t appreciated? Did he even know how to shut up?

The suitor, now dressed in a clean tunic, approached the prince on the bed. His face, unlike his words, didn’t hold any teasing features. He was calm, and Telemachus, for once, didn’t feel like running away.

Antinous carried another cloth, clean and wet. He gently wiped the boy's split lip.

"Ouch!"

Antinous hummed—a sympathetic sound that acknowledged the pain. But he had a task at hand. He sighed when Telemachus flinched away. "A prince of Ithaca shouldn’t tremble over a bit of sting, you know?"

Telemachus pouted, and Antinous tried hard to suppress his smile at the sulking prince. Instead, he grabbed his chin, making sure the boy remained still.

Antinous held out a small clay pot of honey. "It might sting a bit, so hold still—unless you’d rather I make it worse?" he warned, dipping a finger into the thick substance. He carefully applied the honey to Telemachus' lip, coating the jagged wound. Telemachus couldn't help but wince at the sensation, frowning slightly.

"Honey will help it heal faster." Antinous wasn’t sure why he was explaining—or why he was doing this in the first place—but it felt like his responsibility, being the reason the boy’s lips looked so abused.

Telemachus nodded. He wouldn’t trust the man if he didn’t already know that. This wasn’t his first injury, and it wouldn’t be the last—of that, he was sure.

Antinous kept caressing the prince’s lip absentmindedly, spreading honey all over his mouth now, not just the wound. Before he could stop himself, he pressed his honey-coated finger against Telemachus' lips, gently pushing it inside.

Telemachus' eyes widened, unsure why he allowed it, but a soft gasp escaped his lips anyway. The sweet taste of honey filled his mouth... and he sucked.

Antinous exhaled sharply, suddenly more conscious of his actions. His lips parted slightly when Telemachus' tongue flicked over the digit, tasting the honey.

A deep hum rumbled from Antinous' throat as he moved his finger, slowly dragging it over the prince’s tongue, pressing down slightly before gliding back. He savored the way Telemachus shuddered, but the boy didn’t pull away. 

Antinous moved his free hand, slipping it under the covers where the prince’s bare body hid from his eyes. His thumb brushed the boy’s thigh, sending a shiver through his spine. Soon enough, Telemachus responded in his own way.

Antinous hissed in pain when the prince bit him and immediately pulled his finger from the other's mouth. His face showed irritation at the act, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he playfully licked his finger, sucking the boy’s saliva. He watched in delight as Telemachus’ breath hitched and his face turned red.

Telemachus was the first to break eye contact, too stunned to come up with a comment. Antinous, humming in satisfaction, leaned closer, his gaze never leaving the flushed boy. "Just making sure nothing goes to waste."

Telemachus wanted to retort, to say something sharp that would finally shut the annoying man in front of him up, but the loud thud caught both of them off guard. Their heads snapped toward the door, which had swung open, revealing the intruders.

"Gods! Does no one in this cursed palace know how to fucking knock before barging in?!" Antinous snapped, his gaze flickering between the men at the doorway and Telemachus, who was still too stunned to react.

Eurymachus stepped inside without a care, completely ignoring the angry man in front of him. He raised a suspicious eyebrow and pointed at the prince. "What, did he move in with you now?"

Telemachus was praying to the gods to grant him the power of becoming invisible. For Zeus’s sake, he was still naked under these covers.

"By the gods... so there really is something going on between you two," came the voice of Ctesippus, more than a little amused by the situation.

"Oh, please, nothing happened. Our dear prince here managed to dirty his tunic like a damn child and then practically begged me to lend him one of mine—because, of course, he was far too shy to be seen walking around in soiled clothes."

Antinous’ lips turned into a lazy grin. He noticed the way Telemachus' hand clenched around the pillow, ready to launch it at his face again, and gave him a silent look: Would you rather I told them the truth?

Telemachus seemed to yield to defeat, despite the growing blush creeping up his face. The two suitors exchanged glances before shrugging carelessly. They settled onto the empty couch, watching as Antinous tossed a fresh tunic toward the prince.

"Strange... did I miss the part where I asked you to make yourselves at home?"

"We only came to offer you some company," Eurymachus said smoothly, though his gaze flickered back to Telemachus. "But it seems the prince is far more deserving of your attention than any of us."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't worry, I'm leaving." Right. Why wouldn’t he? Now that he was finally covered—even if it was Antinous’ tunic, even if it smelled so much like the bastard that he wasn’t sure it had ever been washed—he was in no position to complain.

"Oh, perfect. Now even the prince would rather have Antinous than the rest of us," Ctesippus sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded.

"No, actually, I hate you all equally. Wouldn’t want anyone feeling left out," Telemachus shot back, earning amused chuckles from the others. He rose to his feet, ready to leave the three lunatics to their own devices, when a hand grabbed his wrist—a touch firm and familiar. He looked up at Antinous, who dragged him back down. "I didn't say you could leave."

Telemachus gritted his teeth. Great. As if one suitor wasn’t bad enough, now he's stuck with three.

Ctesippus shook his head in mock disapproval. "Oh, come on, we’re not the ones who roughed you up. If anything, that was Antinous—yet you didn’t seem to mind him all over you."

It was Antinous’ turn to glare, calculating whether or not he could get away with murdering the nobleman from Same.

Ctesippus was quick to avoid Antinous’ glare, shifting their focus to what he held in his hand. "Look what I brought—wine, gentlemen! Let’s see if it smooths those sour faces of yours."

Eurymachus and Antinous both hummed in satisfaction, though Eurymachus wasn’t sure letting his comrade drink again was a good idea. But for his own safety, he decided to keep that thought to himself. Telemachus had no choice but to sigh and surrender to whatever they were dragging him into.

They all seemed more comfortable on the floor, forming a small circle with the amphora of wine placed in the middle. Two hands reached for it at the same time, each grabbing a handle of the vessel. Antinous raised an eyebrow. "My quarters, my rules. That means I get to drink first."

Eurymachus didn’t look pleased. "Since it was my idea to come here, I believe it’s only fair that I get the first sip, don’t you think?"

"Try it, and you’ll be sipping through broken teeth."

The air grew tense, their hands shifting from the vessel to each other’s tunics, ready to start a fight. Ctesippus watched as Telemachus, clearly exasperated, grabbed the amphora and lifted it to his lips—taking advantage of the distraction to drink in peace. The prince then handed it to Ctesippus, ensuring he wasn’t left thirsty. He seemed like a decent enough guy, after all.

Unfortunately, before Ctesippus could swallow his first sip, a blow to the back of his head startled him. He lifted his eyes to find the other two men glaring at him, clearly ready to make him the center of their wrath. "Alright, alright, hear me out! I’ve got an idea. Let’s play a game!" He suggested nervously.

The others seemed intrigued, so he relaxed a little. "The rules are simple," he announced, leaning back with a smirk. "One of us makes a claim about something one of us has done, and the others have to guess who it was. Get it right, you get the wine. Guess wrong? The real culprit gets the wine."

Both men suddenly looked determined—losing wasn't something they took lightly, even in a simple game. They drew back into their positions, ready to start a war. "I'll begin," Eurymachus said with a grin. "One of us got so drunk he nearly started a fight with his own reflection in the water."

Without hesitation, Telemachus pointed at Antinous. Eurymachus burst into laughter, clapping the suitor’s shoulder. "Damn, that was fast! Seems you have a reputation, my friend."

Antinous, unamused, watched as the prince took a swig from the amphorae, chuckling under his breath. He licked his lips. "Well, one of us gets flustered easier than a blushing bride on her wedding night."

Telemachus' face turned red as the men laughed, Eurymachus pointing at him. "Oh, this is priceless. Look at him—blushing even now!"

"I'm not!!" Telemachus protested, praying the man would choke on his drink.  "My turn, I suppose," the prince muttered, clearly annoyed. "One of us eats like a pig."

Eurymachus did, in fact, nearly choke on his drink. Ctesippus laughed, slapping the floor. "He drinks like a pig as well!" And just like that, the game shifted from winning the wine to exposing and embarrassing each other.

"Guess what?" Eurymachus leaned in with a smug grin. "One of us had the audacity to moan a servant’s name while bedding a noblewoman!"

Ctesippus' eyes widened. "Hey! That was a long time ago!"

"A masterclass in bed, I see, Ctesippus," Antinous teased, earning a dirty glare from the man. Meanwhile, Telemachus—long since bored with their ridiculous game—grabbed the amphorae and drank more. None of the suitors seemed to mind. He was just their little hostage, after all.

Then, Ctesippus' eyes glinted with mischief. "One of us…" he smirked, victory gleaming in his gaze, "Had a very generous companion and just couldn’t hold back—ended up spilling his seed all over the storage room. Care to enlighten us, or should we start taking bets?"

Telemachus dropped the vessel. Wine spilled across the floor. His blood ran cold. And Antinous? He was no better. But unlike the prince, he knew how to keep his composure.

Eurymachus perked up, intrigued. But before Ctesippus could kindle his curiosity, Antinous' hand shot out, tightening around the man’s throat. The man choked, struggling under the suitor’s grip.

"Chill, man," Eurymachus chuckled, unconcerned. "Why are you so worked up about it? It’s not like you had the queen herself." He laughed, missing the way Telemachus' glare could have set him on fire. "But I won't lie—I am kinda curious. Who was the lucky woman?"

Antinous released Ctesippus, who gasped for air, clutching his throat. "You've had your fun," he said, voice dangerously calm. "Now get out."

Telemachus felt it was a good idea to go for a walk and clear his thoughts. He hadn’t left the palace since the start of this wager, and he had completely lost track of time. How many days had it been? Had a week already passed? He wasn’t sure.

He sat by the shore, watching the waves crash at his feet. On the horizon, the sun was beginning to sink, retreating beneath the world. He let out an exhausted sigh, praying that one day he would finally see his father’s ship again.

Running a hand down his face, he tried to shake off the thoughts creeping into his mind. His focus drifted back to the incident earlier. What exactly did Ctesippus know? Was he just stirring the pot and got lucky hitting too close to the truth? There was no way he could know for certain that it was him and Antinous—right? He had no proof, and both he and the suitor would shut him down if he tried to spread rumors. Not that it looked like he would—Antinous had made his threat quite clear.

With another sigh, Telemachus rose. He dusted the sand from his—Antinous’—tunic and turned. He shouldn’t stay away from the palace for too long, not while his mother was still alone with those ruthless men.

Telemachus

He froze. His gaze flickered nervously. He had heard something—hadn’t he? Or was he imagining it?

Telemachus

His heart jumped. No, he wasn’t imagining things. Someone was calling his name. His head snapped toward the sound’s direction.

He eyed the narrow path that wound between the shore and the darkening forest beyond. He hesitated, debating whether to follow the call or head straight back to the palace.

Then came another whisper, sultry and coaxing.

Come. I have waited for you~

A voice so alluring, laced with heat—like a siren’s song. An invitation, both dangerous and tempting. He should walk away, should resist, should turn back while he still could. He should...

 yet…

The trees stood tall around him, the scent of salt fading, replaced by the rich aroma of the woods. The last light of the sun dimmed, swallowed by the thick canopy above. He walked deeper, his ears straining to catch the voice again, his own steps cautious against the forest floor.

He had no intention of calling out—not when he was unarmed and uncertain of what lay ahead. But the whispers were gone now, and the eerie silence made his skin prickle. He turned to leave.

Telemachus

“Where are you? Why are you calling me?”

Only the wind answered, rustling through the branches, making the leaves chatter and sway. Irritation began to bubble up inside him, but before he could voice his frustration, something unseen tightened around his body. His next breath hitched—his limbs went numb.

An invisible force surrounded him, constricting, squeezing. A sharp gasp left his lips, but no sound followed. Panic flared in his chest as the pressure grew unbearable. His vision blurred, his head spun, and his struggling breaths turned shallow. Tears pricked at his eyes. His body felt like it was being crushed.

And then everything faded away.

                                      ---

When his eyes fluttered open again, it took him a few moments to register that he was still in the forest—and not in the depths of Hades' realm. The filtered sunlight above confirmed just how much time had passed since he had lost consciousness.

As the haze of sleep began to lift, he felt it—warmth. A soft, lingering touch against his hand.

His vision sharpened, landing on an unfamiliar figure beside him—an exquisite man, with a presence so effortlessly captivating it sent an immediate pulse of awareness through him. Dark, wavy hair framed his sharp features, his sun-kissed skin glowing in the dappled light.

The stranger held his hand in his grasp, bringing it to his lips with slow, deliberate care. He kissed his fingers tenderly, as if savoring the taste of his skin. Then, as if he could feel the weight of Telemachus’ stare, he looked up.

Their eyes locked.

A deep, almost hypnotic shade of violet greeted him—impossible to look away from, holding him captive in its depths.

A smirk tugged at the stranger’s lips—mischievous, knowing, as if he had been waiting for this moment far longer than Telemachus could comprehend. Still holding his hand, he leaned in once more, pressing a final, lingering kiss to his knuckles, his lips warm and impossibly soft.

"Good morning, My prince."

Chapter Text

"Good morning, my prince."

The velvety smoothness of his voice made Telemachus want to lean closer. The words seemed to echo in his mind longer than expected, anchoring him in the warmth of the stranger’s gaze—mischievous yet deep, as if hiding something beneath the charm.

The man inched closer, filling Telemachus’ field of vision. Warm fingers still brushed his skin in reassuring motions, while his other hand came to rest on Telemachus' cheek, rubbing it gently. His smirk never faded, though it softened the longer he looked at the prince.

Telemachus parted his lips—he needed answers—but the stranger’s fingers trailed down to his slightly swollen lower lip, fondling the soft texture. The man hummed in satisfaction, pleased that the prince neither resisted nor pushed him away.

"I found a lost soul sprawled upon the earth itself. I must say, what a peculiar choice of bed… Were you hoping to tempt the gods into joining you?" His grin widened as Telemachus’ cheeks flushed.

"I am not sure what happened… or how I came to be here," he confessed, his voice carrying a thread of uncertainty.

The man leaned in, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Well then," he purred, his tone effortlessly smooth. "Lysandrios of Ampelon, at your service, my lord."

"Ampelon?" Telemachus echoed, his brow creasing. "An unfamiliar name to me, I must admit."

"Merely a modest kingdom, my lord—forgotten by most, unnoticed by the rest," Lysandrios remarked, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

Telemachus hummed in acknowledgment, but his focus drifted to the man’s lingering touch. With a quiet laugh, he tilted his head. "I wasn’t aware my hand was so captivating, but I’d like it back now—unless you plan to keep it forever?"

"A tempting notion," Lysandrios murmured, his grip barely loosening. "But forever is... a rather fluid concept. Tell me, do you truly wish for me to let go?"

Telemachus let out a breathy chuckle. "As charming as this is, I do have a palace to return to… unless, of course, you intend to give me a reason to stay?" His voice carried an unmistakable note of teasing.

Lysandrios' lips curved, his gaze glinting with mischief. He allowed his fingers to linger just a heartbeat longer before finally releasing his hold. "Is my company not temptation enough to make you hesitate, even for a moment?"

Telemachus studied him, amusement flickering in his expression before allowing a slow smile to spread across his lips. "If you’re so eager to keep me company, Lysandrios, then by all means—be my guest at the palace. I trust you’ll find it comfortable enough."

"A most gracious invitation," Lysandrios mused, tilting his head. "And who am I to refuse such royal generosity? I suspect my stay will be... rather eventful."

As they passed through the palace gates, Telemachus cast a sidelong glance at the man. "Tell me, Lysandrios, by what wind or fate have you found your way to Ithaca?"

Lysandrios let out a soft, knowing sigh. "A wind indeed, your highness," he mused, his voice laced with amusement. "One that shattered my ship… and carried me to your shores."

"Telemachus!"

A tremulous voice cut through their conversation. Telemachus let himself melt into the arms that wrapped around him tightly, afraid to let go. A hint of guilt washed over him as he realized how much he had worried the most precious person in his life.

"Mother..."

Penelope cupped his cheeks, placing soft kisses on his face, her voice unsteady. "My son, thank the gods you are unharmed."

Telemachus grasped her hands, bowing slightly to kiss them affectionately. "Mother, forgive me for causing you distress." He straightened his posture and pressed another kiss to her forehead.

"I was unaware that slumber took me beneath the open sky, but fear not, my queen—I had company." He stepped aside so Penelope could see the man behind him.

Lysandrios bowed. "Greetings, my queen."

Penelope offered a small, relieved smile before calling out to her servants. "Tend to our guest well—prepare food and a bath, and let him want for nothing under this roof."

As Lysandrios followed the servants, he glanced back and caught Telemachus waving, gesturing that they would meet again. A smirk curled on Lysandrios' lips before he disappeared into the halls.

Telemachus could feel exhaustion taking over him; he wanted nothing more than a warm bath and another session of sleep—this time in his comfortable bed.

He walked through the halls, aiming for his quarters, his mind replaying the events of last night. The mysterious presence that had captured him, squeezing his body tightly and holding his breath until he passed out. He had no idea what had happened afterward or how Lysandrios had managed to find him. But he was glad the man had been there. Who knew what might have happened to him otherwise?

A tired sigh left his lungs as he reached his chambers. It seemed the guards had long since stopped doing their job, as the man he least wanted to see at the moment leaned against his door. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Telemachus waited for him to say whatever he had come to say so he could finally enter his room and rest.

Antinous watched him with dark, unreadable features, making Telemachus' heart tense with unease.

"What's wrong, Antino—" His words were cut off as his head slammed hard against the wall, the impact making him dizzy. Groaning in pain, he fluttered his eyes open, confusion evident on his face as he looked at the furious suitor before him.

Antinous had searched for the heir last night, seeking a private word about their latest encounter—and the fact that another suitor had found out about it. Frustrated when he discovered that Telemachus was nowhere to be found, he had assumed the prince was hiding from him again, which only worsened his already simmering anger. But then, to make matters worse, he had learned that the boy had been with… some random man?

"I was supposed to be enjoying myself, seeing that you're still mine to command and please," Antinous sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "I didn't realize you were so desperate, willing to beg at the feet of more than one man like a loyal little dog."

He grabbed Telemachus by the chin, fingers digging in painfully. The prince winced, fearing his jaw might snap at any moment.

"I… I don’t know what you’re talking about," he stammered, his heart racing as Antinous gripped his tunic and yanked him closer.

"It doesn’t matter," the suitor murmured. "What matters is that this time, I’ll make sure my little slave learns his place and doesn’t dare to play around when it’s my turn to be in charge."

He shoved Telemachus against the wall again, eliciting a pained sound. His dark eyes burned with cruel determination as he leaned in.

"I expect to be compensated for the time wasted." he continued, voice low and menacing. "I'll make sure your body won't forget the consequences of trying to defy me again."

He watched as Telemachus curled in on himself, shivering. Memories of the last time Antinous had been this aggressive resurfaced like a tide, the pain still vivid in his mind. "I wasn't..." he tried to explain, but the man's fingers pressed against his lips.

"Hush," the suitor whispered, his tone commanding and cold, leaving no room for argument. "Did I say you could speak?" Telemachus shook his head slightly, as much as the man's grip allowed him.

"Then you will keep your mouth shut and accept your punishment like the obedient little servant you are. Do you understand?"

Telemachus wished he could fight back the tear threatening to fall. He prayed he wouldn’t show Antinous how pathetic he was in his presence again, but he felt helpless—completely out of control. All because of that stupid wager. He nodded quietly. The quicker he surrendered, the quicker it would be over.

"Good." Antinous' fingers moved to wrap around the boy’s throat, squeezing. A wicked smile spread across his face as he watched the prince struggle, desperate for air. He pressed harder, his gaze roaming over the boy's body—until something in him shifted.

His grip loosened. His eyes searched Telemachus' face, taking in the raw fear and despair. Then, he let go.

Telemachus collapsed to his knees, gasping helplessly for air. Antinous stood over him, watching as the boy clutched at his throat, his breaths shallow and uneven. His tunic— Antinous' tunic—was still in place, and for some reason, that realization made something twist inside him, something he didn’t quite understand. Before he knew it, he was lowering himself down as well, kneeling in front of the prince, their faces inches apart. His forehead came to rest against Telemachus'. His expression softened slightly.

"I wasn’t… trying to avoid you…" Telemachus muttered through choked words. He truly wanted to explain himself.

Antinous nodded, his fingers moving to massage the boy’s waist with a touch so gentle it almost felt like an apology. He had let his anger take control again, hurting the kid—again. And he should hurt him. He should make him suffer, break him down until he was no longer a threat to his ambitions for power and the throne. But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t satisfy him. And he hated that just as much as he hated hurting Telemachus.

The prince slowly started to relax under his touch. A faint mark had formed on his neck—a bruise left by Antinous’ own hands. His fingers brushed against it, tracing the soft skin. Unconsciously, he leaned in, his breath ghosting over the mark, his gaze dark with something unreadable. Concern? Admiration?

His lips brushed against the bruised skin. The sound of a light kiss. A startled breath. A quiet whimper.

Two pairs of wide eyes...

Antinous backed away swiftly, scrambling to his feet. His face burned from the unexpected moment. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, turning away.

He couldn't face Telemachus. Not after what had just happened. Not after what he had just done. And definitely not after whatever the boy may say next.  

Was he planning to sleep? Well, his plans were totally crushed. How could he, when his heart kept racing every time he remembered what had happened right outside that door? When his fingers kept brushing against his throat—the same skin that burned like fire under the suitor's lips? Even the warm bath he took wasn’t enough to erase the man’s touch.

Antinous had left him yet again with those confusing feelings, like he always did. One second, he was cruel and ruthless; the next, he was gentle and… sweet. Did he just call the suitor sweet? He must be losing his mind—that was the only explanation.

After finally giving up on trying to close his eyes and nap like he craved, he left his quarters in search of a suitable distraction. He’d rather face the suitors than deal with the mess in his head.

As he approached the courtyard, he heard loud whooping and hollering. Not that the suitors were ever calm, but today they were… wilder—something he hadn’t thought possible. And the sight before him was, strangely enough, amusing.

The suitors, arms intertwined, formed a human vine. They whirled and swayed, moving with a rhythmic pulse, laughing and shouting chaotically. Their steps were impulsive, yet there was a strange unity in their abandon and haywire chant. And there, among them, he spotted a familiar figure—Lysandrios.

Telemachus couldn’t help but smile in quiet amusement. He hated these men, but seeing them truly joyful—not just wreaking havoc in his home like the savages they were—was an entirely different sight.

Deciding to move on and find something useful to do, he had barely taken a step before a hand landed on his shoulder. Lysandrios. He offered the nobleman a sweet smile, then one brow raised. "Missing me already?"

Lysandrios chuckled. "Can you blame me?" He didn’t hesitate to pull Telemachus closer, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear before cupping his cheek.

Telemachus hummed, leaning into the touch. The man's hands were incredibly soft. But before he could reply, an arm slung around his shoulders, yanking him away.

Telemachus narrowed his eyes, wishing he had the power to burn the suitor alive. Ctesippus smirked, completely ignoring his annoyance as he addressed Lysandrios.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but I have to steal our prince for a while."

"WHAT? WHAT DO YO—" Ctesippus was quick. Before Telemachus could finish his protest, a firm hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him. With an easy wave to Lysandrios—who watched them with an amused glint in his eye—Ctesippus dragged him away.

Once they were far enough from the spot, Ctesippus released Telemachus, earning a scary glare from the boy. "Hey, don't look at me like that! Does Antinous know about this??"

What? WHAT?? What is this lunatic talking about?

"I bet he doesn't! He wouldn't want you hanging out with some man who can't keep his hands to himself!"

Huh?? Telemachus sighed in frustration. His brain was already a mess, and the suitor in front of him wasn't helping at all. "Look... whatever you think is happening between me and Antinous, it isn’t. There’s nothing there. Nothing."

"But what about th-"

"You're reading too much into this," he cut him off, not wanting a reminder of what the man might have seen, whether in the baths or the storage room. He was slightly taken aback to see Ctesippus pouting like a child who had just been scolded.

He patted his shoulder, feeling kind of guilty for disappointing the man, but he had to be honest with him. That was the truth, right? So what if he had jerked off while thinking about Antinous or if he felt a jolt of ecstasy whenever the man touched him passionately? It meant nothing at all. Though the fact that he was never turned on by anyone before disturbed him—not even the young servant who was crazy in love with him and tried to seduce him that one time, exposing her skin in front of him and guiding him to grope her busty chest. He wouldn’t deny how absolutely stunning she looked. It even crossed his mind that it was a shame she was only a servant when she held the beauty of a Spartan queen. But even she couldn’t get the prince to get hard, offering her an apologetic smile. He wondered how that servant would be doing right now. With her beauty, there was no doubt some suitors may have already raped her repeatedly or even impregnated her. But they crossed paths many times, usually when she was serving in the great hall, and he never noticed any signs of pregnancy.

He left to see his mother again, at least he could get some peace in her presence. He really craved to spend more time with her. He didn’t hesitate to rest his head on her lap, closing his eyes when her fingers started to toy with his messy hair. Yeah, he was getting some peace. Unlike one specific suitor...

Antinous slammed the pottery cup on the stone floor, splashing his wine all over the surface. With gritted teeth, he rubbed his forehead harshly before turning to face the man who had just slammed his door open. "Tell me, are you begging for death, or do you just enjoy testing my patience?"

"Antinous! Do something! Your precious little prince is slipping right through your fingers! He’s getting stolen right before your eyes!"

Ctesippus ignored the shattered pieces of the vessel, ignored the threat he had just received, and reached for the man, grabbing his arms and starting to shake him with as much force as he could.

Huh? Antinous blinked. His mind went totally blank. What is this freak talking about??

"The new man Telemachus brought! He has his eyes on him!" He continued to shout, and Antinous had to cover his ears before he might lose his hearing.

"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about," he murmured, strangely calm, contrary to how he was just seconds ago.

"Oh, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about!" Ctesippus was really losing his shit right now. He couldn’t let his new favorite couple break up before they even started anything.

Antinous jerked his arm back. "He isn’t mine, so there’s nothing to steal."

"That’s even worse! You’re about to let another man claim him before you do? You’re slipping, my friend!"

"I couldn’t care less, and you’re no friend of mine. So, suit yourself and get out of my room." Antinous didn’t wait for Ctesippus to leave; he made sure to kick him out of the door himself.

What in the name of Hades is going on with this man? Is his damaged brain the result of his own doing, or was he just born like this? He even lost his appetite at the sight of him—why was he telling him about the prince's affairs? It’s none of his business. He was just fooling around with him after all, enjoying the power he had. Sure, he never intended to engage in such intimate activities with him, but he was just a man, after all. He has sexual urges that need to be taken care of, and well... Telemachus never failed to leave him edgy with desire.

He almost cursed himself—along with Ctesippus—when he couldn't help but head out. He needed to see him. He needed to see him now and make sure the prince knew that, no matter what foolish relationships he might have, he was still his to please.

Again, Telemachus wasn't in his room, and Antinous had to take a moment to compose himself. It seemed the young boy had developed a habit of sneaking out just as the sun began to vanish from view.

He forced himself to relax, unclenching his tense muscles. Telemachus had said he wasn’t avoiding him on purpose, so there was no point in getting all worked up. He just needed to wait. Striding through the halls, he decided to breathe in some fresh air—before his temper got the best of him. Controlling his emotions had never been his strong suit.

As he approached one of the small openings in the palace wall, he poked his head out—and immediately stilled. Looking down, he saw exactly what he had come searching for.

The prince.

Telemachus stood just outside the palace wall, his gaze distant and unfocused. A glazed look dulled his usually sharp eyes. He looked entranced.

Telemachus ~

That voice again—calling him, urging him. He needed to follow.

He had to go to the forest. He had to yield.

His feet moved, slow and unsteady, carrying him forward, step by step, into the growing darkness.

Telemachus~ Hurry!

Yes… wait for me… I'm coming… wait for me, please…

He could feel it—like something brushing against his skin, intoxicating his mind. He needed to reach it, to submit, to obey.

Reckless… desperate… distraught… If only he could—

Then, without prior notice—strong arms seized him from behind, yanking him back into a firm, unyielding embrace. A breath, hot against his ear. A heartbeat, steady against his spine.

Chapter Text

Unlike the previous night in the forest, Telemachus was no longer in control. His mind was no longer his own, and his arms hung limply by his sides. If not for the fact that he was still upright, one might have mistaken him for a beautifully preserved corpse. But he moved—his bare feet glided on the cold ground with slow steps, despite his desire to rush, to run toward the divine voice calling out to him. Seducing him. Claiming him. He needed to follow and worship it. Worship him. Tears welled up in his eyes. This need was too much for him—too overwhelming to resist or control. He had to get there. To serve. To bleed. To please.

His cheeks turned soaked; he was going insane. The path felt endless. It was far longer than he wished, and the call was growing more urgent… more demanding. He finally stepped outside the palace. The cold air did nothing to erase the trance he was trapped in. He shivered, but his unfocused eyes never left the dark trail that led toward the woods. The tears kept flowing—this urge, this desire, was too much to bear.

But all it took was a few more steps forward before he felt solid warmth pressing against his back. Arms encircled him, sending a pleasant jolt through his trembling body. The fog in his mind began to fade, the edges of reality sharpening, leaving him both perplexed and spent. He blinked, casting off the tears clinging to his lashes, and leaned back into the embrace. Being held like this made him feel... safe. A feeling he wasn't sure he still remembered. He shut his eyes when the man held him tighter. He didn’t want him to let go—not yet, at least. Not when his breath still came in shuddering gasps. Why was he crying?

The warm breath against his neck turned into soft kisses, and Telemachus couldn’t help but let out a trembling gasp, “Ah…” The man behind him hummed in satisfaction, clearly proud of how sensitive and ready the prince’s body was to respond.

One hand traveled higher, fondling his chest with a possessive grasp. The other remained around his waist, holding him still. Then lips sealed around his skin, sucking hungrily. Telemachus whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper, “Mmh… A-Antinous…” He couldn't help himself. He rocked his hips back, grinding lightly against the man with a breathless moan. The contact sent a wave of heat through his body.

“Wrong guess, my dear.”

He froze. His limbs turned cold again. He slipped out of the man's embrace in a quick, fluid motion and turned to face him. “L-Lysandrios?”

The man stepped closer, a teasing smile on his face. “Did I disappoint you? Not quite who you were hoping for, hm?” His arms once more found their way around Telemachus’s waist, tugging him closer to his chest. He chuckled when he earned a startled yelp.

He leaned in, his expression shifting into something more serious… more thoughtful. His tone wasn’t like any he’d used before—it was calm, low, but commanding “Stay with me, Telemachus. Don’t go after it. Don’t listen to the voice.”

Telemachus looked at him with dilated pupils. “How do you know…?”

“I just do." His nose brushed gently against the prince’s. "Trust me, it won’t lead you anywhere good. The one calling you means you harm. It’s a trap, Telemachus.” He frowned; concern filled his voice, but his touch remained gentle. Caring. “Don’t go,” he whispered again.

Telemachus hesitated… then nodded.

He gently broke free from the man’s grasp again, easing himself out of the strong arms around him. “I believe you’re not willing to answer the questions I might ask.”

Lysandrios had to take a moment to admire the prince’s composure—how quickly he collected himself, acting as if nothing could unsettle him. He offered a sympathetic smile and followed quietly as the prince turned his back and walked back inside the palace.

                                     - - -

There, from above, sharp eyes watched the scene with a piercing gaze. His chest seized, a painful knot refusing to loosen. The air around him had suddenly become heavy and unbearable. Antinous should just turn and walk away, it was none of his concern what the prince was doing in some man's hold. But his feet were rooted to the spot. And he didn't dare look away.

He couldn’t hear the words exchanged between them—not from that distance. But he didn’t need to. The way the man's face buried into the boy's neck, And the closeness of their bodies, told him enough. Then their faces drew near; a hair's breadth apart, Antinous couldn't tell if the man was devouring his lips. Or maybe he was whispering something sweet and vile... Lewd promises.

And then it ended. Antinous forced himself to move as well. What was with that bitter taste of betrayal? What was with that stupid ache, twisting low and mean in his chest? He stumbled blindly, unsure what to do with himself, bumping shoulders with anyone in his path— man, woman, suitor, servant. He didn't care. This uncontrollable rage inside him was burning him, and no one seemed willing to help him put it out. And his frustration grew deeper.

Until a thought struck him. A target. He stormed down the halls, steps long and purposeful, until he reached the room he had in mind. He shoved the door open like a man possessed.

"Wh- Hey!! Weren't you the one always whining about how we never knock on the door?!" 

Eurymachus was fast to complain, annoyed—until he caught the look in Antinous’s eyes. Then his voice faltered.

"Eurymachus." 

The name landed heavy. The man tensed. Did the man's anger stem from something that he did? Eurymachus swallowed.

"Fancy a bit of a scrap? Just to get the blood flowing." Antinous eyed him like he was nothing but a prey for him, like he was already envisioning the bruises.

"You're clearly beside yourself, man. I'm no fool; I'd rather not be on the receiving end of whatever's eating at you. Perhaps another time, when you're more... composed." Eurymachus folded his arms. He values his life and limbs too much to engage with the man in this state and become his punching bag. And unless he was offering him a spare set of ribs, he'll pass.

"Eurymachus! Gods, I need to hit something. My temper's frayed, my friend"

Did he just call him friend? Yes he did. Antinous would use any word, any tactic, to manipulate people and get what he wants. Eurymachus knew that. "Let's work this out, what do you say?"

Eurymachus denied with a shake of his head "No, Antinous. Absolutely not. My survival instincts are working just fine. Find another way to vent."

Antinous groaned, and threw a punch anyway. Eurymachus narrowly dodged it. His hands floated before him, warding off an unseen blow. "Antinous...Surely someone of your stature deserves a more refined form of release." He said, voice trying to stay even. It sounded panicked in his head, but it came out... Almost eager. 

 "By all means, enlighten me." Antinous raised a brow, showing a touch of curiosity. Good, at least he was listening. 

Eurymachus stepped closer. His instincts screamed at him to run. But he ignored it, just like he was trying to ignore the fact that the man's fists were still there, and may send him to greet thanatos at any moment. "Allow me to offer a far more compelling way to find your peace." Only a whisper of space separated them. "One that leaves you breathless in a far more pleasurable way than bruised knuckles." 

His eyes searched Antinous' face, reading his expression, unable to gauge his reaction. The man regarded him silently. Encouraged, Eurymachus lifted his hands to rest gently on Antinous' chest. He leaned in, lips brushing against his ear, "Perhaps... I could demonstrate?" 

Still no reply. Just silence. But no rejection either. Antinous didn't stop him, and Eurymachus took it as his sign to press on. His fingers traced a downward path. Sliding with a caress along the suitor's arm, till he reached his hand, guiding it, with measured cautious, onto his thigh. He gasped when the grip tightened, Antinous squeezing the flesh. "Antinous..." He whispered again, his hand slipped under the tunic. Fingers wrapping around the man's length, stroking slowly.

Eurymachus eyes widened, he was pushed onto the bed, then flipped over. His face pressed into the mattress, Antinous climbed on top of him. Fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, before teeth sank into his exposed neck. Eurymachus cried out, but laughter broke through the sound. "Antinous, this fire in you ... It stirs something within me..."

"Shut up, would you?" 

Antinous' hips ground against him hard, clothed but overwhelming. Eurymachus groaned with need. Beneath his moans, a silent prayer took form, that the man would tear the fabric off their bodies. But the gods turned a deaf ear to the prayer, as Antinous refrained from satisfying his desire, and continued his rough thrusts against his clothed bottom. 

Eurymachus whimpered, desperate for more. For skin, for connection, for anything real. "Antinous... Please... Don't hold back" he cried, breath ragged. His voice barely his own. "I promise I'll be better... Better than that woman Ctesippus mentioned... Ah, please... "

And it stopped. The thrusts stilled. The weight shifted. Eurymachus blinked and turned, heart hammering, to find Antinous staring down at him with a strange, pained expression. 

Slowly, the heat faded, the touches vanished. And he was gone—leaving the room without a single word, like none had happened. Eurymachus didn't follow. He lay there, his bed suddenly empty and cold. He couldn't identify what exactly was hurting...

Telemachus closed his eyes as the warm water lapped against his skin. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and rose—the young servant had made sure to add a generous amount; she knew how the prince adored the smell. She watched him with a mixture of respect and curiosity. He rarely demanded assistance with his baths, but the tired look on his face was enough to tell her the heir was not in the mood for any activities. She wondered if it had anything to do with the other man. She hesitated, unsure whether to say anything.

"Something to say, girl?" he inquired, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“N-nothing, my lord,” she stammered, her face flushing. Telemachus hummed and closed his eyes again. Her gaze lingered on him longer than was proper—longer than it should have.

“Um... Forgive me, my lord—I’m not sure if you’re aware, but someone was seen standing before your private chamber last night. I believe he was looking for you.”

She could feel the muscles tense under her fingers, and she sensed this was information the prince very much wanted to know.

“It was Sir Antinous.”

Telemachus fluttered his eyes open, nodding in appreciation before offering her a small smile that quickly turned her cheeks red.

After the bath, Telemachus wasted no time heading toward the suitor. He couldn't risk the man thinking he was avoiding him again—and getting angry or violent. His hair was still soaking wet, but he didn’t seem to mind at the moment. Luckily, he didn’t need to walk into the lion’s den himself; he spotted Antinous in the hallway, likely headed to the great hall where the other suitors gathered.

“Antinous!” he called.

The man paused. It took him a moment to finally turn, as if debating whether to face the prince or simply ignore him and keep walking. Telemachus didn’t pay much attention to that hesitation.

“I was informed you sought my presence yesterday. Let me be clear—I wasn’t avoiding you. Not this time, either. Something came up, and I was... occupied.”

Antinous snorted and muttered something like, “Of course you were."

Telemachus frowned. Was the suitor doubting his words? He was no liar.

“I’m serious! I wasn’t dodging the wager!”

The man shrugged. “Forget the stupid wager. Doesn’t matter anymore. You’re way too boring to deal with for an entire week.” His cold eyes roamed over the prince’s body before his lips curled into a small smirk. “You’re not worth it.”

Telemachus felt his heart drop. He didn’t understand it—didn’t know why the suitor’s words hurt deeper than his blows, or why he felt disappointed. Shouldn’t he be relieved? He no longer needed to serve this cruel madman.

He forced a smile onto his face, nodded, and turned on his heels, walking away—far from where the other still stood, still watching him.

Something broke, and Telemachus wasn’t able to name it. What a strange feeling.

It's alright... He didn't need to think about this. He didn’t need to occupy his mind with unexplained things. There were far more important matters—like his kingdom and the suitors threatening his home. And since he was finally free from the man, why not train a little? It had been a while since he last held a spear. His feet touched the courtyard, and he let out a long sigh.

"You don’t look pleased to see me."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. Dealing with one man was already exhausting; he didn’t need another. "What do you want, Lysandrios?"

The man—who clearly had no concept of personal space—smiled at the prince’s annoyed tone. "Just some quality time, your highness. You invited me here, after all."

Screw the rules of hospitality. Zeus Xenios, come strike him! He didn’t care anymore! Though if anyone deserved punishment, it was the suitors—but something told him the god might not turn a blind eye to him as well. And he had to act like a proper king, after all.

Lysandrios reached out, tucking something behind Telemachus’s ear—an ivy leaf. "There," he murmured. "A crown for my prince."

Telemachus couldn’t help but smile at that. Then the man knelt, holding his hand to place a gentle kiss on it. Was he obsessed with his hands?

"Please, grant me the chance to prove that I’m trustworthy." He rubbed his cheek against the prince’s skin, waiting in anticipation. He looked so cute like this, and Telemachus had no chance of denying him.

The rest of his day was spent with the stranger, who didn’t back off for even a minute from showering him with affection—and Telemachus didn’t mind the attention. It was a lovely distraction, if he had to be honest. As the suitor once again left him running away from his own mind.

His teeth closed around the fingers feeding him. The grapes tasted just fine, but it was satisfying to make the man hiss in pain from time to time. A little punishment for the secrets he was hiding. Telemachus wondered if Antinous had fun punishing him too—if he’d only meant to tease, but ended up hurting him because of his rough nature.

"My, my… Am I such a horrible company that the prince is spacing out already?"

Telemachus bit his lower lip, guilt creeping in. He whispered a sincere, 'Sorry,' and shifted to offer the man his full attention.

Lysandrios leaned in to kiss his forehead. "I have something for you." His eyes lit up as he handed the prince a medium-sized vessel. "It’s a gift."

"Wine?" Telemachus asked, pleased.

"Not like any wine you’ve tasted before." Lysandrios smirked, wide and confident.

Telemachus narrowed his eyes, teasing, "Really? Did you, by any chance, steal it from some god?"

Lysandrios laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, then murmured a low, "Maybe."

He licked his lips as the prince started sipping the liquid, grinning when he saw the stunned look on his face—and the way he kept drinking hungrily.

"Told you," he said, reaching out to pull the now-empty vessel from Telemachus, who was desperately trying to get every last drop.

Telemachus stared at him with half-lidded eyes, his mouth still slightly open. He didn’t sound like he understood what was going on around him—and he certainly didn’t seem to know where the man was guiding him.

He swayed from side to side, hearing the man’s giggles and his whispers about how 'cute he looked when he’s drunk and dizzy.' Something told him he should stay alert, that he should stop following the man wherever he was taking him. But even if he wanted to, the tight grip wouldn’t loosen enough for him to escape.

It just so happened that he wasn’t the only one alert.

The one witnessing the scene didn’t think twice. He wasted no time making his way to join the group of suitors. Approaching the man he was seeking, he maneuvered him away from the crowd. He heard him heave a sigh.

“What do you want now, Ctesippus?”

“Me? Oh, nothing. I just came to see what the fuck you’re busy doing, hanging around with those assholes while Telemachus is being DRAGGED OFF!”

“What? You some kind of fucking sneak now, huh? Suddenly got ears everywhere in the palace?”

Ctesippus swore that if he were to wring Antinous, he’d get an ocean of arrogance and obstinacy.

“Antinous, I’m being serious! That creep just pulled him into some room—alone! And gods only know what for! You need to stop pretending this is nothing!”

“It Is Nothing!” Antinous snapped, shoving Ctesippus with a force that sent him to the floor. “If the prince wants to whore himself out to that man, then who am I to stand in his way?”

Ctesippus shook his head repeatedly, despair slipping into his voice. “No, Antinous. No—listen to me. The prince didn’t look conscious. His eyes were barely open. I’m telling you, that bastard did something to him. Something’s wrong.”

He clenched his fists when he received nothing but a limp wave of the hand—a gesture of pure indifference. He got to his feet, spitting his words through a rough, shaken voice, “Fine! Do whatever the fuck you want. Let your precious prince get used by that man—in that room. Ground floor. Southern wing. Right past the great hall. Yeah, that one. Hope it’s cozy enough for him. Bet everyone’ll love hearing his moans echo down the corridor.”

He fixed Antinous with a hard stare, then quickly turned and walked—ran—away when the man stepped forward. He wasn’t about to risk his handsome face getting damaged. Not today.

                                    — — — 

Meanwhile, in that exact room, Telemachus was already a mess of whimpers under the man's touch. He laid a weak hand on him, clutching his tunic, but it lacked the strength to push him away. “No…” he spoke softly, still trying to resist the blurry aura clouding his head.

“Mmm… but you want this, don't you, pretty boy?" Lysandrios continued his trail of kisses along the prince’s torso. His body found its way between Telemachus’s legs, spreading them apart. He laughed when he saw the boy shake his head aggressively, hair flying to cover his face. Carefully, he smoothed it away—he needed to see his expression as he was overwhelmed by pleasure.

He couldn't resist the boy’s throat for long; it kept luring him in, over and over, as he left his marks along the soft surface. Telemachus let out a high-pitched cry when his nipples received the same attention. Lysandrios's tongue and teeth were merciless—and blissful.

Still, the real cry for help was his complete inability to fight back. Was it something in the wine? Was the man going to hurt him? Or worse... use him for his own desires?

“Stop… please don’t…” he begged, something he found himself doing far too often lately.

“Shhh… don’t resist it. This is what you were made for. Your body knew it before your mind did. That’s why you called to me. You wanted to be found. That’s why I’m here.”

His touch traveled lower, exposing the bare skin of Telemachus’s thigh and squeezing it firmly. He smiled at the breathy gasp he earned.

Telemachus struggled to keep his eyes half-open. “Called to you…?” He wasn’t sure if the confusion was from the haze in his head or the strange mystery behind the man’s words.

Lysandrios hummed, barely paying attention to the murmur—too distracted by the prince’s exposed skin and the hunger it stirred in him.

“A few days ago,” he said, “in that old storage room of yours.” He traced the lines of the prince’s body as he removed the last of his clothing.

Telemachus frowned, trying to recall what had happened in that room. He hadn’t gone there often. Actually, the last time he was there was with Antinous, and nothing had really happened... except for that embarrassing moment when they both got lost in lust.

He hadn’t done anything else. Well, except for crying and danci—

The dance.

His heart raced as realization hit him hard and sank deep. “You…”

Lysandrios hummed again, encouraging him to say it.

Telemachus swallowed thickly. Part of the dance he performed that day included movements associated with a specific god.

“You're not a man…”

Lysandrios laughed, watching the prince’s expression shift from confusion to fear.

“Indeed. I’m no man.”

“A god…” The word slipped out as a whisper. Saying it aloud made his heart drop.

“My smart boy,” Lysandrios praised, brushing his thumb over Telemachus’s lips before leaning in, his breath warm against them.

“Desire, devotion, every little madness and delicious urge you could ever crave. The one and only—Dionysus, in all his glory, here for your taking.”

A delicate seal formed as their lips touched.

Chapter Text

The kiss seemed to last an eternity for Telemachus. After the terrifying truth he had just learned, he couldn't find it in himself to keep fighting back. Even if he weren’t drugged, there was no way he could overpower a god. So what was the point in struggling? He might only anger him and make things worse. His kingdom and people could suffer if the deity took offense at his resistance. He’d heard enough about the wrath of the gods to shiver at the possibilities. Just because Athena was kind didn’t mean the other Olympians were anything like her.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. There was no escaping the inevitable. He lay limp on the bed, the deity savoring his lips like there was no tomorrow. Dionysus was gentle at first, but soon let his desires take control. Not enough to hurt him—but Telemachus could feel how the god was holding back. He loosened his grip whenever the prince let out a muffled groan, bit just enough to draw a little blood, but not enough to leave a deep cut. And finally, he pulled away only when Telemachus was breathless.

His tongue didn’t hesitate to lick the tears streaming down. The wine in his eyes glowed faintly in the dim room. Telemachus averted his gaze, breaking eye contact. He didn’t want to see him. He didn’t want to see any of this. All he could do was pray—for this to be quick, and less painful. For the god to take what he wanted and leave. It wasn’t the first time a god craved the warmth of a mortal body and violated him anyway. The deity roamed his body like he had every right to, and all Telemachus could do was lie there and tremble—like a helpless girl—and take it. He felt so dirty and powerless.

A strangled sob escaped him as the god’s hand moved lower, to the most private parts of him now fully exposed by the way his legs were spread. He felt fingers tracing the tight ring of his entrance. “Please…” Telemachus choked out, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Please don’t…” His voice broke on a sob.

“Just surrender to me, Telemachus… and I’ll make every worry melt away.

You won’t have to think, won’t have to feel anything but me.” His finger pressed insistently against his entrance, ignoring the way the boy’s body tensed, and continued to push deeper. “Let me show you how good it can be when you stop fighting and just give in.”

Telemachus gasped, fists clenching the sheets tangled around him. He opened his mouth to protest, to say anything that might change Dionysus’s mind—but the only thing that spilled from his lips was a loud moan as the invading digit began to pump in and out.

The god leaned in again, stealing more kisses while keeping a steady rhythm down below. A flicker of irritation crossed his face when the prince turned away, turning down another kiss. “Don’t act like this, Telemachus. You deserve it—all of it. Every bit of pleasure I can give you.”

“Why…?” The word came out as a raspy whisper. Dionysus’s smile widened, pride flickering in his eyes. “For dancing for me, Telemachus.

You offered yourself with every step—like a prayer. And gods always answer prayers, don’t they?”

“Actually, he danced for me. You just happened to be watching.”

Telemachus’s eyes flew open at the familiar voice. Dionysus froze. When the god finally turned toward the door, there he stood. Antinous.

His eyes locked onto Dionysus, a gaze burning with pure rage.

“Oh, is that so? Funny, you weren’t exactly lining up to thank him properly, were you?” Dionysus tilted his head, still seated between Telemachus's legs. His fingers moved lazily, caressing the prince's thigh. “But don’t worry—I’ll be generous on your behalf.”

Antinous stepped forward, jaw tight. “What Telemachus and I share is ours. You don’t get to interfere. Now take your hands off him and let him go.”

Dionysus's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “You’re interrupting something sacred, mortal.” His voice had lost its earlier amusement, now edged with threat.

“Is that what you call it? Forcing yourself on someone too weak to fight back?” Antinous's hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger. When he brought it, he’d intended to use it on Telemachus's new companion—but he hadn’t expected that companion to be a god. He cursed himself for the reckless move. There was no way he could cause real harm. Still, backing down wasn’t even a thought in his mind.

“You dare?” Dionysus's smile twitched. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “I can’t tell if you’re brave or just incredibly stupid.” His hand gripped Telemachus's chest, pressing down just enough to make the prince groan in pain.

Antinous flinched. The act was deliberate—a taunt aimed at him more than the boy. Dionysus was challenging him, asserting dominance while openly violating Telemachus.

“Call me what you like,” Antinous growled. “You don’t get to touch him like that—not when he’s begging you to stop.”

His eyes flickered to Telemachus. The prince’s gaze was glassy and wide, terror written across his features. He probably thought Antinous was insane for standing up to a god. Antinous didn’t care. He’d dragged the boy through enough pain already. He’d seen him broken, hurting, and he couldn’t bear it. If he wasn’t going to allow himself to hurt Telemachus, then no one else would.

Yes, that was it. Pity. Guilt. Maybe a desperate need to prove something. The rage flooding his veins would need to be unpacked later—if he lived long enough.

“Come now, be sensible. Step aside and enjoy the show. I promise, it’s quite the performance.” Dionysus flashed a grin, eyes gleaming. “Or would you rather… join?”

“You mistake me for someone who shares." Antinous snapped, disgust plain in his voice.

Dionysus burst into laughter, like someone had just told him a joke. “Of course. You mortals are always so hopelessly possessive.” He rose slowly, his entire form glowing faintly now. “As if anything truly belongs to you.”

Telemachus instinctively closed his legs the moment the god left the bed. He hated being exposed like this—even with everything else going on. More importantly, he could hear the way Antinous's voice had wavered, even just for a second. He knew Antinous was afraid too.

The two men now stood ready to fight—or rather, Dionysus was ready to end a mortal’s life.

Antinous knew he had to act. Move. Now. He lunged forward with his dagger. Dionysus’s grin only widened. So reckless.

“Stop!” Telemachus cried, his throat raw. His body moved on instinct. With the last shred of strength he had, he threw himself from the bed—bare, trembling, and aching.

Both of them turned at once.

Antinous’s dagger hit the floor with a metallic clang as he rushed forward, past the glowing god, and caught the prince’s shaking body in his arms. Telemachus wrapped himself around him, clinging desperately. No words followed, but his eyes said everything: Please… leave. Run. Before he hurts you too.

Dionysus watched from afar, baffled by how the prince had managed to move. He was supposed to remain still and lightheaded. Someone else must be watching over him. Another god—one strong enough to break his spell and restore the prince’s clarity and control.

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. A shift in the air replied before words could. The crackle of divine energy heralded her arrival. In a flash of blinding light, she materialized—silver eyes burning with righteous fury, her glare fixed squarely on the other god.

“Enough!”

She stood tall, her command cutting through the thick air like a blade, and Dionysus froze in his tracks.

“Athena!” Telemachus cried, a desperate note of joy and hope in his voice. Antinous was less enthusiastic, still trying to decide which god he’d rather be smited by. For Zeus's sake, He hadn't signed up for this mess. 

As Athena’s concern eyes turned to the prince, Antinous didn’t hesitate. He quickly grabbed the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around Telemachus’s naked form. It wasn’t about modesty—it was about dignity. Telemachus shouldn’t have to face the goddess who mentored his father in such a vulnerable state.

“Ah, Athena,” Dionysus drawled, masking his unease with a lazy smile. “How typical of you to show up at the most inconvenient times.” The goddess was everything he wasn’t—discipline over chaos, strategy over sensation. A bore, in his opinion.

Without warning, Athena’s hand shot forward. Dionysus barely had time to react before the shield she hurled struck him, knocking him off balance. His eyes widened in disbelief.

“I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson, dear Dionysus,” she said coldly. Her voice was quiet, but her wrath crackled beneath it.

“You can’t be serious, Athena,” he laughed—an unsteady sound betraying his nerves. He was cornered, and Athena’s fury was not something gods or mortals ever wished to face.

Now she had her spear leveled at his throat.

Dionysus raised his hands in surrender. “H-hold on! I’m here for the same reason you are!”

Athena’s gaze sharpened, pressing the tip of her weapon harder against his skin. Her voice dropped, venomous and poised. “You dare accuse me of such filth?”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant! I want to protect him too!”

The goddess spat her words. “Protect him from what?”

Dionysus swallowed, his throat dry. “Apollo.”

                              — — — — —

Telemachus sat still in Antinous' arms, the sheet clutched tightly to his chest, but his mind was far from the room. What Dionysus had just revealed—or rather, what Athena had forced him to reveal—wasn’t something to take lightly.

Dionysus kept talking, clearly stalling to avoid Athena's wrath. He told them how he had been fascinated by Telemachus’s smooth movements that day, how he’d come down to bless him—only to find him in danger. How he saved him from Apollo after he passed out, and how he stayed with him until morning. And lastly how he decided to disguise himself as a mortal just to stick around and keep him safe.

Telemachus remembered someone calling for him. Vividly. His time in the forest, the voice, the pull. He even remembered the second time, when Lys—Dionysus—stopped him from following it and warned him. Was that why Dionysus refused to explain back then? Because it would reveal his true identity?

There was another question that echoed in his mind like temple bells, and it was Athena who gave it voice.

“Why is Apollo after Telemachus?”

But Dionysus didn’t know. He was as confused as the rest of them.

The grip around Telemachus never loosened. Slowly, he shifted his gaze to the man holding him. Antinous looked stunned—rightfully so. From a regular suitor who’d never even met a god, to suddenly meeting two at once, and now learning the boy he has been secretly edging himself over was being hunted by another.

He hadn’t known what had happened back then—how Telemachus met the stranger he brought with him to the palace. He hadn’t known the prince had nearly died in the woods that day, alone. And now, remembering how he had treated him afterward—accusing him of hiding, of ignoring him, and acting with such ruthlessness when the heir wasn’t in his right state of mind...

The ache in his chest returned, sharp and cold. He’d been harsh... cruel, even. And he’d hurt the boy over something he hadn’t understood—something Telemachus had no control over.

He could feel the boy’s gaze on him, but he didn’t dare meet his eyes. Not yet.

Then, Telemachus’s hand gently squeezed his arm—seeking attention, seeking his presence. Perhaps he needed to feel another human with him amid the chaos of gods. A comfort the suitor was willing to offer. When Antinous finally looked down, he didn’t expect what he saw: a smile—faint, tired, but real. Grateful. His arms instinctively tightened around him, his own expression softening to mirror the prince’s.

“See? I’m just a good guy trying to protect our little prince here,” Dionysus chimed, shattering the moment.

Both their smiles flickered as they turned toward the glowing purple god.

“You sure?” Antinous snapped. “Seems to me you were busy trying to do something else.”

“I got distracted! Okay!? You—of all people—have no right to judge me! You’re just as distracted as I am!”

Antinous’s face flushed red—his skin practically competing with a rose. He opened his mouth, ready to lash out, but was cut off by the quiet movement of the goddess drawing closer.

Athena ignored him completely. Her silver eyes were fixed on Telemachus.

“I need to speak with you in private.”

Telemachus nodded, shifting uncomfortably. Luckily, Antinous understood. He moved across the room, picked up the chiton from the floor, and handed it to him without a word.

Athena, of course, didn’t leave without throwing a

few final threats at Dionysus—warning him to behave and stop causing trouble. Then she turned and left the room with the prince.

Athena's instructions were crystal clear: sail to Pylos, a wise and peaceful kingdom ruled by King Nestor, who had fought alongside Odysseus. There, seek information about your long-gone father.

Telemachus descended into his father’s high-roofed storeroom—a place filled with garments, stocked with oil, piled with gold and bronze, and lined with chests full of fragrant wine. Massive jars of unmixed, sacred wine were arranged in order along the wall, ready for Odysseus to use upon his return. The double doors were tightly locked, and everything was guarded carefully by Eurycleia, the faithful servant who watched over it all day and night.

He kindly asked her to pour some sweet wine into jars and pack him barley meal for the journey. And the old lady did so. She also swore she wouldn't tell his dear mother—not until a few days had passed—so she wouldn't ruin her beautiful face with weeping. That was exactly what the prince wanted. And despite the tears gathering in her eyes—worried for the heir she had cared for since birth—she had no choice but to trust him and agree to everything he said.

The goddess Athena had already prepared a ship for him, left waiting at the entrance of the harbor. One of her loyal followers, tasked with accompanying the prince, stood guard over it. But what Telemachus didn’t expect was for his companion to be a tall, broad-shouldered man. His long, thick hair flowed past his shoulders in locks, giving him a lion-like nobility. His eyes were sharp yet calm, and a knowing smile lingered on his lips. A short, well-kept beard framed his face, giving him a rugged but thoughtful appearance. His presence screamed “warrior.”

Before Telemachus could step onto the gangplank and speak to the man, a voice behind him froze him in place. He had believed no one had seen or followed him.

“And where do you think you’re going, slipping away in the dead of night?”

He didn’t need to look to know the man was annoyed—though he could clearly sense the concern in his tone. The suitor could no longer mask his feelings from the prince.

“It doesn’t concern you, Antinous. My affairs are mine alone.”

He couldn’t help the shudder that ran through his body when Antinous suddenly grabbed his chiton and turned him around, clearly agitated. The manhandling made the warrior on the ship grit his teeth in anger. Watching his friend’s son be treated like that wasn’t something he could overlook—but before he could move, Telemachus gestured to him subtly, signaling there was no need to interfere.

“Right… so the little prince is running off after all. Leaving his kingdom behind like the coward we always knew he was.”

Antinous spat the words with cold sharpness, a mocking smile creeping onto his face.

“I’m not running away, Antinous!” Telemachus snapped, then softened, letting out a steadying sigh. “I have to find out what happened to my father.”

Antinous’s grip loosened. His voice lowered, but held a slight softness.

“Your father is dead, Telemachus. That’s what happened.”

“You don’t know that!”

Telemachus's voice rose—so loud that even the man waiting on the ship could hear it.

Antinous, caught off guard by the emotional outburst, fell silent. He stared at the prince, like searching for an answer in his face. Then, he let out a defeated sigh.

“Fine. I’ll go with you, then.” He noticed Telemachus’s shocked expression and smirked, the bitterness sharp on his face.“But don’t get the wrong idea—it’s only so I can be there when the truth finally hits you… when you hear your father’s dead, and I get to see that look of disappointment on your face.”

Telemachus wasn’t convinced. What a poor argument the suitor had—but he knew better than to argue with him. He was going to do what was on his mind anyway.

“Aww, we’re going on a trip together? How utterly lovely!”

Both cringed at that and turned to face the source, Antinous already pulling out his dagger. Telemachus’s reaction was no different; he held the sword he had brought with him and pointed it toward the god. Their eyes were filled with anger and disgust.

“Ouch... Don’t look at me like that! My mission’s not over yet—I’ve still got to keep Telemachus safe from my charming half-brother.”

What was wrong with everyone wanting to join him on his mission? But again, Dionysus was right. They needed someone strong enough to face the god of prophecies in case he decided to attack the prince. And a part of him truly believed that the deity wouldn’t try something reckless again. Athena had made sure of that. He might be immortal, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t suffer if she decided to punish him.

Telemachus huffed, clearly not thrilled by his own words. “Ugh, fine. Whatever.”

The stare he got from Antinous was something to fear, but he just shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head as if to say, "I don't have a choice."

Once they got on the ship, the man from earlier eyed them with a raised eyebrow. He hadn’t expected the new company with the prince, but he said nothing. His gaze focused more on Dionysus, who was still disguised as the mortal Lysandrios. And the god was uncharacteristically starting to shift uncomfortably, to their surprise.

Before they could start a small talk about the situation or introduce themselves, a strong wind suddenly blew and filled the white sails of the ship. The ship began to glide over the surface of the water, leaving the shores of Ithaca behind.

The long-haired man cursed under his breath and immediately ran to adjust the ropes.

“These gods never bother with a damn warning, do they?”

Telemachus heard him mutter with a mix of irritation and grit, which made him realize that perhaps this wind was a divine intervention—maybe sent to help them.

Antinous was already doing the same, a sign of his experience with sailing and knowing what to do. Telemachus tried to recall what he had read in books about what should be done and began to help.

When everything was under control—and while the others (minus Lysandrios, who was hanging around lazily) were busy keeping a close eye on the wind speed, direction, and wave conditions—Telemachus made it his mission to check the gear, ensuring all equipment was secure and in good working order.

He remembered the goddess saying she would be the one to transfer the supplies for him. Wondering if she had already done that, he took steps toward the storage space.

There was a gulping sound that made him stop right in front of the door. He was positive that the other men were somewhere else—he had just left them behind. So who…? Who could be behind this door? His heart started hammering. Was he under a spell again? Was Apollo luring him here alone—so he could kill him?

Telemachus debated whether he should run and inform the others while he was still conscious, or just risk it all and check what was really going on. He leaned, ear against the wooden door, so he could hear clearly. He heard nothing—it was totally quiet again. He sighed in relief. All those past events must’ve gotten into his head, causing him to hallucinate things.

It was when he grabbed the door handle that he heard it again. Loud and clear this time. His stance turned into a fighting position, and he held his sword in his hands. He would face him—and he would ask him himself why he was after him, though he had done nothing to offend the god.

He took a deep breath, slammed the door open with a strong kick, and jumped inside in an instant. He was ready for what was to come—ready to face a vengeful god.

But oh... he wasn't ready for this.

There, on the floor, sat someone he couldn't have expected. With his eyes wide open and his hands tightly gripping a vessel of wine—clearly the source of the gulps he’d been hearing—his lips parted in shock, slowly turning into a silly smile that suited him.

Telemachus stood there for a few moments, then slowly turned and closed the door behind him after leaving the room.

"Hey! Don’t ignore me!"

He heard Ctesippus—who was quick to follow—yell. He couldn't help but roll his eyes. Next time, he’d make sure to bring the whole palace with him too.

When he reached the deck, three pairs of eyes were obviously on them. Two were annoyed, and the third was surprised—Athena’s warrior hadn’t noticed when the suitor climbed onto the ship. He had to admit, he was impressed.

Ctesippus had to sit like an obedient kid and explain to everyone that he’d heard about Telemachus’s intention and decided to come along out of boredom.

Antinous wasn’t surprised the man heard about it; he had the skills of a professional spy.

Everyone just fell silent when he finished talking. Ctesippus gave them his stupid, confident smile. .

"Let’s just throw him overboard. Let the sea deal with him."

And his smile wavered.

"First time I’m with you on something,"

Dionysus added, his arm hanging around Antinous’ shoulder. Antinous didn’t seem to mind at the time, as they both liked the idea of getting rid of the weight the ship should not bear.

Telemachus let out an exhausted sound. He needed to save the poor man.

"Sit down, both of you. Can we not start throwing idiots overboard today?"

"Yes! Listen to the prin—HEY!!"

Ctesippus protested, the insult hitting him a moment too late.

The older man stepped closer, and Dionysus made sure to step out of his way, giving enough space, a nervous smile on his lips as Telemachus watched him with suspicion.

He offered the pouting suitor his hand and helped him to his feet. Ctesippus was never more grateful in his life. He fought the urge to kneel before the man and maybe suck his dic—

Focus, Ctesippus!

You're here to make sure those two bastards don’t ruin things between them further. No time for personal fun. Even if the man’s dominant aura was hard to ignore.

Even if he was incredibly hot.

Even if he had a strength in his silence that made Ctesippus’ legs weak.

He was a man who didn’t need to speak to be heard, and it was clear—since the others had already turned back to their previous business.

Ctesippus let out a relieved breath. He survived.

After the fiery orb sank into the water, transforming the horizon into a golden line, darkness quickly began to envelop the place, and the winds calmed. Telemachus became certain this was the doing of one of the gods—for this had been their sign that the time for rest had finally arrived after a long and arduous day.

He leaned against the ship's railing, watching the dark waves crashing around them. His body was exhausted from all the work he'd done. He wasn't used to sailing, but he was happy with this new experience. At least he was finally following in his father's footsteps.

His mother would be sad when she learned of his departure. He knew well that worry would consume her and that tears would further mar her complexion. Telemachus tried to kick the guilt to the back of his mind. He would make it up to her when he returned.

A harsh sting across his ass snapped him out of his thoughts. Telemachus yelped, his body jerking upright as a surge of pain and adrenaline coursed through his veins. Before he could turn to face whoever had so rudely slapped his rear, two strong arms reached around him, gripping the railing and trapping his body between them, preventing him from moving.

"What is it with you, Telemachus? So eager to offer your backside—do you actually wish to be railed by that lecherous god?"

Telemachus couldn’t help the intense glare he shot toward the man over his shoulder. Antinous had that teasing smile on his face again; it was hard not to deliver a punch.

He crouched, slipping beneath Antinous’s arms—it was difficult to avoid brushing against the man’s body—but he at least managed to escape. He stood and began adjusting his clothes as he stepped away, but Antinous’s palm forcefully closed around his wrist, stopping him... no, compelling him not to leave.

Telemachus looked up. Antinous’s usual smirk was gone, replaced by that blank stare Telemachus could never comprehend. He was close—close enough for Telemachus to feel his warmth. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Telemachus’s chest suddenly felt too tight. His eyes dropped to his feet instead of the man in front of him. Then, he whispered, almost too quietly to be heard, “Why are you here, Antinous?”

Antinous was silent for a moment. Then he exhaled and let go of the prince’s wrist “Because you are.”

Telemachus felt something ache deep in his chest. He lifted his head slightly, just enough to see Antinous’s face again. To try to read his expression—to understand this complicated man. And he failed.

“Why though? Why show up?” His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of something tightening in his throat. “Surely your time’s too precious to waste on someone who’s not worth it.” A small, bitter scoff slipped out before he could stop it.

“You’ve made it clear. No need to prove yourself wrong now.” The last words would've been unheard if their surroundings weren’t as quiet as a graveyard.

Antinous frowned. He knew the boy was referring to his words back then. Antinous was never the type to care if his words hurt someone. But now that he did, he had no idea how to fix it.

He never thought about the weight of his own words. Sure, he wanted to hurt Telemachus at the time—to make him feel his pain, even if just a little. But by the way the prince clung to those words, like they were replaying in his mind, Antinous realized they had come out sharper than intended.

His heart sank a little further as the silence stretched and Telemachus looked even more hurt, his shoulders slumped.

Antinous hesitated, then—carefully, cautiously—reached out, his fingertips brushing over Telemachus's hand. A touch so light. Just barely. Just enough to feel the warmth of Telemachus’s skin against his own.

He half expected Telemachus to jerk away in disgust, to shove him away and mock him for the foolish move. But the boy only watched him in silence. Then, he turned his palm up, just as hesitant, just enough to let their fingers slightly intertwine.

Antinous let out a soft, almost relieved sigh and squeezed his hand, working up the courage to finally lace their fingers together. Beneath his touch, the skin was impossibly soft—a comment that might be considered an insult to a man who was supposed to be strong and rough. So, he kept the remark to himself, gently stroking that small area between Telemachus's thumb and index finger.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered finally. “Back then. What I said. I was angry, and… I just wanted to make you feel bad."

Antinous stepped closer, cautiously. They were nearly toe-to-toe, the space between them vanishing “But I didn’t mean what I said. About you not being worth it. That’s… definitely not what I think of you."

Now he was the one avoiding Telemachus’s eyes. The words fluttered out like a torn flag in a weak breeze. He hated admitting how wrong he was. It was shameful for a man like him. But he was trying to undo the damage he had done. His pride could wait.

"Then… what is it that you think about me, Antinous?" Telemachus asked. He didn't raise his voice—probably hoping Antinous wouldn’t catch how it slightly cracked. But he did, and it pained him even more that despite the obvious sliver of hope in his tone, the prince was still expecting to be hurt again.

"I think you're a brave little wolf." He started with a little smirk at the corners of his mouth, almost teasing—but his eyes returned to Telemachus, reassuring, as if to prove his sincerity.

"Doing everything you can to be the perfect son, the perfect heir... just like they expect you to be." His voice softened a bit.

"I also think you're annoying." His gaze narrowed, as if he were trying to remember something "You piss me off more than anyone I've ever known." He huffed a dry laugh—short and rough, as if he couldn’t believe that fact himself.

Then there was a pause. He glanced away for a second, a battle in his mind telling him to stop, to end it here, to not make a fool of himself. But when he met Telemachus’s gaze again, the words floated out before he could think better of it. And to his surprise, he didn’t regret them.

"And I think..."

He traced the curve of Telemachus’s cheek with his free hand, mapping the delicate landscape—a tender gesture. A silent confirmation of his message. "...You’re pretty."

Telemachus flinched like the statement had struck him clean across the face. His mouth hung slightly open.

“What we did in that storeroom…”, He let the memory hang in the air, his voice dropping, laced with heat “I don’t regret a second of it.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips, followed by a faint scoff “Well—maybe the part that inspired that irritating god to drop in.” He leaned in, lips hovering close enough to brush Telemachus’s “But everything else?”

He glanced down, eyes locked on the prince’s mouth—a wordless request “I’d gladly do it again. Slower this time. Deeper. If you’d let me.”

His breath ghosted over Telemachus’s lips, awaiting approval, but his only response was a sharp inhale. The silence bit harder than any rejection. Disheartened, Antinous began to pull away. The sting of disappointment was sharper than he’d expected. What could he have been thinking? Now he's truly made a fool of himself.

He tried to appear unfazed, hands slipping away slowly, already missing the warmth. He forced a faint smile and reached up to tousle the prince’s hair.

But before he could leave, Telemachus placed both hands on his chest. Eyes closed, head tilted up in offering. Antinous froze—realizing, with wide eyes, that the prince was asking for a kiss.

His heart thundered. One arm slid around Telemachus’s waist, pulling him flush against his body as he leaned forward, closing the distance. Their lips met for a mere half-second, timid and tentative – a shared breath of hesitation. Then, in the next, their mouths found each other again, firmer, hungrier.

His mouth moved with a deliberate slowness, tracing the shape of Telemachus’s lips like a map he was learning by heart. The kiss was soft, careful. The prince, unsure of himself, unsure of what was expected, yet making an effort, kissed him back in awkward, aimless motions. Yet every clumsy attempt only unraveled the suitor further.

Fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tightly, while the other hand rested shyly against his chest. Antinous’s fingertips found Telemachus’s jaw, then slid to his cheek—gentle, reassuring.

He wanted more. Needed more. He ached to lose himself in this unfamiliar tenderness, to devour the sweet boy in his arms. But what could be more foolish than rushing someone so unversed in desire?

With a final, featherlight brush of lips – just as it had begun – he leisurely drew back. The lingering warmth he left behind had the young man on his toes, a deep longing stirring to meld their breaths once more.

Antinous didn't give way to his desire, but his arm still held Telemachus close. The boy let out a soft, involuntary sound of protest before catching himself, cheeks blooming with a rosy flush. He pressed his face against Antinous’s chest, hiding.

A low murmur escaped him, muffled against the fabric.

“For someone so full of himself, you really suck at kissing. Just thought you should know…”

Antinous let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head in disbelief, “You’ll have to be more original than that.”

There was a moment of silence before Antinous looked down, to where Telemachus was fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.

“You said…” The prince began, drawing the man's full attention. “You said you’d do it again…”

Antinous’s brows drew together in brief confusion—until he realized what Telemachus was referring to.

“I did,” he said softly, lifting the boy’s chin with a gentle touch. “But I didn’t mean right now.”

“Is… is this a bad time?”

Antinous had no idea how he managed to resist such a soft, uncertain whisper.

“No, no. It’s just…” he paused, searching the boy’s face, “Are you really sure? After everything that happened earlier, I figured you might want to take a break from anything… you know, physical.”

Telemachus’s face darkened again, a blooming flush that—thankfully—was partially hidden by the growing shadows.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m sure.”

Antinous felt his breath hitch, a heavy pulse of anticipation rising in his chest. Was the prince offering himself now? Trusting him to touch, to explore, to press him back and memorize the curve of his body with his hands and mouth? To claim him—not with power, not with anger, but with something far more dangerous?

His fingers twitched with restraint.

Telemachus had no idea what he was inviting.

Antinous inched closer, ready to close the agonizing space between them and let them both drown in their desire. His lips hovered again near Telemachus’s—another chance to back off. The final chance.

To his delight, the prince leaned in with determination, pressing against him without hesitation. Antinous hummed in satisfaction.

A sudden noise in the background shattered the moment. Both men jolted, breathless and wide-eyed, scanning their surroundings.

Nothing.

Antinous groaned in frustration, grabbing Telemachus’s hand. “Come on,” he muttered, pulling him away, deeper into the dark.

Neither of them noticed the two figures hidden in the shadows.

Dionysus, seething with rage, glared daggers at Ctesippus—who was currently pinning him down, one hand clamped firmly over the god’s mouth, the other gripping his shoulder as they ducked behind a column.

“You will NOT ruin this!" Ctesippus hissed.

                                 ---

Telemachus found himself led to a dark, cramped cabin. The door that shut behind them prevented any light reflected by the moon from crawling inside. The warmth around his hand disappeared, and panic bloomed in his chest. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the dark, to make sense of the space. He then felt those hands again on his waist, coaxing him backward. His back met the cold wall, and a body loomed over him—tall, heated, and hungry.

His eyes fluttered shut when the man’s breath brushed his skin. He felt a rapid flutter in his chest, a deep-seated craving he couldn’t name—only obey. Letting instinct override reason, he stood still allowing whatever was going on to happen.

His lungs forgot how to work when the same lips that intoxicated his mind moments ago were now kissing a spot behind his ear. He gasped, but the sound choked before it could leave his throat. He suddenly felt unsteady on his feet, reaching out to grab for something—anything—for support. And the man’s shoulders were just there for him.

He could hear him—Antinous—panting, breathing like he was starved. Just from this. Just from him. And gods, it did something wicked to Telemachus’s insides.

When the man sucked at that same spot behind his ear, Telemachus couldn’t hold back the throaty moan that ripped from his mouth. The darkness in the room made every sensation sharper, every touch heavier. It was too much for him. He didn’t care anymore—not about shyness, not about control, not about dignity. Let the suitor see him unravel.

“Hey,” came the man’s voice, teasing and low, “maybe keep it down a touch, yeah? Trying to be a little stealthy here.”

Telemachus could hear the playful tone, but it did nothing to soothe the faint buzz of annoyance that ran through his nerves. Without a second longer, he arched his back, pressing his hips forward. His arousal met the man’s erection. Their cocks collided, still separated by fabric but burning hot. Antinous groaned, loud and unrestrained, and dropped his forehead to the prince’s shoulder, trying to collect himself.

“Maybe you should lead the way and try to take your own advice,” Telemachus teased with a smirk, satisfied with the reaction he pulled.

Antinous panted harder, taking way more time to catch his breath than Telemachus was capable of waiting. But when he moved again, against Telemachus’s neck—mouth open, tongue wet and hot— he made the boy shiver all over again. 

Telemachus didn’t care how trapped he felt, didn’t care how helpless he was, that he could not push the man away if he wanted. But he didn’t want to. He tilted his head, offering his throat like a gift.

Antinous took his hand and dragged it downward, teasing it along the hard ridge in his clothes. Telemachus sucked in a breath, fingers twitching in surprise, brushing against the thick, cloth-covered shape—his eyes widening in a newfound hunger. He didn't dare move, he let Antinous guide him, let him show him what he liked, what he wanted.

Then the man slid his hand under the fabric, and Telemachus touched him—bare, hot, throbbing with need. Antinous let go. The message was clear.

Do what you want. Make me yours.

Telemachus wrapped his fingers around his shaft, stroking and caressing the sensitive skin with slow, motions. Antinous moaned, deep and broken, and leaned in close, his mouth brushing Telemachus’s ear as if he needed him to hear every sound he made. To let him know exactly what he was doing to him. 

He tugged aside the prince’s chiton, revealing flushed, bare skin. Telemachus gasped, a sharp cry breaking from him as fingers pinched his nipples—rough, commanding. His hand was slick now, gliding with obscene, wet sounds as he stroked the suitor’s cock.

Antinous grabbed that same hand and brought it behind him. For a second, Telemachus panicked—had he done something wrong?

But then the suitor moved, lifting the boy's tunic, dragging down his undergarments with an urgency that sent chills up his spine. Telemachus trembled, his body vibrating with want, aching with anticipation.

Then their lengths met, bare flesh pressed to bare flesh, and the shock of that contact had both of them crying out, breathless and trembling. Telemachus whimpered, unable to think, only feel.

Antinous didn’t stop. He rolled his hips, grinding against him with a rhythm that stole Telemachus’s breath, melted him from the inside out. He felt like he was dissolving into the man’s touch, into the heat between them, into the frantic, filthy need that refused to be tamed.

The fabric was starting to rip between the two men. They hated it—hated the stupid barrier. Once it was gone, Antinous's hand slid under Telemachus's thigh, fondling the soft skin before guiding the boy’s leg to wrap around his waist. He stood between his legs, continuing to rut desperately against him, the two shafts sliding and slipping against each other, smearing the mix of their pre-cum into a slick, filthy sheen. He heard the prince let out strangled moans, suddenly wishing he had lit a lantern earlier so he could see the expression on his face.

Telemachus, on the other hand, found the sensation of Antinous’s thick, rigid cock humping against his own overwhelming. The insistent pressure of another man’s erection rubbing against his sent him hurtling toward the edge with alarming speed.

His thighs trembled, his stomach clenched, and his toes curled as he clung to the man. He threw his head back, accidentally slamming it against the wall. With a raw, guttural cry, his cock finally pulsed and jerked, painting thick white ropes across their grinding shafts.

Antinous felt it—and stopped. Feeling the trembling figure coming undone beneath him, he placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

His dick was still hard as a rock. But he couldn’t keep grinding against the boy after his orgasm—Telemachus was far too sensitive now. There was no doubt it would hurt him. Yet Antinous couldn’t wait much longer either, not with how close he felt.

Antinous freed the prince’s leg and spun him around. He grabbed his ass with a firm grip, making the boy jolt—coming down from his high, only to tense up immediately.

“What’s wrong, little wolf?”

Antinous withdrew his hands and instead caressed his back, slow and gentle.

Telemachus shuddered, the answer arriving a little late. “I don’t want to… do that.”

Antinous fell silent for a moment. Then, he leaned in and pressed a kiss against the nape of his neck.

“I know.”

He felt Telemachus slowly begin to relax under the weight of his kisses, so he offered more—generous in his patience.

“I won’t,” he whispered again, his mouth finding the bare skin of the prince’s shoulder—waiting to be kissed, worshiped. So, he did.

“I just need to rub myself against you a little bit. Nothing more. I won’t put it in. Not unless you ask me to. Can you trust me with that?”

His trail of kisses moved lower, following the line of Telemachus’s spine. He heard a soft whimper in response—but it wasn’t enough. So, he waited.

Telemachus bit his lip. Guilt weighed heavier than trust—guilt that he had been the only one to finish. He nodded hesitantly, but Antinous didn’t move. He cursed himself quietly, realizing the suitor couldn’t see him.

Antinous wouldn’t move unless he heard or felt something clear. He didn't trust his words enough. So, Telemachus was left with one option.

He placed his hands on the wall, arching his back ever so slightly—pushing his hips backward in a slow, tentative motion until he felt the man’s hardness pressing against the swell of his ass.

Antinous let out a shuddering breath when he felt the plump flesh pressing back, his rigid cock nestling in the cleft of the boy's ass. The motion was shy, unsure, but it was permission nonetheless.

“Fuck…” he whispered, voice low and reverent. He didn’t move right away—he let the weight of that silent gesture sink in. This was the prince, half-wrecked and trembling, letting himself be vulnerable for him.

Antinous's hands slid up and down Telemachus's sides, feeling the dip of his waist and the flare of his hips. His fingers splayed wide, trembling slightly as he leaned in, resting his forehead between Telemachus’s shoulder blades.

He rolled his hips forward, letting his cock slide between the boy’s cheeks. The slickness of his pre-cum, along with Telemachus's own release, eased the glide. He groaned—deep and rough—and kissed the boy’s shoulder again, softer this time. Grateful.

His hands slid around to grip Telemachus's ass cheeks, pulling them apart. The plush flesh engulfed his shaft. He could feel the tight, puckered ring of his asshole brushing against the sensitive head of his cock.

His movements fell into a sensual rhythm, dragging himself against Telemachus’s skin. Every thrust was a promise kept: nothing more than this. Nothing he hadn’t asked for.

Telemachus whimpered, feeling that heavy shaft dragging over his most intimate area—every ridge and vein rubbing against his asshole. It felt so good. He gasped and arched his back, pushing his ass out more, offering himself up to Antinous's touch.

Antinous’s breath hitched, then turned ragged as the heat built. His hands gripped Telemachus's hips again, tighter this time, as his body began to tremble. He picked up the pace of his thrusts, fucking the tight valley of Telemachus's ass crack with long, powerful strokes of his cock.

“Can I?” he choked out, words like smoke against the boy’s ear. “Telemachus... can I come like this?”

Telemachus swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. The way Antinous was holding him made something ache in him—but it wasn’t fear anymore.

He didn’t speak. Words felt too heavy, too loud in this dark, sacred space between them. So instead, he pushed back again, arching just a bit more, pressing himself tighter into the man behind him.

That was his answer.

Antinous let out a sound that was almost a whimper, almost a growl. He buried his face in the back of Telemachus’s neck, his thrusts becoming shallow, desperate, needy. The heat of it all—the slick slide of their bodies, the soft skin beneath his hands, the boy’s submission—dragged him closer and closer to the edge.

Telemachus could feel the weight of Antinous's heavy balls slapping against his taint with each forceful thrust.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice hoarse and broken. “I—gods, Telemachus, you feel—”

His words cut off with a strangled moan as his hips jerked forward one last time. He pressed flush against Telemachus, body stiffening, and then shuddered as he came—spurting hot, thick, and messy between them, smearing across the prince’s tight hole, cum dripping to cover his lower back and thighs.

Antinous clung to him as he rode it out, panting into his skin. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.

Then Antinous leaned in and kissed the spot behind Telemachus’s ear again—this time slow, soft, lingering. Another silent thank you.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, hands gently stroking the boy’s sides now. “But I’m not going to clean you up.”

Telemachus chuckled in response. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

In the next cabin, Athena's warrior had a wide grin on his face, clearly amused by what he had just witnessed. "Hah. So, the whelp takes after the old boar after all. Figures..."

Chapter Text

He moved through the ship with fluid steps, leaving the sleeping crew undisturbed in their chosen spots. The moonlight wasn't bright enough to guide him, though he hardly needed it. Leaning over the ship's edge, he observed the dark water surrounding them, so different from its usual blue clarity during the day. A long sigh escaped him; patience was never one of his virtues. 

“I can feel your presence, lurking beneath the waves. Come now, dear uncle. No need for you to skulk like that.”

The deity grinned when a familiar figure emerged from beneath the water. "Well, well, look who’s pocket-sized today. Never thought I’d see the ocean shrink to fit a pair of sandals."

The other god smirked, completely unbothered by Dionysus’s subtle insult. Gods on Olympus were used to his little comments, often dismissing them as the ramblings of a drunken fool. Not that being sober made him any less annoying, but they’d just blame the wine anyway “You talk as if you’re not dressed-up in mortal size yourself,” Poseidon quipped.

“Hardly unusual for me. You, on the other hand…” Dionysus narrowed his gaze, weaving his fingers in the air as if searching for his next words. “What are you doing here, Poseidon?” was all he managed to come up with.

“You seem to forget who you’re talking to. I doubt I need a reason to wander in my own domain.” Poseidon’s tone was growing more irritable. His short temper was no myth, after all.

“You can't fool me with that. You're after Odysseus's son, aren't you? I should’ve guessed it when Athena allowed me to accompany him in the first place. Everyone knows about the grudge you hold toward his father.” Dionysus took a casual sip from the goblet he summoned in his hand, drinking as if he weren’t in the middle of a serious conversation with one of the three most powerful Olympians.

“Look at you with your cruel assumptions about me. I must say, that hurt a little.” Poseidon placed a hand dramatically on his chest, earning a snore from the one with purple eyes.

“I may have some... unfinished business with Odysseus indeed, but I wouldn't dare hurt such a delicate creature as his son.” Poseidon’s sharp teeth gleamed despite the looming darkness, his grin wide and unsettling.

Dionysus tilted his head, humming thoughtfully. Poseidon was right. Telemachus was that beautiful creature you'd want to hold and protect. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to harm him willingly. That made him all the more confused about why his half-sibling might be trying to do so. Frowning, he turned toward the others.

“Okay then, I’ll leave you to it!” was the last thing he said before heading back toward the group, leaving the god of tides behind.

Telemachus shifted uncomfortably. It was already dawn, but the prince was unsatisfied by his restless night. With Antinous next to him, Telemachus found it hard to fall asleep for some reason—unlike the suitor, who had immediately started to snore.

He stretched his arms, feeling the empty spot beside him. It was cold, showing that a significant amount of time had passed since the man had departed. He still couldn't figure out how they'd wound up in the same bed. They just… found themselves there, together, and neither of them questioned it.

Antinous surely wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t going to clean him up, but Telemachus was grateful the man had been considerate enough to light a lantern and bring him the cloth and water he needed. Though Telemachus wasn’t exactly happy about the fact that the dim light allowed him to see his exposed form, he did feel more confident in the dark.

Telemachus groaned, unable to go back to sleep with all the flashbacks of the previous night running through his head. No sooner had his eyes parted than he jolted upright in horror, finding himself face-to-face with wide, staring eyes. A strangled yelp escaped his lips as he instinctively scrambled backwards, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the creepy sight. The shock held him for a moment before his mind began to catch up.

“Fuck!!! Ctesippus! You scared me!” His hand flew to his chest, checking his pulse and making sure his heart hadn’t stopped from the sheer terror. 

The man didn’t move. He had that sparkle of fascination in his eyes, as if he were mesmerized by something.

Worried, Telemachus asked, “Uh... You okay?”

Ctesippus nodded quietly, continuing to observe the prince with an awestruck stare. Telemachus huffed in annoyance, ruffling his hair. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Ctesippus’s eyes lit up at the question, eager to share his passion. “Well, I came to check if there are any marks, you know?”

“Marks?” A wave of utter bafflement overtook Telemachus, who scratched his head in sheer confusion.

“Love marks,” Ctesippus answered simply, as though talking about the weather or the price of olive oil.

Telemachus's eyes went wide in horror, his back starting to heat up. “You… heard?”

“Of course I heard! Everyone heard! You guys are loud. Especially Antinous. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was the one getting screwed.”

“No one was getting screwed!”

“No one was getting screwed!”

Came Antinous’s voice, matching Telemachus’s words. He had a slight flush on his face, hidden behind his angry expression.

“Yeah, right. I’m sure what we heard last night was just a philosophy lecture. Real deep stuff. Especially the parts with all the gasping.”

Telemachus had no idea how Ctesippus managed to dodge the dagger Antinous hurled at him. But he was grateful no one had to clean up any blood for now.

Ctesippus found it impossible to steer his eyes away from the man who had changed into a loose, open-chested tunic—probably chasing comfort during the sail. The scars across his chest and the roughness in his appearance were enough to show he had fought countless battles, each one carved into his body with honor.

Ctesippus didn’t know when his fingertips had started feathering along the man’s arms, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop, even with warning signals piercing through his skull. Thankfully, the warrior didn’t seem to care in the slightest, keeping his focus on adjusting the ropes alongside Antinous. The two men worked with the efficiency of a whole crew.

“Hold on a second... No one’s rowing here! How the hell is this ship moving all on its own?!” Ctesippus suddenly blurted out.

Antinous merely shrugged, completely unbothered.

The warrior barely looked up, “Aeolus is helping. Athena asked him to lend us some wind.” he stated as if it were common knowledge.

“Oh,” Antinous muttered, not particularly surprised—just acknowledging the explanation with a slight nod, like it made enough sense.

Meanwhile, Ctesippus stood frozen, his brain still catching up, mouth slightly ajar as if he was waiting for someone to tell him it was a joke.

“Where’s Telemachus?”

Dionysus asked out of nowhere as he approached the three, keeping a respectful distance from Athena’s chosen companion.

“None of your business!”

Ctesippus snapped before anyone else could answer.

Antinous hummed in satisfaction, proud of the suitor’s boldness.

Dionysus rolled his eyes. He knew damn well the man wouldn’t keep that sassy attitude once he learned who he truly was. A part of him looked forward to that moment—when the little mortal would be put in his place, eyes wide with fear, begging for mercy. His punishment, however, was being saved for a more suitable occasion.

His gaze then fell on the way Ctesippus’s fingers shamelessly traced unseen lines along the warrior’s arm. His brow arched. The suitor met his stare, then defiantly scooted closer to the strong man beside him—clearly aware that Dionysus was avoiding getting near the man. What a bastard!

But the god had a good question after all—where the hell was Telemachus? Antinous decided to check on the boy, hoping he hadn’t gotten himself into any more trouble.

Just as he suspected, Telemachus was in the cabin from last night, pacing in the small space anxiously, like he bore more than what Atlas ever managed.

Antinous stood there, watching the prince fight his own internal battle, completely unaware of his presence. He clicked his tongue, unimpressed by the boy’s poor awareness of his surroundings.

Getting his attention wasn’t difficult though. All the suitor needed to do was toss a grape at him, and Telemachus blinked in confusion, staring at him like he’d been caught committing some unforgivable sin.

"Forgive me for thinking my presence deserved a glance."

Antinous stepped closer. He knew exactly how to coax the boy into sharing whatever thoughts were tangling in that royal head of his.

"Must be something interesting, the way you’re frowning like that—thinking of me, perhaps?" he teased, smirking when the prince rolled his eyes.

"You’re really out of touch with reality."

Antinous chuckled, untouched by the jab "Careful with the accusations. Your head was in the clouds not five seconds ago." He leaned in, and the way Telemachus quickly looked away said everything. Nervous. Too proud to admit it.

Telemachus cried out suddenly, flinching from the burn in his shoulder. Antinous was biting him—and it wasn’t gentle "W-What’s wrong? What are you doing?!"

"I’m going to give you the marks Ctesippus was talking about if you don’t start talking right now." Antinous stated, licking the clear impression of his teeth on the boy’s skin.

Telemachus looked horrified—for the second time that day "You’re out of your mind, I swear on my life!"

Antinous only shrugged, already shifting his focus to the boy’s throat. That would be a perfect place for more bruises.

"Wait! Wait!! I’ll talk!"

Well, that was fast, Antinous thought. This kid really needs to work on his endurance.

"Hmm..?"

He let go—barely. Just enough space so the prince wouldn’t bolt, something Antinous had grown familiar with. Telemachus fidgeted with his tunic again. There it is. That stupid habit he has whenever he gets shy.

"I don’t have all day. Speak up."

Telemachus frowned. He didn’t even want this man to listen, he was forced to speak, and now he was already being rushed.

“It’s just... how should I greet him? King Nestor, I mean... I’ve had no practice with formal speech. And then, when a young man seeks to question an older one, his words could bring him shame.”

Antinous fell quiet. The boy truly was conflicted. He never considered that Telemachus might struggle with something as simple as speaking. He had never struggled with words—not when charming, lying, or threatening. But Telemachus was different. The son of Odysseus. That title came with weight. Every word, every move, had the power to bring pride... or shame. And the wrong one might haunt him forever. Must be tough—living in fear of everyone’s expectations. Afraid of disappointing what you’re supposed to be.

“Listen, kid,” Antinous said finally, “with everything that’s happened, I doubt you were born and raised without divine favor. I’m sure your heart will think of something—and power from heaven will provide the rest.” He grinned, sly “Or is that razor tongue of yours only sharp when I’m around?”

Antinous watched as the prince’s posture began to ease, his words having landed just as intended. Even the teasing remark earned a small, reluctant chuckle from Telemachus instead of the usual sharp retort. He’d be lying if he said that little laugh didn’t stir something in him.

Antinous beamed with pride as he watched his prince speak boldly and bravely in front of everyone, addressing his words to King Nestor. He didn’t even stutter once, and every word was spoken with grace and royalty. Would it be inappropriate to pin the boy to the floor right this moment and show him just how proud he was? Definitely. He'll delay his reward, then.

After they reached Pylos, where everyone was busy preparing offerings to Lord Poseidon—something Antinous rarely bothered with—he joined in anyway, if only to be polite.

“Strange... no one's pouring wine for Lord Dionysus.” 

Antinous wanted to laugh. He didn’t know gods could be this childish and jealous over such things, but there he was—Dionysus, or Lysandrious to those who didn’t know him—frowning because he wasn’t getting as much attention as the other god.

“The wine-soaked god?”

Ctesippus asked. Now it was really hard to hold back a laugh. Oh, this poor boy had no idea he was insulting the god right in front of him.

The glare Lysandrious shot him sent the suitor crawling back toward the warrior. A gesture that screamed: I DARE YOU TO GET CLOSER.

After Nestor listened to everything Telemachus had to say, he offered the prince a soft smile and replied with the same level of respect, acknowledging his pain.

Antinous felt a bit awkward when the boy started complaining about the suitors—ignoring the fact that he was accompanied by two of them.

After what felt like forever of the old king yapping, his focus shifted to the man sent by Athena—and his next words struck them all.

“Son of Tydeus... it’s been ten years since I last saw you. Not since we were bleeding in Troy.”

“Wait—Troy?” Telemachus blinked, stunned.

Ctesippus looked at the man beside him like he'd just grown a second head.

Antinous’s eyes narrowed, gears visibly turning.

Dionysus was fed up.

“Seriously? No one noticed the lion-hair, the jawline, the war scars, the ‘I-sleep-with-one-eye-open’ attitude?” 

The silence that followed said it all.

Telemachus lay on the comfortable mattress, stretching his limbs like a feline. His eyelids were nearly closed, heavy with exhaustion, but he found it rude to fall asleep before his companion had even arrived. He was supposed to sleep in the corridor, not in the prince’s private quarters—certainly not in his bed… with him. The thought alone sent a wave of heat rushing to his face, and he grabbed the pillow next to him, burying his cheek in it as if that could hide his blush, even from himself. They looked like they were the same age, give or take a few years, but Telemachus couldn't help but feel the weight of experience between them.

The man had earned himself the title Leader of Men, and now here he was, sharing a room—a bed—with someone whose only achievement was being the son of Odysseus. Telemachus exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to relax. The room was quiet, offering a warmth and stillness unlike the palace back home. Here, at least, he could just be... tired. And human.

King Nestor was such a kind man. He had a presence that comforted Telemachus in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. Telemachus couldn’t help but feel as if the man were a grandfather figure, even though they had only met a few hours ago. He was the very embodiment of a kind elder and a wise ruler. His aura made Telemachus feel like a child again—but not in a belittling way. He made him feel seen. He made him feel like he mattered. The old man also seemed to cherish Odysseus as if he were part of his own family. Telemachus had a wide smile on his face at that.

And his sons—gods, they were all so... gracious. Generous. Almost too perfect. They were just as warm and welcoming as their father, each of them sharing the same polite manner and strong sense of duty. It was strange to be treated as an equal. They didn’t see him as the awkward son of Odysseus or the inexperienced young man stumbling his way through politics. They were respectful to him, to Telemachus—smiling the entire time, listening to him, attending to his needs. Those feelings were all new to him. He hadn’t felt anything like that before—not until he came to Pylos.

Then there was Diomedes.

The mystery that was Diomedes.

Telemachus couldn’t read him. At all. And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He wasn’t sure what he expected when Athena said someone would accompany him. Well, he knew the goddess would choose someone she trusted, but he certainly hadn’t expected her to send her own student—the former King of Argos himself!

Damn, the man had fought in Troy! With his father! How had Telemachus not realized that before? He had definitely noticed the way Diomedes scanned every room before stepping inside, the way he always sat with his back to a wall, the way he never strayed too far from his weapon. But if it hadn’t been for Nestor, they never would’ve known who he really was. The man hadn’t even bothered to share his identity.

The question now was: why was Diomedes following Athena’s request? What did he owe her? Or... what did he still want from her? Anyone would assume a man in his position would be too busy plotting how to reclaim his throne. Yet here he was, accompanying Telemachus on his little mission—as if that would benefit him at all.

So what did he really want?

Telemachus wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything when it came to Diomedes. All he knew was that Athena trusted him—and that alone said everything.

Diomedes’s tanned skin was so much like Antinous’s. They both bore scars—only Diomedes’s were deeper, more numerous, carved by years of battle, unlike the suitor’s, whose experience paled in comparison to the general who brought victory at Troy.

Their personalities couldn’t have been more different. Diomedes carried a quiet menace, a calm that radiated danger. Antinous, on the other hand, never hesitated to flaunt his superiority whenever the situation allowed it—probably because he had to constantly assert his dominance over the other suitors.

But despite that poisonous mouth and rough attitude, the prince was now aware that the man was capable of so much more. His harsh hands could offer a gentle caress; his sharp tongue could whisper comforting words. And his hardened body, always promising violence, could just as easily promise pleasure and heat.

Telemachus rubbed his thighs together, the memories flashing through his mind—the filthy things they’d done. How Antinous had pressed him against the wall, letting him feel every inch of his body. How they had ground against each other like starving men, their bodies creating their own rhythm, their own music. He wanted that again. He wanted to feel the man’s hardness throbbing against him again.

He flipped onto his stomach, hips circling slowly, grinding against the soft sheets beneath him. His breath hitched as he closed his eyes, pretending it was Antinous pressed against him.

He needed him—needed those strong hands gripping his hips, those bruising kisses trailing down his throat and across his chest. The weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the hard ridge of him teasing, demanding. He ached to feel him again between his cheeks, hard and unrelenting, chasing his own pleasure.

And gods, the memory of it—the way Antinous had spilled against his aching entrance, heat slicking his skin—brought a rush of shame and hunger all at once. Telemachus shivered, his face burning as his mind wandered deeper, darker.

What would it feel like... to be taken fully? To be opened and filled by him? Would it hurt? Would it thrill? Would the suitor whisper filthy things against his ear as he claimed him? He didn’t know. But the thought of it—the thought of Antinous losing control, of spilling deep inside and filling him up—made his whole body tense, desperate and trembling with hunger.

He reached behind himself, fingers twitching as he lifted his tunic, baring his ass to the cool air. His touch hovered, then traced the tight ring of muscle—hesitant, unsure. A shaky breath left his lips when he finally pressed a finger inside. The intrusion unfamiliar but It wasn’t like Dionysus’s touch—rough and unfeeling, dulled by whatever he’d been drugged with that night. No, this was raw, real. Unfiltered. But still uncomfortable.

He sucked in another breath and eased it out, pulling his finger free before pushing it back in, a bit deeper. His brows knit in concentration. Was this how Antinous would feel inside him? Would he stretch him open like this? Would it feel good for the man? Telemachus moaned under his breath, trying to mimic the rhythm Antinous had used when humping him. That strong, needy pace, chasing release. Telemachus bit his lip. He could almost feel him there. Antinous would thrust like this. Hard. Relentless.  A whimper slipped past his lips.

“I have to admit... this is quite the sight.”

The voice sent a shock through him. He gasped, body tensing as he accidentally pushed his finger in deeper with a stifled moan. His head whipped toward the door, face burning, hands scrambling to yank the sheets over his exposed skin.

And there he was, leaning against the doorway with a look that was hard to read. 

Telemachus’s heart hammered in his chest, mortified beyond belief. Of all the people to catch him like this… why did it have to be him? With all the embarrassment, Telemachus would be lying if he said he wasn’t praying to die in that moment.

Peisistratus crawled into the bed, ignoring how the boy curled in on himself, trying to shrink smaller—or maybe disappear entirely. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He planted his arms on either side of Telemachus’s body, far too close. His eyes wandered shamelessly, drinking in the sight of the terrified prince of Ithaca.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Huh? Telemachus blinked, caught off guard, his mind scrambling to process before the man spoke again.

“I can help.”

Excuse me??

What happened to the polite guy from earlier? Telemachus recoiled, his face burning—and it wasn’t the kind of heat he’d been craving.

“N-no!” he stammered.

“You sure about that? I can tell you were thinking about someone… down there.” Peisistratus's voice dropped, smooth and knowing. “If you’re planning to take it up the ass, you gotta be prepared so it doesn’t hurt. I’d gladly teach you about that.”

He said it so casually, like he was offering advice on how to swing a sword.

Telemachus shook his head firmly, a mortified rejection. To his surprise (and slight relief), Peisistratus didn’t push. He simply hummed in acknowledgment and shifted, lying down beside him with a lazy grace.

Sensing his discomfort, the older prince started rambling—about the stars, about Nestor’s snoring, about some ridiculous childhood memory. It worked. Slowly, the tension in Telemachus’s shoulders eased. He even found himself chuckling at one point, sinking into the warmth of the bed and the unexpected ease that followed.

Chapter Text

The towering trees above twisted their branches into a dense canopy, stealing the light of the sky. The only sounds in this eerie place, were the whisper of the wind and the faint calls of unidentifiable creatures in the distance. His legs carried him forward, each footfall a distinct beat in the silence, deeper into the woods. He longed to halt, to spin around and flee, yet his body felt like a separate entity, its will now independent, ignoring his commands. Even his voice had deserted him. He mouthed words again and again, a silent plea for rescue, a voiceless scream, a desperate call for help that found no release.

Telemachus ~ 

That voice again... the call of doom, the call of pain and suffering, urging him to pay for sins he hadn't committed.

A familiar wave of suffocation swept over him, a crushing embrace that left Telemachus rigid and helpless. He could only stand there, his body trapped in this choking squeeze. Each breath was a struggle, movement an impossibility, and the sheer endurance of it was torment. Out of thin air, fiery orbs materialized and floated before his blurred vision. Before he could fully register them, an arrow pierced one, bursting into flames before striking him. A desperate scream clawed at his throat, a futile attempt to lessen the pain, but no sound escaped. Utterly powerless, he could only witness and receive the remaining arrows hurtling toward him.

His eyes snapped open, heart hammering against his ribs. For a disoriented moment, he stared at the ceiling, the familiar environment nothing like the horrors his mind had conjured. Relief washed over him as he registered his surroundings; Nestor's palace, his son's room. It had just been a nightmare.

At first, the persistent sensation on his neck felt like a mere echo of the terrifying dream, or perhaps the sharp sting of an intruding insect. But the burning heat refused to dissipate, and the growing weight pressing down on him felt undeniably real, far beyond the realm of lingering nightmares.

A foreign touch traced paths across his body, a strange breath ghosted against his skin, an odd pressure making itself known where it shouldn't. It was undeniable now. This wasn't the makeup of his sleepy mind. Someone was definitely touching him.

A chilling dread began to seep into the edges of his awareness, a silent alarm echoing within the realm of his mind. His instincts screamed 'Danger'

Panicked, Telemachus drew a sharp inhale, poised to object and fight against the invasion of his bodily privacy. But before he could, a large hand clamped over his mouth, silencing his intended outcry. Then, a large figure loomed over him, eyes watching with concern.

"Did I frighten you?"

There it is... that familiar voice.

The terror that had threatened to dislodge his spirit subsided, and Telemachus felt his soul firmly within him again. His nerves slowly calmed, allowing him to finally comprehend the situation. He released a long breath of relief when the hand no longer covered his mouth, "Terribly..." 

As if trying to apologize, Antinous drew near once more, pressing a kiss to the boy's earlobe before tugging it between his lips and sucking gently on the soft skin. 

Telemachus whimpered lowly.

His head snapped to check the other side of the bed. “Where is...?”

“That ugly prince? I watched him leave moments ago.”

Wow, I guess Antinous isn't really a big fan of Peisistratus, Telemachus thought. But then something flickered in his mind.

“Wait...” He hesitated, unsure if what he wanted to say would make him sound like an idiot, but curiosity got the best of him. “Were you standing outside all this time... watching over us?”

The man paused, and Telemachus bit his tongue. Here comes the mockery... How could I assume something so stupid?

But Antinous resumed his work not long after a second had passed, mumbling a quiet “Maybe” against his skin. Telemachus’s heart might have skipped a beat or two.

Antinous drifted downward, and only then did the boy register how exposed he really was—his chiton pushed aside, presenting his body like an offering for the man. The tongue that circled around his chest drove him insane, teasing but never satisfying, as the suitor deliberately avoided his rosy peaks. The prince shifted relentlesy, dying in anticipation.

Antinous continued to suck around the area, drawing a soft whine from the boy beneath him. He held back a chuckle when the prince grabbed his hair, pulling him in a silent command toward his already hard nipples. The suitor decided he could be a little merciful today and obliged the boy’s desire, circling the pink area between his lips and sucking with an intensity few men ever would—but the little gasps he drew from the prince were more than worth it.

Telemachus knew this was wrong. They were in someone else’s palace, someone else’s bed. This was anything but appropriate. Peisistratus could come back at any moment... But oh, that tongue licked the logic right out of him.

He felt Antinous nudging his legs further apart, offering himself access. His eyes widened slightly, but he allowed the man to do so anyway.

“Are you feeling uncomfortable?”

Antinous asked, lifting his head to face the prince and observe him. His eyes, just like earlier, were filled with concern.

Was Telemachus uncomfortable? Well, besides the fact that they could get caught at any given second—no, he wasn’t. He had this strange feeling of ease and relief whenever he was with this specific suitor. Yes, a suitor for his mother—that was the truth. But he was here now, with him. Not at his palace with the others trying to court Penelope. And for now, that was enough.

Telemachus shook his head. This was the truth—he wasn’t uncomfortable at all. The man’s touch didn’t bother him. It did other things, in fact...

He watched as the man’s expression softened. Antinous leaned closer to place a gentle kiss at the corner of his lips. Lingering there, he whispered, “Can I keep going?”

Telemachus felt something leap in his stomach. He didn’t know if it was because of Antinous’s needy tone, or his lips still brushing his skin, or... or Pylos’s food. Yeah, that made more sense for him.

The prince nodded—just barely—but it was definitely noticeable. So he furrowed his brows when the suitor didn’t make a move, still hovering near his lips. That’s when he remembered Antinous’s need for vocal approval. Biting his lower lip to ease the awkwardness, he whispered,

“Y-yes... you can...”

Not a heartbeat later, Antinous’s lips were already on his. Unlike the kiss they shared on the ship, this one felt... desperate. How long had the man been waiting to do that again?

Despite the intensity of the moment, Telemachus could feel Antinous smile through the kiss.

Antinous lifted his tunic, a skeptical look crossing his face when he saw the prince wasn’t wearing any undergarments. Telemachus didn’t feel like explaining the little experiment from earlier. His embarrassment in front of Peisistratus had made him forget to put anything on afterward.

Pushing the thought aside, Antinous lowered himself, leaving gentle kisses on the boy’s chest before devouring the patch of skin with his mouth. He moved lower, to his stomach, treating it with much more care but still leaving his traces behind. A wide grin crossed his face when he reached his belly button, licking around it before dropping to the fully erect cock just below. Ah, so the prince was in no better state than he was.

He kissed the tip, then slowly took it into his mouth, sucking the sensitive skin that made the boy beneath him whimper loudly. He didn’t linger for long, turning his focus to what never failed to displease him—those damn thighs. He hated how it felt nearly impossible to take his eyes off them whenever the prince moved, and he hated even more that it wasn’t only his attention they drew.

Telemachus clamped his hands over his mouth when the man started sucking on his inner thighs intensely. The actions soon turned into bites and groping that left his skin burning under the suitor’s touch.

It was becoming hard to control his breathing, his moans, his thoughts. So when the man leaned over him again, Telemachus quickly wrapped his legs around his waist, locking them behind his back. He could regret his actions some other time.

Antinous adjusted his own tunic, freeing his manhood and pressing his hips against the boy’s, making them both moan in contentment as their sensitive tips met, sending a jolt of pure pleasure surging through their bodies.

Antinous rubbed harder, chasing more of that sensation, pushing his hips so he could feel the prince’s erection leaking pre-cum. And it was his awareness that Telemachus was feeling the same thing—experiencing the same pleasure—that turned him on even more. That Telemachus was just as wrecked as he was.

It was only when the boy pressed his hand firmly against Antinous’s mouth that the suitor realized he might be the reason they’d get exposed. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it himself.

“Shit… that jerk was right. I am loud.” He frowned, keeping eye contact with Telemachus as they simply stared at each other in silence.

They soon burst into low chuckles that were hard to keep hushed. Antinous rested his forehead against Telemachus’s, a fond smile on his face, then caught his lips again. Softer now, more devoted.

Telemachus started to mimic the man’s lips, trying to figure out how to kiss him properly.

Antinous moved his hips again, and they were back to moaning and groaning as soon as he did. Their pre-cum mixed together, working as a lube, easing the motion and heightening the sensation. The suitor’s hand reached down, grabbing both cocks and jerking them off together—but he soon gave up, realizing he couldn’t grind against the boy’s body comfortably that way.

His lips never left Telemachus’s, except to suck at his throat like a starving predator. Telemachus didn’t seem to mind. He silently thanked whatever god was watching over them, unsure if he could bring himself to stop if the prince asked.

Antinous dropped his head beside Telemachus’s neck, panting breathlessly, just like he had after their wrestling match. His whole body pressed against the prince as his hand inched toward Telemachus’s, intertwining their fingers and pinning them beside the boy’s head.

Telemachus’s legs still hung around the man’s waist as Antinous kept thrusting, again and again. If anyone saw them, they’d assume Antinous was penetrating the boy. And in Telemachus’s hazy mind, he wished that were the case. He was here, his thighs parted wide for the man—he could easily enter him and fuck him senseless. So why was Antinous holding back?

Telemachus’s needy whimper got the suitor to raise his head, watching him with a worried expression. The prince took the chance to push the man aside, shifting their position so he could straddle him, his legs wrapping around Antinous’s hips.

Antinous furrowed his brows, unsure of the meaning behind the act. Did Telemachus want to stop? What a shame… He was so close…

But Antinous’s breath caught when Telemachus leaned in, whispering hotly against his ear,

“Care for another dance?”

The suitor swallowed hard as the prince’s hips rolled, just like they had that day in the storage room—only this time, no clothes stood as barriers. Flesh ground against flesh. Telemachus braced himself with his hands on Antinous’s chest.

Antinous gripped Telemachus’s waist, unsure if it was to steady the boy or himself—but necessary, nonetheless. His head sank back into the pillow. Peisistratus’s pillow… They had somehow shifted to that side of the bed, probably when Telemachus flipped their positions.

Telemachus lifted himself just enough to guide the man’s cock between his cheeks, lowering himself so the erection nestled between his flesh. He moved again, swaying in the man’s lap, making sure his hardness brushed against his hole. His own cock rubbed against Antinous’s stomach.

Antinous—poor Antinous—was having serious trouble staying composed, trying not to embarrass himself by making anymore noises he didn’t even realize he could make. Telemachus felt a sense of pride. He was the one undoing the suitor. He was the one driving him mad.

Antinous’s hands began guiding him. He started thrusting his hips, rubbing himself against the boy as if he were truly inside him—fast, hard, needy.

Telemachus cried out when he felt the man’s hot cum spill against his entrance. The wet sensation and constant stimulation pushed him over the edge, and he reached his release too.

Telemachus collapsed onto the man, their chests rising and falling violently in sync. They stilled, breathless, slowly descending from their high.

Antinous flipped them over, pinning the boy beneath him. He gazed at him with soft admiration, fingers brushing through Telemachus’s damp hair. Their legs tangled together.

He dove in again, kissing the boy’s lips. Then again. And again. Each kiss strong, each one layered with emotion—gratitude, lust, fondness, lo...

A noise by the door shattered their world.

Telemachus shoved the man away in a panic. Antinous, catching on, rolled off the bed and crawled underneath it to hide.

Peisistratus entered the room, lying down near Telemachus, who had already covered himself and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep—praying his hammering heart wouldn’t betray him.

Antinous realized then that he was sentenced to spend a rough night on the cold floor.

Antinous had... well, let’s just say it hadn’t been a gentle night. His sore body ached with every movement, but thankfully, he managed to slip out of the quarters once both princes had left.

When he reached the hall where Nestor resided, he couldn’t quite place why the mood felt so... uncomfortable. Not until he caught the wide grin plastered across Nestor’s face.

Perplexed, he followed the king’s gaze—and to his confusion, it landed on Telemachus.

Nestor grinned from ear to ear while staring at the young prince, who stood awkwardly at the far end of the room.

Antinous was surprised he could recognize the prince. Telemachus looked like... like a walking pomegranate, blooming and flushed, skin marked in deep shades of red and violet.

Antinous glanced around the room. Nestor’s sons were exchanging playful smiles. Peisistratus—the uglier one, in Antinous’s totally unbiased opinion—held his hands up in a defensive gesture, clearly denying whatever silent accusations were flying around.

Diomedes’s face remained neutral, though Antinous could tell the man was suppressing a grin. Dionysus, meanwhile, had his attention locked on a totally different target. Antinous followed his gaze. 

Just one glance at that smug, too-proud expression, at his silly grin that was even wider than Nestor’s. And Antinous’s eyes shot back immediately to Telemachus—

 It hit him at last.

The prince was covered in marks from last night. It was obvious. There was no way to hide it all. No lotion, no tunic, no prayer could disguise what they'd done.

His tunic doing its best to conceal his chest—but it failed miserably at hiding the rest. Faint bite marks peeked along his collarbone. Hickeys bloomed down the sides of his neck. And his legs were even worse—his exposed thighs dotted with the unmistakable outline of fingers, mouth, desperation. 

Antinous felt a flicker of sympathy for the boy. Not because of how roughed-up he looked—if anything, that sent a jolt of ecstasy racing through his veins—but because of the slightly humiliating situation.

All those accusing eyes… The awkward tension in the room… And —wait... WAIT!

Nestor thinks his son did all of this!?

Telemachus was more than happy to spend his time with his new grandpa. Nestor never seemed to tire of telling stories—about his father, the Trojan War, and everything else the young prince longed to know.

Ctesippus, on the other hand, started yawning after the first hour. He didn’t care about all this ancient war stuff for gods’ sake.

He felt himself being gently pulled away. When he looked up, he recognized Aretus, one of Nestor’s sons.

"Did my father bore you?"

Ctesippus froze. The last thing he wanted was to offend a king in his own kingdom. He shook his head wildly, panic written all over his face.

Aretus laughed—a bright, almost musical sound that made Ctesippus’s stomach flip.

Damn.

Damn his laugh.

Damn that sharp jawline, that Adam’s apple, those arms—

Focus, Ctesippus. Focus!

Aretus leaned closer, eyes wandering slowly, almost like he was sizing him up. Ctesippus suddenly wasn’t sure if he was about to get kissed or hunted.

"Want me to show you something special?"

"Huh?" Ctesippus blinked. "Uh—sure, why not?"

Aretus placed an arm casually around his shoulder and gestured toward the entrance.

"Slip into the forest. Somewhere quiet. I’ll be there in a moment."

The forest? What was this—was he going to show him flowers or something? Ctesippus cast a suspicious glance at him, but eventually shrugged and nodded.

And just as the man said, he went—completely unaware of the other figure silently following his steps.

Diomedes seemed to take great joy in landing punch after punch on his new target. Antinous wasn’t sure why the famed warrior had challenged him to a fight, but he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity. This man was a hero—facing him in combat was an honor, even if Antinous would never say it out loud.

He knew he was no match for Diomedes, but the sheer difference in power still caught him off guard. So this is what Telemachus must feel like fighting me, he thought, a twisted sort of sympathy flickering in his chest. Unlike the prince, though, Antinous prided himself on his endurance. And so, the fight dragged on… far longer than it reasonably should have.

Eventually, his body gave out, collapsing to the floor in a heap of bruises and sweat. Yet even then, with blood on his lips and his chest heaving, Antinous grinned. He had managed to land one last punch—right on Diomedes’s jawline. It wasn't much, but it was a victory, and he’d take it.

Diomedes stood over him, his shadow swallowing Antinous’s view. His eyes burned like judgment itself, calculating and calm.

"You may yet pass," he said at last.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Antinous blinking after him.

"Pass what?" Antinous muttered to himself, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

[The following scene contains non-consensual sexual content. If you wish to skip it, please note that the scene continues until the end of the chapter.]

"Oww! Oww!"

"Stop whining like a bitch," Dionysus hissed, his hands pressed firmly against Ctesippus' back, pinning him down. His hips thrust forward, driving his hard member deep into the man, stretching his tight passage.

Ctesippus' body was an array of bite marks, some of which had begun to bleed. His backside was prominently displayed for the god behind him. A strangled scream ripped from his throat as the deity's full length penetrated him completely.

"I... I hate you..." Ctesippus gasped out, exhaustion and pain coloring his voice.

"I. Hate. You. Too," Dionysus growled, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust. The rough motions elicited pained moans from the man beneath him.

Ctesippus was reduced to nothing but a mess of moans and whimpers as his body was used in such a way and subjected to such treatment. He found himself spreading his legs wider and yielding to the relentless invasion, trying in vain to mitigate the agony caused by attempting to close them. Fine, if this was the punishment Lysandrios desired, so be it. If this is how he wanted to play, under the assumption that Ctesippus would cower and apologize, he is dead wrong. "Make it count, you bastard," Ctesippus spat defiantly.

And Dionysus did, slamming into him with vicious abandon and cruel intensity. Screams tore from the man's throat, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and streaming down his face, dripping onto the ground beneath him as the merciless pounding intensified. His body jerked and convulsed with each brutal thrust, his skin scraped raw against the harsh surface, stinging and bleeding. 

This was unbearable, a violation of his body's capacity and a stark contrast to what he longed for. He wept, his face hidden in the dirt, as the relentless pounding grew harsher and the pace turned agonizing.

"Look at you—you were so cocky before, now you're just a trembling mess under me while I split you open and fuck you into obedience. Is this how you pictured your first time? Face down, ass up, choking on moans?"

"Ngh—n-not... my first time, asshole..." Ctesippus protested weakly between his sobs and broken moans.

"Liar," Dionysus scoffed, tightening his grip on the mortal's hips. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving vivid red welts and drawing blood. "You're clenching like a virgin and sobbing like one too." He redoubled his efforts, pounding into Ctesippus more savagely, determined to break his spirit.

He would not cease until Ctesippus broke, until Ctesippus was humbled and learned his place so he would never again dare to challenge him. Glancing down, he could see the blood that had seeped from the mortal's violated entrance, "Mercy’s an option little man, if you know how to ask for it properly."

"I—Ah… I’d rather break than beg a trash like you."

A piercing shriek in pain followed as the cock driving into him slammed with such savage force that got the suitor thinking his hole was being cut open by a blade.

His eyes squeezed shut, he doubted his ability to withstand any more. The feeling of being torn apart, used, and abused was overwhelming. Sweat beaded on his skin, exacerbating the ache of his bruises with a sharp sting, each drop a burning torment.

He couldn't endure this, his limits were reached and his body became unable to cope. But the worst part was that none of this bore any resemblance to the intimacy he sought.

Dionysus showed him no mercy, not for a single moment. Each thrust was fueled by frustration and anger. He persisted without pause, unaffected by the man's screams, his weeping, or the horrifying trail of blood that slicked his inner thighs from his ravaged anus, a stark testament to the damage inflicted.

But then the suitor's weak struggles ceased, and his cries subsided. A moment passed before the god realized the man had lost consciousness.

He pulled his hard dick out from inside him and watched the trembling body flip to the side, finally getting the chance to glance at the man's face. Pain was evident in his expression, tears still clinging to his lashes and wet on his cheeks. Bruises marked him from the hits Dionysus had inflicted manhandling him into position. His body was in no better state.

Dionysus cursed himself.

Chapter Text

Telemachus couldn’t fall asleep.

It wasn’t just the excitement from all the stories Nestor had eagerly shared—though that certainly kept his mind spinning—but the faint glow in the room, the stillness of the night, the way everything felt too quiet. All of it pulled his thoughts back to last night.

He shifted uncomfortably beneath the covers, frustrated. Not even the usual relief crossed his mind—he couldn't touch himself, not with his companion asleep right beside him. But more than that… he was confused. Why hadn’t Antinous taken him?

He knew the suitor had wanted him. The signs were unmistakable—Antinous had been so hard it looked like he could command an army with that thing. So why had he stopped?

Telemachus’s mind wandered, trying to piece it together. Antinous had seemed confident, experienced even. He knew how to touch, how to coax pleasure from both of them with every stroke and press. Could it be that… Antinous was holding back? Afraid of hurting him?

Peisistratus had said it would hurt if he wasn’t prepared. But what did that mean? What did it take to be ready?

He turned his head toward the other side of the bed, heart pounding, "Are you awake?" he whispered into the quiet.

There was a pause, then a low hum. Peisistratus opened his eyes, his voice soft “Something troubling you, Prince Telemachus?”

Telemachus hesitated, then leaned in, close enough that not even the walls could overhear him. He swallowed thickly “Mhm... Earlier, you said that I should be... prepared. For, um... you know.”

Peisistratus lifted himself onto his elbows, watching him for a moment.

“You want me to show you?”

The younger prince nodded, eyes darting everywhere but at Peisistratus.

Without a word, Peisistratus rose and crossed the room. When he returned, he held a small flask in his hand. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he gestured “Come here.”

Telemachus approached hesitantly, standing between Peisistratus’s legs.

“The first thing you need to know,” Peisistratus said, holding up the flask, “is that you should always have this with you.”

“Oil?” Telemachus asked.

“Exactly. It acts as a lubricant. Makes things smoother... less painful.”

Telemachus blinked, absorbing that. He hadn’t known that. Did Antinous? He made a mental note to tell him later—teach him, even.

Peisistratus poured some oil onto his fingers, then looked up, locking eyes with Telemachus. He reached forward and gripped the boy’s thigh, gently tugging him closer. Telemachus yelped in surprise, his body going rigid as Peisistratus’s hand slipped under his tunic.

“Shhh... it’s alright,” Peisistratus murmured, sensing his tension. “You can trust me. This is important, especially if you’re serious. With how you look...” His gaze lingered on the bruises that still marked Telemachus’s thighs, “...I doubt whoever did this will go easy on you.”

Telemachus flushed crimson. He knows. Peisistratus knows what happened—and worse, he knows what Telemachus wants. To lie down for another man. To let him take control. To feel everything people say is meant for women.

Peisistratus’ fingers were warm as they traced the curve of his backside, slow and tender, seizing every opportunity to touch. Telemachus flinched when an oil-slick finger circled his tight entrance, his hands flying to the man’s shoulders to ground himself. Peisistratus took his time, and Telemachus was starting to hate him for it. He needed this done.

The finger pressed against him, and Telemachus tensed, his breath caught in his throat. “Breathe,” Peisistratus said lowly, gripping one cheek and pulling it aside to ease the way in. His thumb rubbed slowly against his hip in lazy, comforting circles. A clumsy attempt to soothe him, even as his slick finger teased his entrance. “Don’t fight it. You have to relax, Telemachus. If you’re tense, it’ll hurt. Let me in.”

Telemachus nodded stiffly. He could do this. He had to. Or how else would he ever be ready for Antinous?

He forced himself to exhale as the finger breached him. It didn’t quite hurt — just a strange, wrong pressure inside his body. Peisistratus hummed in approval, slowly working deeper.

“There you go,” he praised, “You're doing well.”

The finger twisted, coaxing him open. Then another joined, stretching him more. Telemachus bit down on a whimper, letting his knees give out slightly, tilting forward against Peisistratus’s chest. His body shuddered at the violation, even slick with oil, it was too much.

“That’s alright,” Peisistratus murmured. “It’s not supposed to be comfortable. This is just how you get ready. So you don’t tear. So you can take him without screaming from pain.”

Telemachus gasped, clutching at the sheets. The words hit him harder than the ache caused by the fingers — this was for Antinous. He was doing this to be good enough for him, to be able to take him inside and be filled by him... Antinous would be proud to see him doing this for him right now.

A laugh almost bubbled in his throat, wild and bitter. When did he become so desperate for the man's approval? How had he fallen so deep?

“Oh—” A sudden moan ripped from him when Peisistratus curled his fingers just right, brushing something inside that made his body light up.

“That's it,” Peisistratus murmured, almost smug. “That’s the place he’ll aim for. Or should. If he knows what he’s doing.”

Telemachus whimpered, legs trembling, hips instinctively rolling back onto the invading fingers. When a third finger pushed inside, the stretch bordered on unbearable. He was panting now, cheeks hot, body needy and helpless under Peisistratus’s hand.

Without warning, Peisistratus pulled his fingers free, only to shove Telemachus down onto the bed. He climbed over him, forcing his legs apart and thrusting his slick fingers back in with a roughness that made Telemachus arch and cry out.

“Peisistratus!” he gasped, eyes flying open. The man was panting above him, his fingers thrusted in and out of Telemachus, dragging broken, desperate sounds from his throat.

Just when he thought it was over, when the fingers slid free, he felt something else — Peisistratus grinding his clothed hardness against him. Seeking friction.

Telemachus’s eyes widened in shock. Peisistratus’s gaze was raw, pleading, desperate for relief as he rolled his hips, thrusting against the boy’s still exposed body.

Telemachus recoiled instantly, pushing him away.

“I—I'm sorry, I can’t...”

Peisistratus moved off him with a frustrated sound, glaring down at the bulge in his chiton.

“You know,” he said with a crooked smile, “maybe next time... I'll teach you how to suck a cock.”

Morning came, and Telemachus couldn't wait for his next intimate encounter with the man. This time, he would definitely show Antinous how ready he was to take him. But what if nothing happened between them today, while Telemachus was all prepared?

Well, in that case, he'd just have to seduce the suitor himself. He smiled sheepishly at his foolish idea — he couldn't believe he was doing such a thing.

After another refreshing morning spent with Nestor's endless yapping and avoiding any eye contact with his son, Telemachus was starting to lose his patience. Antinous was nowhere to be found. He hadn't even come by to cast a glance or two at him like he did the other day. Frowning, Telemachus made it his mission to seek the man out. He had done it multiple times already, so there was no point in listening to his stupid pride anymore.

Eventually, he found him — in Nestor’s courtyard, training as usual. This man knew no rest. Even in Ithaca, Antinous had always been like this: training and rarely joining the suitors in their chaos. Still, Telemachus expected him to take a break for once, especially after all the work he had done during their trip to Pylos.

Leaning against one of the pillars, arms crossed, Telemachus watched the suitor’s movements with interest — and undeniable amusement. He would be lying if he said Antinous didn’t look so damn hot with his sweat-slicked muscles and damp hair. Surely Antinous would notice him any second now; he always had a sharp awareness of his surroundings. But Antinous didn’t even spare him a glance.

"You're standing there longer than appreciated," Antinous finally said, resting on the ground with his back toward the prince.

Telemachus wasted no time approaching. He sat down behind him, letting his fingers brush over the suitor’s heated skin, applying firm pressure to ease the tension in his muscles. He knew how weak Antinous was to his massaging skills.

The man relaxed under his touch, letting out a slow, deep inhale as Telemachus' hands roamed over his back, slowly erasing his exhaustion.

When he was done, Telemachus crawled around to face him, settling between the man’s legs and drinking in the view of his broad, powerful frame. His gaze flicked to Antinous' face — the suitor was watching him closely, his expression unreadable.

Telemachus rested his hand lightly on Antinous' firm torso, leaning forward. He placed a kiss against the warm skin above his heart, then another, a little higher. His lips brushed over the strong collarbone, then the hollow of Antinous’ throat. Antinous closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he found himself nose-to-nose with the prince.

Telemachus' gaze dropped to the man's mouth, hunger sparking in his eyes. He knew this was wrong. They were in an open courtyard — anyone could walk by at any second. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. His desire for Antinous burned hotter than any sane thought.

He leaned forward, desperate just to feel Antinous' lips against his. Maybe then, he could lure him somewhere private, somewhere they could sin together without fear.

Their lips brushed —

But just as quickly, Antinous turned his face away, avoiding the kiss.

Telemachus' heart dropped like a stone.

He cupped Antinous’ cheek, guiding him back to face him. He leaned in again, slower this time, but Antinous caught his chin firmly in his hand and held him back.

"Don't you fucking dare," he hissed.

Telemachus flinched at the harsh tone. A deep ache opened in his chest. Antinous didn’t want to kiss him? Why? He had always seemed so eager for his touch before. Was it because they might get caught?

"Do you want to go somewhere private?" he asked, voice hopeful, clinging to the thought that maybe Antinous was just being cautious. That he would grab him, pull him somewhere hidden, pin him down and—

"No," Antinous said coldly.

The rejection sank deeper this time, heavy and sharp.

"I don't want anything to do with you."

Telemachus stared at him, pupils shaking, unable to process the sudden change. Before he could gather his thoughts, Antinous stood up and walked away.

Telemachus sat there frozen, stunned, before scrambling up and rushing after him. He grabbed the suitor’s arm, trying to hold him back.

"Antinous! What's going on with you?"

He barely had time to react before Antinous yanked his arm free, shoving him by accident — and Telemachus stumbled to the ground.

Antinous took a step forward, reaching out instinctively — but stopped midway. His face twisted into a strange, pained expression.

Telemachus stared after him, stunned and breathless, as Antinous turned on his heel and walked away, leaving him behind.

He stayed on the ground, feeling the dust cling to his hands, to his knees, to his pride. His throat burned with the beginnings of tears he refused to let fall. He clenched his fists, trying to make sense of it. What did he do wrong? Hadn't he done everything right? He’d prepared himself, offered himself. He would have given Antinous everything he had.

Slowly, he stood, dusting himself off. His body felt heavier than before, like shame had wrapped itself around his shoulders.

"Tsk, I vanish for a few hours and everything's already falling apart, huh?"

Telemachus’s head snapped around, and his expression immediately turned horrified. The man looked... wrecked.

"Ctesippus..." He took a step forward, overwhelmed by the urge to gather the suitor into his arms, but he feared the man would fall apart from even a light touch. "By the gods, what happened to you...?"

Ctesippus tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean!"

"Hmm, no, I don't." As if his knees decided to betray him, his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor, catching himself with his arms. He offered Telemachus an embarrassed smile.

Ctesippus wanted Diomedes between his legs—he really wanted him—but not like this. He wanted him on top of him, with a hungry look in his eyes. Not... pity.

When the man had found him earlier, curled up beside the prince, Ctesippus had caught the way his gaze swept over him. He knew he must have looked pathetic, but seeing how both Telemachus and Diomedes reacted made the shame cut deeper.

He tried to resist when Diomedes swept him up without asking, like he weighed nothing at all. Ctesippus hated being carried like some broken thing. Like a bride. Like something that needed saving. But Diomedes, being Diomedes—stubborn and relentless—dragged him into a private chamber, ignoring Ctesippus's muttered protests, and forced him onto the bed. Wordless, steady hands started tending to his wounds.

Ctesippus flushed deep red the moment he realized—Diomedes knew exactly what had been done to him. He felt Diomedes nudging his thighs apart carefully, to reach the worst of it, taking care of the damage. Still, he said nothing about it. Didn't ask questions. Didn't make him say it out loud. Ctesippus was grateful for that.

He threw his head back against the bed, biting down hard on his palm whenever the pain flared too much. The sheets underneath him felt like heaven after the night he'd spent sprawled useless in the dirt, too battered to even stand, body aching in ways he couldn't forget.

When Diomedes finally finished, Ctesippus mumbled a low, "Thank you," barely above a whisper, without meeting his eyes.

Diomedes—still kneeling between his legs—let out a slow breath. He reached for the blanket and pulled it up over Ctesippus's bruised hips, tucking it around him.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," he said quietly, voice rough like he hated seeing him like this.

Ctesippus squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know whether that made him feel better or worse. He hated how much a small act of kindness could break him more than any wound.

The door creaked open, and Diomedes shifted to sit properly at the edge of the bed, not wanting to shame the man any further. Ctesippus tensed at the figure that peeked in, purple eyes immediately finding his. He didn’t expect to see him so soon.

Dionysus seemed to ignore Diomedes’s presence entirely as he approached the bed. The warrior stood slowly, like he sensed they needed to talk. He gave Ctesippus a reassuring smile and left without another word. He was always like that — barely talking unless necessary.

The door shut behind him, leaving them alone.

“Wasting no time laying yourself bare before another, are you?” Dionysus murmured, unimpressed, looking down at the suitor still lying in bed, too feeble to move.

“Mhm... Jealous much? Well, what can I do? Guess I'm just that irresistible." Ctesippus tried for a smirk, but it came out more like a grimace.

The bed dipped under Dionysus’s weight, and before Ctesippus could stop himself, he flinched. For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating.

The suitor let out a shaky breath, his body tense beneath the sheets, unsure what Lysandrios might do this time. He hated feeling so helpless. He wasn't weak — he knew that much. He wasn't the strongest man alive, sure, but he'd fought and won against tougher enemies before. He was competent. So why had Lysandrios overpowered him so easily? It made no sense. There was something off about the man, Ctesippus could tell that much.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He didn't even know if Diomedes was still outside or if he had left completely — and worse, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted him to stay or go. He was too useless now to defend himself if something happened again. He didn’t want to cry for help, or scream in a pathetic way so anyone else could hear.

Dionysus’s gaze roamed over him — from the bruises on his skin to the tension in his jaw. There was something unreadable in those violet eyes. Ctesippus swallowed hard, shifting slightly, only to wince when the movement tugged at his wounds.

Dionysus leaned closer, watching the color drain from his face. His hand settled on the mattress beside Ctesippus’s head, fingers ghosting through the tangled strands of his hair. Then, he pressed his lips, light and careful, to his forehead.

Ctesippus froze. He opened his mouth to ask—but the slumber pulled him under before he could get the words out.

Left alone with the suitor's sleeping form, Dionysus lingered for a moment longer. His hand brushed lightly over the bruises he’d left behind.

"Still so stubborn. Even half-broken."

"We're heading to Sparta,"  

Diomedes stated, standing beside his friend's son.

"Yeah, she told me."  

Athena had visited him an hour ago, announcing her new instructions. He was supposed to visit King Menelaus and his wife, Helen. He had already informed Nestor, and the king had kindly offered to lend him chariots for the trip.

"Something wrong, Prince Telemachus?"

The boy shook his head in denial. He was fine. He would be just fine. Diomedes simply nodded, not the kind to push people. "Tomorrow at dawn, then?"

"I say we leave now."  

Why wait any longer? He had already wasted enough time. It was time to focus on his mission and seek news about his father.

When they were ready to leave, Antinous was nowhere to be found. Diomedes told him the man had already heard about their departure but had no intention of joining them. The prince nodded, trying not to show how much it affected him.

"Wait! Don’t leave me behind!"

Ctesippus, limping, approached the chariots.

"Ctesippus... I don't think you can come with us in that condition," Telemachus said, watching the suitor’s expression fall. He had no idea what had happened to the man, but it was obvious he was in no state to travel.

"I promise I won’t be a burden..."

The man whispered, his voice rough with pain. He could take care of himself. He wouldn’t hold them back.

"That's not what I meant," Telemachus replied, but after a pause, realized it might not be safe to leave the suitor behind anyway. He had been hurt here after all, which meant whoever had done it might still be lurking nearby, waiting for another chance.

Ctesippus’s face brightened slightly as he approached the chariots. But how could he join them? The chariots were designed to carry only two people.

It was then Telemachus pointed to the second chariot—one with only a single passenger. Ctesippus moved closer, but hesitation flickered across his features when he noticed who was there... Lysandrios.

Ctesippus averted his gaze quickly, but there was no other choice. He approached, his steps uncertain, trying to mount the chariot on his own. It was a failed attempt — his injuries made it impossible. Before he could insist he didn’t need help, an arm circled his waist and lifted him easily into the chariot.

Ctesippus stiffened at the touch, every muscle in his body going rigid. He didn’t want kindness from that man. Not now. Not ever.

The journey that followed was silent, each of them trapped in their own thoughts, weighed down by the miles ahead and the memories behind.

Finally, they reached Pherea — a kingdom lying just at the border of Sparta.

How dare the prince treat him like such a fool? To make him believe he was someone special, offering himself so willingly — pretending to trust Antinous, only to do the same thing with another man? How could he act like... a whore?

When Antinous sneaked around a second time to Nestor's son's private quarters, heart racing in anticipation, craving another heated session with the boy, he had plans. This time, he wanted to take it slow. Maybe drag the ugly prince outside, tie him to some tree so he could have Telemachus to himself — kiss him for hours, get him to pant and whimper under his touch.  

Maybe he could coax the boy to sway on his lap again, while he marked his soft skin with red and purple, before the previous bruises even had time to fade.

"Peisistratus!"

He froze in front of the door.  

Telemachus’s voice... moaning?

Leaning closer, pressing against the wood, he caught the sounds more clearly — and it hit him like a punch to the gut. The prince... his prince... was getting undone by someone else.  

He didn’t even know when it had happened — when he'd become so possessive over the boy — but hearing him with someone else felt wrong in ways he couldn't bear to name.  

And after everything they shared, Antinous had foolishly thought he was the only one who got to touch him like that.

Telemachus’s whimpers grew louder. He couldn’t see what was happening behind the door, and he was grateful for it. He didn’t need to see — he could imagine it vividly enough. And feeling his heart shatter into a thousand sharp pieces was humiliating enough.

The next day, as if nothing had happened, the boy sought him out while he was training. It took every scrap of strength Antinous had to resist melting under those soft hands, to fight the urge to pull the prince close and make him tremble again. And he hated — hated — how, for a moment, he crumbled anyway, ruined just by Telemachus’s presence.

Worse was the look the boy gave him after he turned away. Like he was the one hurt. As if Antinous was the villain here!  

The prince could go back to that bastard and let him roam his filthy hands wherever he pleased. He should’ve taken him to Sparta to warm his bed properly while he was at it.

Antinous let his head fall back against the pillar behind him, a heavy thud. He just wanted to stop thinking about him. Stop those stupid, shameful thoughts. Since when had he ever cared about the loyalty of the ones he fucked? Since when did he get bothered by the idea of someone else touching them after a stupid orgasm or two? This — whatever it was between them — had been nothing but foolish moments of lust. He had no right to expect anything more.

He let out a long, ragged sigh. He knew all of that. And yet, he couldn’t stop the damn pain clawing at his chest. He couldn’t blame him. But it gnawed at him anyway — and the thought that he might not see the boy for a long, long while. Who knew how long he’d decide to stay in Menelaus palace?

He didn't remember when exactly he decided to snatch one of the soldiers’ horses. Next thing he knew, he was already on the road, riding toward Sparta.

Chapter Text

Ctesippus had insisted on accompanying the prince on his little walk in the woods. He was limping, yes, but he wasn’t paralyzed—though every step still hurt. After what happened the last time he wandered alone in the forest, he couldn’t risk letting the kid go off by himself. Something horrible could happen again.

He smiled softly. He felt like an older brother. It would be nice to have a sibling or two, he thought. Even if that sibling was the son of the woman he was trying to court... In that case, would Telemachus call him “brother” or “father”? He scratched his head, genuinely confused. Either way, he figured he’d make a great addition to the boy’s family.

“So…” Ctesippus started, voice casual, “wanna talk about it?”

Telemachus glanced at him with narrowed eyes. If anyone needed to talk, it was Ctesippus himself—with his ruined body and his stiff, aching limbs. Still, he appreciated the concern. He wouldn’t push him away.

“Talk about what exactly?” he asked, reaching out to pet the man’s back gently—a small, instinctive gesture, like it might soothe his pain.

“About what happened between you and Antinous. You two were getting along just fine for a while.”

Ctesippus inched closer, grateful for the touch. It wasn’t much, but it helped. It made him feel less alone.

Telemachus’s face fell into a quiet frown. He was painfully reminded of their last encounter—how cold and distant Antinous had become. What they had was supposed to be a secret, but Ctesippus clearly already knew. The man had always been certain there was something between them, even before there actually was. He assumed they were lovers long before they ever touched. Maybe sharing just a little would help ease the knot in his chest.

“I don’t know what happened, to be honest. He suddenly became… different.”

The suitor hummed in understanding. “You sure you didn’t do anything to get him worked up? No offense, but you two are kind of… dumb sometimes.”

Telemachus shot him a glare—but after a pause, he let the words sink in. Had he done something wrong? No... nothing came to mind. He slowly shook his head.

“No. I don’t remember doing anything.” His face flushed, but he let the words spill anyway. “I even... prepared myself for him.”

Ctesippus blinked. Then grinned wide. “Oh? Who would’ve guessed the little prince knew how to use his fingers?”

“I didn’t…”

Ctesippus’s grin faded. “Then how did you prepare yourself?”

“Peisistratus did it for me. He taught me how to get ready… properly.”

The sweat on Ctesippus’s face—built from the long walk—turned cold in an instant. This little idiot… Of course. It all made sense now. Antinous must’ve found out and exploded with jealousy. That would explain everything. Someone seriously needed to kick some sense into this stupid prince’s head.

An inhuman screech tore through the air.

His words died in his throat. His limbs turned numb at the sound—chaotic, unnatural, and utterly monstrous. It was a clash of voices, each more horrifying than the last, layered over one another to create something no living thing should ever produce. Judging by the way Telemachus was shivering beside him, he wasn’t alone in his fear. Before either of them could process what was happening, thunderous footsteps shook the ground beneath them. Then came the monster.

The creature emerged, massive and grotesque—a nightmare made flesh.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

How did he always end up in these situations? One disaster after another.

He felt the prince tug on his tunic, and when he glanced down, he found his face just as pale.

The terrible sounds made sense now. A deep, booming roar erupted from the lion’s head—its jaws lined with teeth the size of daggers. Then came the shrill, skin-crawling bleat from just behind it, where a goat’s head jutted hideously from the lion’s back. Lastly, a low, venomous hiss slithered from the serpent coiled in place of the tail, its tongue flicking hungrily toward them.

“So...” Ctesippus muttered, voice strained. “You said you’d fight the Chimera, huh?”

Telemachus didn’t even have the strength to blush. Of course Ctesippus had overheard him singing that ridiculous song to himself, thinking he was alone. This man had a talent for witnessing every single humiliating moment in his life. He’d make sure to scold him later—if they made it out of this forest alive.

“Telemachus...” Ctesippus’s voice came again, trembling. “Please tell me you brought a weapon.”

The prince shook his head, grim. He hadn’t. He thought this would be a peaceful walk, a moment of quiet. Foolish. This was a foreign kingdom, a place of unknowns. He should have been more careful. Of course, no one could’ve predicted a Chimera would appear—it was supposed to be trapped in the lands of Lycia, not here. But even so... he should’ve prepared for something. Anything.

"I have an idea..."

Well, that was new! Ctesippus coming up with an actual plan that could save them from the threat? The prince just hoped it didn’t involve any sarcasm or reckless bluffing. Telemachus shot him a brief, hopeful glance—only for a second though. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Not with that thing in front of them.

Ctesippus took the hint and pressed on, "I’ll distract it. You try to run away."

The spark of hope in Telemachus’s eyes snuffed out in an instant. This idiot. Of course that was his grand idea.

"Distract it? With you limping like that? It'll devour you in a second!" he shouted, his voice cracking as the Chimera let out another bone-rattling roar that slammed into their ears like thunder.

"Do you have a better plan!?" Ctesippus shot back, his voice shrill with panic. "Look, I’m not suicidal, but I can’t move like you can. At least one of us might survive this."

Telemachus caught the tremble in his voice, the way his bravado cracked. He didn’t want to die—of course he didn’t. No one wants to die. But he was right. He couldn’t outrun the beast like this. Still, Telemachus couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave him. 

Ctesippus opened his mouth, desperate to say something—to argue, to beg, anything— he just wanted to convince this stubborn kid. But then Telemachus lunged.

He tackled Ctesippus to the ground just as a jet of flame burst from the lion’s maw, searing the space they had just occupied. The heat licked at their backs, the air shimmering with smoke.

That was close. Too close.

Think, Ctesippus, think!

Another unnatural screech split the sky and they clung to each other, trembling, their bodies pressed tight against the dirt. The forest, once quiet and full of life, now echoed with chaos and death. How were they supposed to fight a chimera? With no weapons, no plan, and only bare hands and sheer luck?

Telemachus was tugging at his tunic again, making Ctesippus’s chest squeeze tightly at the sight. Only a few minutes ago, he was praising himself for how he'd make a great brother—and now, he couldn't even protect himself, let alone someone else. They were right about him. All of them. He was just… useless.

Letting out a long breath he was holding, he forced himself to stand. In a sudden movement—one his body instantly regretted—he grabbed Telemachus by the chiton and, using every ounce of strength he had left, shoved the prince toward the slope.

The boy let out a scream as he tumbled down the hill, rolling over the dirt and rocks. Probably wounded… but hopefully alive.

Ctesippus winced, pain erupting in his legs and lower back. The movement had been too much. He dropped to his knees, arms wrapping around himself as he waited for the shock to pass. It didn’t...

He felt something coil around his leg, tightening with terrifying pressure. A high-pitched scream tore from his throat as the serpent head on the creature’s tail sank its fangs deep into his flesh.

“Can’t you at least make my death less painful, you shitty thing!” he cried.

His arms braced against the ground, trembling. He waited for the next wave of pain, the final one. That’s alright. He was a good brother. He wouldn’t disappoint his little sibling—not the way he’d already disappointed everyone else. He could die now… knowing someone was still enchanted to meet him.

He lifted his head, ready to meet his fate. The monster let out a breath of fire—and in the blink of an eye, Ctesippus found himself yanked away, pulled into a tight embrace. Two arms wrapped around his waist, anchoring him. He buried his face into the chest he collided with, collapsing in the stranger’s grasp. At this point, it didn’t matter who was holding him. Even if it were Hades himself, he’d still cling to him like this, trembling in his arms.

A beat passed. Then he heard the Chimera roar again—only this time, it sounded like… pain? He couldn’t bring himself to look. Not even when the creature’s heavy steps began to retreat.

The arms around him didn’t loosen. Not even slightly. And Ctesippus was thankful for that. His fingers clutched at the other’s tunic, desperate. He would have buried himself in the man’s chest if he could.

After what felt like an eternity, his body finally stopped trembling. His breathing steadied. He was calm—almost. He lifted his head, the words of gratitude already forming in his mouth… but they never came. They choked.

No. No. No. No!

He didn’t want him here. Not him. Not again. Not alone in the forest. There was no one else around—just the two of them, just like last time. He didn’t want a repeat of that encounter. His body hadn’t even healed yet. He couldn’t go through it again.

He tried to jerk away from the man's grasp, but pain shot through him instantly. He stumbled, crashing to the ground with a loud groan. The impact sent a jolt of agony through him. 

Lying there, he began to think maybe he would’ve preferred the Chimera. At least the beast wouldn’t hurt his pride—it would just devour him cleanly.

He couldn’t bring himself to stand. Not with that unbearable sting burning through his leg, where the serpent had bitten him.

Lysandrios drew near, reaching his hand toward him. Ctesippus couldn’t help but flinch and slap it away.

“Stay away from me!”

he cried out, watching the man's calm expression twist into something darker. Anger.

He yelped when Lysandrios grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking him from the ground with a force he couldn’t resist, manhandling him toward one of the nearby trees.

His chest was harshly slammed against the trunk.

At first, he didn’t quite catch on to what was happening. But then, Lysandrios’s foot brushed against his legs—and kicked between them, forcing them apart.

Ctesippus braced himself against the tree, biting back a scream as the man’s foot struck his wound.

It’s happening again… He can’t stop him.

Lysandrios's hands settled on his hips. Slowly, he pulled him back, forcing Ctesippus’s backside flush against his lower half. The pressure of the man's clothed cock pressing between his cheeks sent a wave of nausea through him—an unwelcome reminder of what had once happened, and what might happen again. His stomach turned, dread crawling up his throat like bile.

"Beg me and I'll stop," Lysandrios murmured, drawing the suitor's attention.

"I told you before, I'll never beg—Ah!" Ctesippus cried out when Lysandrios suddenly thrust against him. The force of it sent him reeling, a cruel reminder of what he’d endured before—and what awaited him now, his wounds still fresh. He would have to feel it all again—the pain, the tearing, the humiliation. His body shivered uncontrollably; he didn’t deserve this. How could one man be so cruel?

"Please..." he whispered, barely audible. He couldn't even hear himself saying it. He could hardly believe he’d said it—he had said it. The word lingered bitter on his tongue, swallowed by the silence. For a heartbeat, he clenched his jaw, shame burning behind his eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t even matter. Maybe Lysandrios wouldn't let him go, no matter what he said. But he had to try.

"Please stop..." he said again, a little louder this time, voice cracking as it broke past his pride, his fear, and whatever was left of his dignity. He just wanted it to end. He hoped Lysandrios could hear him and be satisfied enough to grant him some mercy.

He felt the man pressing his chest against his back, his hands beginning to draw circles on his hips. His breath became closer, uncomfortably closer. Then, without warning, Ctesippus felt lips press against his neck. Lysandrios kissed him so tenderly it was impossible to believe such gentleness could come from the same person.

Ctesippus stiffened, his breath hitching. That softness was worse somehow—like being lulled into calm only to be shattered again. His heart thudded violently in his chest, unsure whether to recoil or collapse.

Then came the second kiss, just behind his ear, and it sent another shiver down his spine—for a completely different reason this time.

"Good boy," Lysandrios whispered in his ear.

Before Ctesippus could react, the man moved again—one arm slipping under his leg, the other behind his back. Without effort, he lifted him as if he weighed nothing. Ctesippus yelped in surprise, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

Telemachus tumbled down the hill, fallen branches and loose rocks scratching at his skin. He felt ridiculous, flailing like that, unable to slow his momentum as the soil beneath him offered no grip.

His body slammed into a massive tree trunk, knocking the air out of him. For a moment, he just lay there, groaning and rubbing at his bruised muscles, cursing the suitor under his breath.

But the memory of Ctesippus—alone, facing the monster—jolted him back to his feet. He dusted off his tunic, heart pounding, and started to sprint uphill.

He didn’t get far. A hand shot out and clamped around his arm, dragging him back with brutal force. He was slammed into a hard chest before being thrown roughly to the ground.

“Well, well... Look what we’ve got here.”

Dazed, Telemachus looked up—only now realizing he wasn’t alone. The man who’d grabbed him hovered above with a predatory grin. Two others emerged beside him, grinning just the same. One look at them told Telemachus everything he needed to know.

Bandits... 

He really deserved a rope around his neck for his recklessness—wandering out unarmed like a fool.

“Seems like fate has delivered you into our hands, pretty traveler,” said one of the men, a ginger-haired brute with a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Foolish boy! Did you think you could pass through our territory unmolested?” the man who’d grabbed him growled, kneeling beside Telemachus’s head and pressing a dagger to his throat.

“Yield your goods, lest this sharp steel taste your lifeblood.”

Telemachus met their eyes with quiet defiance. He was the son of Odysseus—great Odysseus. A gang of bandits wouldn’t scare him. Still, revealing his identity now would be reckless. They’d realize they had an important hostage, and that would only make things worse.

“The gods witness your injustice!” he spat, voice calm and cold. “Do not draw the wrath of Zeus Xenios upon yourselves with acts of violence.”

He held his expression steady, channeling all his loathing for their cowardice into each word. He was right—wayfarers were protected by Zeus himself. The sacred law of hospitality was not something to trifle with.

The men snorted, laughter dark and mocking, like they’d heard that line one too many times.

“Rifle his garments!” their leader barked.

Rough hands grabbed at his tunic, tugging and searching with impatient force. He remained still—any movement might drive the blade deeper into his neck. He could feel its sharp kiss at his skin, a warning not to resist.

“He’s got nothing!” one of the others called out, frustrated.

“No way,” said the third man. “He looks royal!”

The leader narrowed his eyes, scowling—until something on Telemachus’s shoulder caught his attention. His expression shifted. With a quick snatch, he tore the pin from his cloak.

“Ha! This looks precious.”

It took Telemachus a second to recognize what the man was holding.

“No! Give it back!”

It was the pin Athena had gifted him—a golden owl, simple but precious. He had worn it ever since. A symbol of their bond, even if he wasn’t sure she’d meant it that way when she gave it to him. He couldn’t afford to lose it.

A backhand struck him hard, sending his head crashing against the ground with a sickening thud.

“Truly pathetic,” one of them sneered. “Even the poorest wretch can offer more. It’s the bare minimum for our time, little thing.”

Telemachus pushed himself up on his elbows, teeth clenched, fury rising as these empty-headed beasts mocked something sacred.

“Maybe there is something more he can offer,” said the ginger-haired one, voice low and dangerous.

Telemachus’s gaze snapped toward him. The man’s eyes had dropped to where the prince’s chiton had slipped, exposing part of his chest. It didn’t take long to grasp the meaning behind the words.

A chill spread through his body when the others laughed—dark, approving chuckles that confirmed the unspoken threat.

“Don’t you dare lay your filthy hands on me!” he snapped, struggling as two of them seized his arms, pinning him down.

The ginger-haired brute didn’t hesitate. His hands roamed greedily over the prince’s body, groping through the thin fabric as Telemachus thrashed beneath him, kicking and writhing in disgust.

Another slap struck his face—sharp, jarring. The world tilted as dizziness crept in. Then the man forced himself between his legs, and Telemachus felt his stomach turn.

Antinous had already arrived in Pharae, lounging around King Diocles’ palace like he owned the place—much like he did in every palace he set foot in. Strangely, the only familiar face he'd come across was Diomedes, who casually informed him that Telemachus had gone off into the woods to "gather his thoughts."

So now he was stuck waiting around for the prince to return, hoping to finally have a proper conversation about whatever the hell was going on. And when he did, Antinous would make damn sure the boy understood how wrong it was to be juggling multiple lovers like some common harlot.

Not that it was particularly shocking—Telemachus was a prince, and men of his rank often had concubines. But in his case, he was the one being the concubine, and that would do nothing but damage his reputation. So yeah, Antinous was fully prepared to knock some sense into his pretty little head—maybe even knock him around a bit. It had been a while since he kicked his ass.

He wasn’t blind to the two maids trailing him from hall to hall, giggling every time he looked their way. But he wasn’t in the mood to deal with some starry-eyed girls nursing hopeless crushes. He wasn’t the type to sleep with just anyone.

Deciding he'd had enough, he turned down a quieter corridor to lose them. But just as he passed a side hallway, one of the maids lunged at him, throwing herself into his arms with a dramatic sigh.

Antinous rolled his eyes at the ridiculous display. Of course they were doing this on purpose. The girl dragged her fingers down his arm, clearly enjoying the feel of his muscles.

To her dismay, he shoved her off without ceremony, letting her stumble into her friend. His glare was sharp, disgusted, a clear contrast to the desire in her eyes.

Still, she leaned in again, whispering against his ear with a sultry grin, “If the forest were safe, I’d lure you there so I could scream your name properly.”

Antinous stepped back from the shameless woman, disgusted by her boldness. Yet she remained entirely unfazed by his clear rejection. Then it struck him like a sudden crack of thunder.

"You mean it's not safe?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

The maid, clearly uninterested in anything that wasn’t flirting, shrugged and replied casually, "For the past few years, the forest's been crawling with thieves and vagrants. It's really sad—we used to walk freely there before."

That was all Antinous needed to hear. Without wasting another breath, he stormed toward the edge of the woods, sword in hand.

Half an hour passed, and Antinous realized he was completely lost. In his rush, he hadn’t bothered to memorize the path. He cursed under his breath. But then, he heard something. A muffled sound, strange and low. Moving carefully, he ducked behind a thick trunk, pushing aside some branches. What he saw hit him harder than any blade could.

Telemachus, with his chiton half removed, was sprawled on the ground. Face flushed, lips parted around fingers that had been shoved into his mouth. Around him, three strangers grinned wickedly, their hands crawling where they had no right to be. They pinned him down, groping shamelessly over his exposed skin as his body writhed and jerked beneath them. One had the boy’s thighs propped on his shoulder, the fallen fabric revealing bruises and fresh bite marks.

The ache in Antinous’s chest deepened, twisting into something sharp and cold. While he had been running through the woods like a madman, worried sick—Telemachus was here. Offering himself like this, again... Letting others touch what once belonged to him. Pleasure that had once been shared between them… now stolen by strangers.

His stomach churned. He turned away, unable to bear the sight. Taking a step back, a haze of anger and disbelief began to fog his mind, blending with the heartbreak already boiling beneath his skin.

He had barely taken two steps when a sharp cry pierced the air. Antinous snapped around—just in time to see one of the men clutching a bloody hand, the same hand that had been shoved inside the prince’s mouth. Telemachus spat next to him, disgust carved deep into his face.

Antinous froze.

His mind stuttered—blinded by the sight, the memories, the ache in his chest. But then the twisted truth settled.

This wasn’t what he thought it was.

This wasn’t lust.

This wasn’t Telemachus offering himself.

This was an assault.

Telemachus received sharp slaps to the face, insults hurled at him with every blow—degrading, vile. He looked too roughed up now to fight back any longer.

Antinous’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. His heart thundered in his ears—not from heartbreak, but from fury. They were hurting the prince. His prince. They were forcing themselves on him. Marking him where only he should’ve been allowed. This wasn’t Telemachus’s will. If it had been, Antinous wouldn’t have dared to interrupt—no matter how it shattered him. He knew he had no right to control the boy’s choices.But this wasn’t that. This was force. Beating. Overpowering.

And when Antinous snapped out of his daze, it was only to see the aftermath of his rage. Blood pooled at his feet. Telemachus was staring at him wide-eyed, his face streaked with the blood of his assaulters. The three bodies lay crumpled on the forest floor, lifeless—as they should be.

Antinous took in the sight—how the boy trembled slightly, his body tense with fear. A horrible thought struck him. Did Telemachus think he was going to kill him? That he’d finally do what the other suitors had long threatened but never got the chance to?

He hated that look in his eyes. That fear. Just like he hated the brokenness he'd seen in the baths that day. Just like he hated the betrayed look Telemachus had given him the last time he’d struck him—right there in the great hall, in front of all the other suitors. And the worst part? He never knew how to take any of it back.

With a deep breath, Antinous let his shoulders fall, surrendering to the weight inside his chest. Maybe it would be better if he just left. Gave Telemachus space, at least. A silent gesture, a way of showing he meant no harm.

How could he ever harm him? After everything they shared—even if it wasn’t much—it had meant something. At least to him.

He wasn’t that same cruel man anymore. Not the one who had wanted to break the prince just to see him fall. Not the one who'd once humiliated him so deeply. He still felt like burying himself alive just remembering that moment; pissing on him like he was nothing more than a slave.

If Telemachus hated him, Antinous wouldn’t blame him. If he chose Peisistratus, or any other man who could treat him right, Antinous would understand. He deserved it.

Maybe he’d finally realized how wrong he’d been—but knowing that didn’t mean he had the slightest clue how to make things right. And maybe it was already too late.

He shut his eyes tight, trying to calm the storm within. He wasn’t angry at Telemachus. Never at him. Whatever the boy did or would do, he trusted there was reason behind it. No... he was angry at himself.

For all the things he could have done differently. If only he’d been honest. If only he hadn’t clung so desperately to his foolish pride.

Antinous felt two arms wrap around him from behind, a warm body pressing close, and a head resting gently on his back. He couldn't help the shaky breath caught in his throat—or how weak he suddenly felt.

His hands found Telemachus’s, resting over where they clenched tightly around him. It was maddening, the way his heart raced, threatening to leap from his chest.

The boy murmured something against his back, the words muffled by the fabric of his tunic. Antinous hummed in question “Am I supposed to understand you like this?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Telemachus pulled back just enough to rest his chin between his shoulder blades and whispered, “Talk to me. Please.”

“About what?” Antinous asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“About why you pushed me away last time,” the boy said, barely breathing the words. “Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll fix it. I’ll fix myself, Antinous…”

Antinous felt something inside him crack. The pain in Telemachus’s voice—it was too much. He'd been too harsh, he knew that. Cold and dismissive the previous day, cutting ties without a proper explanation. And now here the boy was, trying to take the blame. 

“I heard you… when you were with that ugly son of Nestor,” Antinous said with a scowl. “And I felt bad.”

Telemachus didn’t respond right away. Antinous waited, expecting some excuse. Some coy line, a playful attempt to charm his way out of it. But instead, the boy asked something that threw him off completely.

“…Why did you feel bad about it?”

Antinous nearly choked on air. Was Telemachus asking what he did wrong—or questioning why Antinous had the right to care at all? His mind blanked. He didn’t know how to answer a question that left him feeling so exposed. Then Telemachus added, softly “Peisistratus was only teaching me that night.”

His brows furrowed. Teaching him what? He had heard the boy moaning in his room. But he knew better than to snap and make Telemachus retreat again. So, with the calmest voice he could muster, he asked, “What was he teaching you?”

No answer came.

“Telemachus?”

Still nothing.

Antinous shifted, gently removing the prince’s arms from around him and guiding him to stand in front. He paused, momentarily struck.

Telemachus’s face was red—not just from the dried blood on his skin. He was blushing. Deeply. More than Antinous had ever seen. His eyes were cast downward, refusing to meet his gaze.

Antinous slid a hand beneath his chin, lifting it slowly until their eyes met. His touch was soft, reassuring. The last thing he wanted was to scare him.

“Tell me, Telemachus,” he said gently.

Telemachus hesitated. His lips parted, then closed again. Struggling. Searching.

Antinous waited. As he always did. He’d wait forever if he had to—for his thoughts, his body, or his heart.

Finally, in a whisper so faint it almost didn’t reach him, the boy said, “He was teaching me how to be prepared… for you.”

Antinous blinked, confusion knitting his brows tighter. Prepared for him? What does that mea-

“Shit, kid!”

Telemachus flinched at the sudden outburst.

Antinous stared at him, the weight of realization sinking hard. What Telemachus and Peisistratus had done—it wasn’t just naive flirting. It wasn’t some light make out session. He wasn’t even able to be happy about the boy wanting to sleep with him, because the truth was so much worse than he’d imagined.

He had let Peisistratus touch him. Touch him in ways he himself hadn’t.

And yet those wide, innocent eyes now looked at him, searching for answers. Not guilt. Not shame. Just confusion.

Antinous took a long breath. Of course the boy didn’t know. Telemachus hadn’t been taught what was right and wrong in these things. Antinous doubted he’d ever had a real conversation about intimacy with anyone—certainly not with his mother. He was Odysseus's son, trained to be a prince, burdened with legacy and pride—but when it came to life outside of war and politics… he was clueless. And now, that responsibility fell on him. To teach him. To guide him. Not just in these delicate matters, but in everything beyond the rigid mold he’d been forced to grow in.

He cupped Telemachus’s cheeks with a soft touch, rubbing slow circles into his skin, massaging gently. It was more to calm himself than the boy. He needed to think, to find the right words, to start.

He cleared his throat, “You know, when you’re engaging in such…” He paused, the words catching. What word even fit here?

“I mean—you’re not supposed to allow…” Again, he faltered.

“The one who’s supposed to bed you is…” No. That wasn’t right either.

He let out a sigh, his frustration growing. His eyes searched Telemachus’s face, as if the answer might be written there. But there was nothing—only flushed cheeks and uncertain eyes.

Finally, he exhaled hard and asked, voice low and unsure, “Tell me, Telemachus… would you want me to do such a thing with someone else?”

He didn’t know the answer. He didn’t want to know the answer. Maybe the boy wasn’t like him. Maybe he didn’t care about possession or jealousy. Maybe he wouldn't mind sharing him with another. 

But then Telemachus shook his head, hard. Wide, shocked eyes, as if he’d only now realized what was wrong with what he’d done.

Antinous breathed out in quiet relief, his hand slipping into the prince’s hair, stroking gently. “Good,” he murmured. “Now you know how I feel about it, hmm?”

“Yes… I’m sorry.” The whisper was small, ashamed.

Antinous leaned in, brushing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “It’s alright. Let’s head back now. I heard there are more bandits lurking.”

He reached down, interlacing their fingers. Another soft gesture, something grounding, and started walking beside him, eyes scanning the path back toward the palace.

After a beat of silence, he muttered, “You’re driving me insane, kid, you know that?”

Telemachus bit his lip, guilt flitting across his face. Antinous chuckled, slipping an arm around him and tugging him close. “Come here,” he said, hugging him by the side. “Just stay beside me.”

Diomedes was already at the gates when they returned, his face tight with worry. The sun had already sunk beneath the horizon by the time they arrived.

Telemachus froze as memory crashed over him... Ctesippus! He had left him alone—vulnerable—face to face with a Chemira. Panic surged through him but

Diomedes was quick to calm him. “He’s safe,” he assured, placing a firm hand on the prince’s shoulder. “ He’s in Lysandrious’s chambers now.”

Telemachus felt a heavy weight lift off his chest. He still didn’t trust Dionysus—never had—but for once, he was grateful the strange man had been there. Whatever his true intentions were, he had helped.

Antinous, beside him, paled at the news. The thought of Telemachus confronting a monster, wounded and alone, rattled him far more than the idea of thieves or human enemies. It could have ended terribly. He knew it.

Before Telemachus could even process the next steps, a guard approached to summon him to the king’s quarters. He barely registered the words—too many things were rushing through his head.

Antinous leaned in from behind, his breath a warm whisper against his ear.

“I’ll wait for you in my chamber tonight.”

A shiver ran down Telemachus’s spine. Every hair on his body stood on end.

He didn’t reply—he couldn’t. His voice had fled him, carried off by the way Antinous’s words wrapped around his heart like a tether.

Dionysus stared at the pretty mess he had in bed. It was hard trying to get the man under control without hurting him further. Ctesippus was one of the most stubborn mortals Dionysus had ever encountered—just getting him here had earned the god a few fresh scratches. Now Ctesippus lay in his bed, eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion as he fought to stay awake in Dionysus’s presence.

“Will you hurt me again?”

He asked, though Dionysus could hear more annoyance than fear in his tone, like he was simply done with whatever was going on and no longer cared to fight it.

“Probably,” Dionysus replied. Even if it wasn’t his intention, he couldn’t pass up the chance to annoy him—maybe even scare him a little.

Ctesippus propped himself up on his elbows, brows furrowed. It took Dionysus a moment to realize this was supposed to be his “angry” face. Was that it? How was he supposed to scare anyone with that? Apparently, Ctesippus realized the same, shifting his expression.

“Just because I was rude to you once or twice?” he asked, lower lip jutting out in a childish pout, his tone petulant and dramatic.

Dionysus had to fight a chuckle that threatened to slip at the absurd display. He reached forward, grabbing the man’s thigh and tugging him toward the edge of the bed. Ctesippus yelped in surprise, nearly falling backward.

Dionysus stepped between his legs, tilting the mortal’s chin up with a finger until their eyes met—and held, “Open your mouth,” he commanded.

It was then that Ctesippus noticed the vessel in his hand. What was in it? Poison? Wine? An aphrodisiac? The last one seemed most likely. Perhaps Lysandrios wouldn’t spare him a harsh encounter after all—but at least he’d show enough mercy to dull the pain by drugging him first. If that was the case, Ctesippus would drink it gladly. Anything to make it hurt less. Maybe he wouldn’t even feel it if the liquid was strong enough. And he didn’t have much choice anyway—if he refused, Lysandrios would just force him to swallow it, and would probably act rougher than necessary.

Ctesippus parted his lips, and Dionysus didn’t hesitate to pour the liquid into his mouth. The taste wasn’t bad—almost like wine. Maybe it was just wine after all.

Dionysus’s fingers brushed against his cheek, wiping a drop that had trickled from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Then, without pause, he licked his fingers clean. Ctesippus’s eyes widened in surprise. That meant it wasn’t a poison. Whatever it was, it wasn’t dangerous, at least not in the way he’d feared.

Dionysus gave a slight smile and rested his hand on the mortal’s chest, gently pushing him back until his spine met the sheets. This time, Ctesippus didn’t resist, he just surrendered. He was probably hoping for everything to end quickly.

Dionysus crawled over him, lifting Ctesippus’s leg onto his shoulder. The body beneath him tensed immediately. He began to caress the warm flesh of his thigh, a low chuckle escaping his lips when Ctesippus moaned softly—a sound couldn't be missed. He hadn’t cared enough to pull such reactions from him the previous time. Watching the suitor blush slightly now, he started to regret that.

He tilted his head, lips brushing lightly against the leg. Then, slowly, he circled the wound left by the monster’s bite and sucked deeply. The venom must have spread by now, but thankfully, he had a cure—a divine antidote gifted to him by Apollo long ago. All he needed now was to summon the antidote’s full effect.

He was glad Ctesippus hadn’t spit it out. The cure was designed to draw all the corrupted blood to a single point in the body—usually wherever an open injury lay. Now Dionysus only needed to extract it.

It was harder than he’d expected.

With every gasp, every squirm, every little sound Ctesippus made, his concentration began to unravel. The man's skin, now a darker shade of pink, was the worst of all. Had the mortal ever blushed like that before? 

After withdrawing his mouth, Dionysus gently lowered the shaking leg. He spat the darkened blood into a nearby vessel, then returned to the bed.

Bandaging Ctesippus’s leg shouldn’t have been difficult, but Dionysus couldn’t ignore the painful erection pressing against his tunic.

Ctesippus, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, gave him a doubtful look. Dionysus ignored it—he couldn’t blame him. The mortal must have been confused by what he was doing.

He wrapped the leg with slow care, each loop of the bandage an attempt to ground himself, to distract from the ache between his thighs. When he looked up again, the suspicion in the suitor’s eyes had faded into something quieter. Not quite trust, but a subtle shift—a loosening of whatever tension he’d been holding onto.

Leaning in, Dionysus pressed a long kiss to the mortal’s forehead, and just like before, within moments, Ctesippus drifted off to sleep.

He really should thank Aphrodite for the trick.

Telemachus stood by the door, right where the servants had told him the suitor—or the scary man, as they called him—was.

The corridor behind him was quiet, empty. He took a breath, then pushed the door open. It creaked faintly as it moved, revealing a dim room lit only by a single oil lamp resting on the table. Shadows danced across the walls. Antinous was there, sitting at the edge of his bed, hair damp. His eyes were distant—until they landed on him.

Telemachus’s heart stuttered. He slammed the door shut behind him, more forcefully than he meant to. The sound echoed, but he didn’t care. He couldn't risk someone interrupting them. Funny, he thought—he used to be scared of being alone with the man. Now the idea of anyone else being around when they were together felt...wrong. 

He drank in the sight of Antinous. It was obvious he'd taken a bath not long ago. Telemachus had done the same, scrubbing away the dirt and blood—and maybe, just maybe, preparing for what might come next.

Antinous sat motionless, bare-chested, skin still flushed from heat and water. The lamp’s flame caught on the ridges of his muscles, on the curve of his collarbone. It was maddening, how easily he could draw all the air from Telemachus’s lungs just by existing.

“Get closer,” Antinous said.

A command. Low but firm, like a rope that looped itself around Telemachus’s neck and pulled.

He obeyed without a word. But just as he took a single step—

“On your knees.”

Chapter Text

“Get closer.”

Antinous's low murmur was met with eager compliance. Telemachus couldn’t afford to stay away any longer, not with how tempting the suitor looked. It was hard to keep his gaze from flicking hungrily across the man’s body. He needed to stay composed; he was a civilized prince. A civilized prince who didn’t mind doing anything this man wanted him to, no matter how uncivilized.

So he moved, taking a step forward. But before he could take another, Antinous spoke again.

“On your knees.”

Telemachus stopped dead. The words struck him hard. He looked at Antinous, eyes wide and uncertain. But the man’s gaze wasn’t as firm as his voice. And it was then that Telemachus realized... this wasn’t like their first day under the weight of the wager, when Antinous had forced him to kneel. He wasn’t being forced now.

In fact, from the beginning of their strange, tentative closeness—this curious descent into each other—Antinous had never truly forced him into anything. Not once. And now, just like always, he was giving him a choice. There was no wager hanging over his head. No threats. No blocked exits. Just a man asking, waiting...

The man wanted him to offer himself willingly. Every time they had been lost in each other’s presence, Antinous had given him that same choice. He had never taken Telemachus’s agency from him, not even when the boy was most vulnerable. His words echoed in Telemachus’s mind, every time he’d asked, every time he’d waited, every time he’d sought consent with words or with silence. He had always chased Telemachus’s comfort. He had never crossed that line. And now, as before, he waited.

Telemachus could feel something deep curling rapidly inside him... not fear, not shame, but a sharp jolt of heat blooming deep in his chest, a yearning that bordered on reverence.

And slowly, he sank to his knees. The gesture didn’t feel degrading. Not with the way Antinous was looking at him. He wasn’t a prince brought low. He was a man choosing... offering everything.

The soft sound of cloth brushing stone marked his movement as he crawled forward. And when he was close enough, he could hear the suitor’s unsteady breath. He sat at Antinous’s feet, letting the silence stretch between them.

“Never thought I’d see the day you obeyed without sinking your little teeth in.” Antinous leaned down, lifting Telemachus’s chin with two fingers. There was no mockery in his touch. No cruelty. Only something gentle and restrained.

“Makes me wonder if you’ve finally stopped pretending you don’t want the same,” he said, his usual smirk curling faintly at the corner of his mouth.

Telemachus’s lungs felt useless. He should be bothered. He should snap back. Slap that hand away. But he couldn’t. Not with how Antinous’s eyes betrayed him, exposing how ruined he truly was. So he leaned into the touch. Willing... Wanting... 

He saw the smirk falter. Saw Antinous’s fingers tremble. A flicker of hesitation passed over his face. Then, quietly, the suitor asked, “You truly lay yourself at my feet?”

Telemachus didn’t answer at first. He studied the man’s expression. Like he had so many times before, it held that same quiet worry. That gentle concern. As if Antinous were making sure he was truly okay with what they were doing... with this.

Then, Telemachus’s lips curled into a small, honest smile, “I want to,” he whispered, raw and unguarded.

Antinous closed his eyes briefly, as if steadying himself. When he opened them, he knelt too—bringing them level, eye to eye “Then come here,” he murmured, pulling him into a slow embrace.

And for a moment, nothing else mattered. Not the palace. Not the monsters. Not their diverging paths. Just the soft thrum of their hearts and the heat coiling slowly between them.

Antinous shifted, lifting Telemachus into his lap as he sat on the bed again. The prince melted into it, relishing the way the man’s arms circled around him, how his warm breath hovered close to his skin.

Antinous’s heavy-lidded eyes, did something to him. The way he looked at him― like he was memorizing him, lost in his features― sent a jolt of warmth through Telemachus’s chest. Despite having knelt moments ago, he felt like the one being worshiped.

His gaze dipped, drinking in the man’s bare, muscular form. Before he could stop himself, his hands moved—reaching for Antinous’s skin, trailing up, cupping his chest. He squeezed, once… then again. And again. Feeling the muscle shift under his palms like it was molded just for him. 

“You do realize I haven’t entirely forgiven you, right?”

The words hit like cold water. His hands stilled. His breath caught. Then his fingers twitched, starting to pull back, but Antinous’s fingers curled firmly around his wrists, holding him in place.

“If you want my forgiveness,” he said lowly, “you’re going to earn it.” His hands slid down to Telemachus’s waist, gripping him with a possessiveness that nearly dragged a sound from the prince’s throat.

“Prove I’m a better teacher than that pathetic little prince who couldn’t even make you moan properly.” his face turned dark, as if he was imagining the scene in front of him.The air turned cold. The unspoken name hit hard. Peisistratus...

Telemachus’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t expected Antinous to mention him now... not like this. Not when they were so close, so vulnerable. But it was clear the wound hadn’t healed. Antinous was still angry, still disappointed, and still hurt.

“Remind me who touched you first. Who made you want.”

Telemachus opened his mouth. He wanted to tell him—that yes, he is right. He was the first to touch him, the one who introduced him to such pleasure, and the only one he craves. He doesn't want that same feeling with anyone else; only Antinous can undo him like this.

But Antinous cut him off before he could speak, “Remind me you still feel me. That he didn’t ruin what I started.”

He didn’t… I feel you… Only you.

"Let me see it." Antinous eyes softened again, as if he could hear his thoughts, hear his silent protests. "Prove I left my mark."

A dare it was. And Telemachus didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned in, his lips brushing along the sharp edge of Antinous’s jaw. A trail of timid kisses followed, soft as a breath. Then lower... his mouth hovered at the man’s throat, warm and uncertain. Antinous's hand rubbed slow reassuring circles into his back.

Telemachus found his courage. He closed his lips around the suitor’s skin, sucking gently. His eyes fluttered shut as he recalled the way Antinous used to move, how his mouth used to linger and claim.

So he copied him, down to every tender pause and press, hoping this was what the man meant. Hoping this was how he could show him, that he hasn’t forgotten. Not even a little.

A long, low exhale escaped Antinous. That, and the sudden tightening of the hand still gripping his waist, were all the confirmation Telemachus needed. He swallowed down the surge of pride. There would be time to celebrate later. Right now, all that mattered was this, making Antinous feel good. Showing him that everything he’d learned came from him, not someone else. He would earn that forgiveness.

Taking advantage of the man’s momentary daze, Telemachus pushed him gently. Antinous let himself be moved, his back meeting the mattress with a soft thump, Telemachus still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs.

Antinous arched a brow. Amusement flickered in his eyes, curious to see what the prince had in mind. Truthfully, Telemachus had no plan. He was moving entirely on instinct, following the quiet pull in his chest. And seeing Antinous laid out beneath him like this, bare-chested and breathless, was a reward he never knew he needed.

His fingers slid into the spaces between Antinous’s, weaving through them with ease. He pinned his hands gently above his head. Antinous let out a soft laugh, not resisting. Of course he didn’t. After all, he was the one who taught him this. He couldn’t exactly complain now.

Telemachus soon found a new target. His tongue dragged slowly along the hollow of Antinous’s throat. He paused, eyes narrowing with delight as he caught the subtle bob of the man's Adam’s apple when he swallowed hard. Telemachus almost missed it.

Grinning, his teeth circled the vulnerable bulge in his throat―biting down, just barely. But it was enough. Antinous's hips lifted in response, a shiver of need jolting through him.

Telemachus ignored the tingling sensations blooming low in his belly, suppressing the ache building inside him. Instead, he focused on Antinous’s neck, lips trailing soft, hungry kisses, sucking marks into his skin one by one.

Each little bruise earned a satisfied hum, and Telemachus smiled wildly into the man’s flesh. He was marking him. Just as Antinous had marked him so many times before. And now, this—this—was the only approval he ever craved.

His body moved on its own, grinding down unconsciously. Antinous’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath catching. But when Telemachus noticed what he had done, he lifted himself immediately, and Antinous nearly cursed aloud at the loss of friction. But the protest never left his mouth.

His eyes flew open the moment Telemachus’s hot mouth latched onto his nipple. A low moan spilled from his lips, unbidden and raw.

Telemachus’s heart nearly stopped. That sound. That soft, breathless sound Antinous made—it was everything. He never imagined the suitor could make such noises. And now that he had, Telemachus wanted to hear them again. And again. And the fact that it was him drawing out such pleasure drove him wild.

He sucked harder, hungrily, knowing firsthand how it felt. Antinous had once gifted him this pleasure. Now, he was simply returning the favor, repaying him for opening his body to such wonders.

Antinous let him. No resistance, only slow, burning surrender. One hand slipped free and tangled in the prince’s curls. Then came a sharp gasp, when Telemachus's fingers found his other nipple, pinching with precision.

Antinous’s hips jerked again, thrusting against nothing. And Telemachus, summoning every ounce of boldness he had, adjusted his position and made sure to sit exactly on the man's bulge.

Antinous couldn’t take it anymore. He released his other hand, gripping Telemachus’s thigh with sudden force. Whether to steady his breath or calm the wild pounding of his heart.

Telemachus stopped, raising his head. Antinous looked up at the prince above him―flushed face, lips glistening. The sheen of wetness coating them as an evidence of the devotion he’d just shown.

He cupped Telemachus’s face. His new habit, it seemed. And when the boy closed his eyes and leaned into his palm, Antinous knew it had quickly become one of his favorite things.

"You look so ravishing," he whispered, voice hoarse with emotion, his thumb brushing along Telemachus’s cheek.

The prince smiled, sweet and soft. Whether in response to the compliment or the gesture, Antinous couldn’t tell. Then, eyes opening with a spark behind them, staring at the man who still had a painfully obvious admiration in his gaze, he whispered back, "Then ravish me."

Antinous inhaled sharply. Without a moment’s pause, he flipped them over, trapping the boy beneath him. Telemachus whimpered at the shift, already feeling the stirrings of anticipation. Being on top of Antinous and taking control had its thrill, but this—being under him, held down—felt right in a way that stole his breath.

Then the man’s mouth crashed over his, all caution discarded. The kiss was deep and wild. Antinous nipped and sucked at his lips, and Telemachus responded just as hungrily, moaning into his mouth as the suitor began humping him, slow and controlled.

Antinous's impatient hands swept across his body, tracing a messy path. The chaotic exploration had Telemachus writhing beneath him, powerless under every touch. Their lips parted, both of them panting hard.

“Damn you, Telemachus… Don’t you know what you do to me?”

Antinous used his index finger to stroke the boy’s cheek again, addicted to the softness, to the way that simple motion seemed to steady him.

Telemachus’s breathless voice shattered what little calm he had left, “Then show me… please. Let me have all of you… Don’t hold back, I beg of you.”

Antinous dropped his head onto the boy’s shoulder. That voice... gentle, pleading, and laced with trust... was his undoing. The prince was no good for his heart, and he knew it. But gods, what a way to go. If Telemachus killed him like this, he’d die smiling.

Gathering what little resolve remained, he began undoing the boy’s tunic, leaving soft kisses along every newly exposed patch of skin. But it seemed Telemachus was far more desperate than he was—yanking at the fabric impatiently, fingers trembling.

Antinous paused to watch the prince wrestle his clothes off, lips pressed tightly together as he fought back laughter. The sight was almost endearing enough to stop everything and kiss him stupid.

Telemachus whined in frustration, and that was it—the guilt struck hard. How could he let his prince suffer, even like this? Even in teasing? His sweet boy was in distress. He reached out to help, making quick work of the tangled fabric the boy hadn’t already torn, then finally slipped out of his own tunic, which was clinging loosely to his hips.

Antinous stilled for a moment, his gaze fixed on the boy’s bare form.

Telemachus, still blinking away the haze clouding his mind, didn’t understand at first. But then it clicked, and his hands flew up to cover himself.

“Antinous… I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice fragile. The guilt from Peisistratus still hung heavy in his chest, and he’d already let other strange hands mark his skin. He didn’t even know if he’d done enough earlier to earn Antinous’s forgiveness. Maybe he’d ruined everything. Maybe Antinous would never forgive him.

But then the man leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss across his lips, melting his fear in a single touch. “It wasn’t your fault,” Antinous murmured. “You don’t need to apologize.” Another kiss followed, under his eye, then his cheek, and Telemachus sighed, helpless at the tenderness.

Antinous’s lips curled into a smile against his neck “Besides,” he murmured, “I’m about to erase those ugly marks… by making my own.”

And he did.

Telemachus’s body suddenly felt small beneath him, helpless under Antinous’s mouth. Purple bruises bloomed across his collarbone, his chest, his thighs. Gods, his thighs. Antinous lingered there as if starved, leaving the boy trembling and whimpering, terrified the sun might rise before it was over.

He finally squirmed, pressing gently against Antinous’s shoulder. The man groaned, displeased but obedient, pulling away. Telemachus caught his breath and sat up, cheeks warm and hands fluttering uncertainly.

“We need… oil,” he mumbled. “It’s used for… making things easier.”

Antinous just stared at the idiot in front of him.

“I won’t take long preparing myself,” Telemachus added quickly. “So you can just—”

“What makes you think I don’t want to prepare you myself?” Antinous cut in, brow raised and unimpressed.

“Oh…” Telemachus blinked, his blush deepening. “Okay. Let me just show you how—”

“And what in Zeus’s name makes you think I don’t know how to do it?”

“You do?” Telemachus tilted his head, surprised by the information.

Antinous rolled his eyes. No wonder the boy had sought out help elsewhere if he thought Antinous didn’t even know the basics.

Telemachus squirmed under the look, fidgeting with the sheets. “I just… I thought you were always holding back. I thought maybe you didn’t know how and were afraid you’d hurt me.”

“I hold back,” Antinous said quietly, sincerely, “not because I don’t know how to prepare your sweet little ass for me. But because I don’t want to do anything without your permission.”

He took Telemachus’s hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it “I know I was a jerk to you before. But now, whatever this is… I don’t want to ruin it.”

Telemachus wasn’t sure he could survive how considerate and sweet the man was. Slowly, he guided Antinous’s hand to his chest, letting him feel his pounding heart—since no words seemed right or enough to respond. Just this: his racing pulse.

Antinous’s eyes widened slightly, then his gaze grew gentle once more. Within a second, he had the boy under him again, kissing him like there was no tomorrow and taking his hand to let him feel his heart as well. Telemachus almost grew concerned about how fast it was beating.

“Tell me this is real... Tell me I can finally have you,” Antinous whispered hotly against his lips.

The prince nodded quickly. “Please…” he pleaded.

Antinous wrapped his hand around his shaft, stroking the boy, who groaned impatiently. “Can you turn on your knees for me?”

Telemachus nodded again, rewarded with another kiss from the man now gathering his precum in his hand.

Pulling away, Antinous gave the boy just enough space to adjust his position—kneeling on his knees and elbows. Antinous sat behind, nearly choking on his saliva. It was the first time he got a clear view of the prince’s most intimate part. The previous times had been too dark to truly see what he was missing. Telemachus clearly realized how exposed he was, because Antinous could see his neck turning a deep shade of red.

Teasing his pinky at the boy’s entrance, lubricating it with precum, he slowly pushed it inside. There was no resistance, but the way his insides clenched around him made Antinous’s dick jump in anticipation. He withdrew the finger, then pushed in a bigger one. Telemachus hummed, reassuring him.

Antinous continued, withdrawing one finger just to replace it with another, curling each one inside him. When he curled his middle finger in, Telemachus felt an uncontrollable wave of pleasure beyond anything he had ever experienced. It was similar to what he’d felt when Peisistratus had thrust against that spot inside him—but this time, it was so much stronger.

Judging by the way Antinous froze, he was sure he had moaned loud—way too loud. His back arched, and his thighs trembled from the sensation.

“Antinous…” he called, weak and pleading. And Antinous responded, hitting that same spot again. The suitor considered covering his mouth, which would surely expose them if left unchecked. But when Telemachus whispered his name again, Antinous knew he couldn’t miss a single sound.

Telemachus suddenly felt empty again, his sweet spot no longer receiving the attention it deserved. Then the weight on the bed shifted, and he felt cold and alone the moment it did.

“Antinous?”

It was all he could manage—his name, a whispered prayer.

“I’m still here,” Antinous murmured from across the room. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

And a moment sounded far too long. Telemachus whined loudly, drawing a chuckle from the man. Telemachus didn’t mind. As long as he could hear Antinous like that, he felt complete.

Just as promised, Antinous was back behind him in no time, pouring a cold liquid onto the boy’s ass.

“That’s… too much,” Telemachus protested. It was a lot of oil, definitely more than necessary.

“Trying to protect something precious, you know…” Antinous murmured as his fingers worked slowly and carefully, slicking him up with oil “Can’t rush when it’s yours.”

He lifted a brow, even though the boy couldn’t see him. He wouldn’t accept any complaints when it came to Telemachus’s safety. He pushed a finger back in, followed by another. “Painful?”

Telemachus shook his head. He could feel himself being stretched, but it wasn’t painful. The oil made the movement smooth and easy. When Antinous began to pump his fingers inside, he could simply take it—and enjoy.

A third finger joined in, and Telemachus felt a slight discomfort. Antinous’s fingers were much thicker than his own—or Peisistratus’s. They filled him fully, deliciously. And soon enough, they began to hit those nerves inside. Again and again.

His face dropped against the sheets as a heat curled low in his belly. Then, without warning, his body jolted—and he came, letting out a sharp, gasping moan.

His body collapsed onto the bed. Antinous was no longer inside him, now trailing soft kisses along his spine and the blades of his shoulders. His arms wrapped around Telemachus’s waist, holding him gently until the boy’s trembling subsided.

When Telemachus turned his head to face him, Antinous didn’t waste a second—he claimed those lips again, rewarding them for the thrilling sounds they’d made.

“Let’s keep going,” Telemachus finally said, already pushing his backside against him.

Antinous’s hands came to rest on his hips, steadying him. “Are you sure?”

Telemachus nodded, there was no moment of hesitation. He had made up his mind.

Antinous kissed his nape, then gently rolled him onto his back. He positioned himself between his legs, delighting in the way the prince spread them eagerly for him.

His mouth descended upon the little peaks on the boy’s chest, earning himself more of those precious moans. Then he guided Telemachus’s hand to his length, letting him feel just how much he wanted him.

He looked up, only to notice the tension in Telemachus’s body. “What’s wrong?”

The prince was silent for a moment, then slowly glanced down. Antinous could already guess what was on his mind. Telemachus had just been reminded of the man’s size—his hand had made it real, but seeing it now, up close and fully revealed, sent a flicker of panic through him. He looked stunned, almost overwhelmed, as if his body had only just realized what it was truly agreeing to.

“Telemachus?”

“If you put it inside me, I’m going to die,” Telemachus blurted, too panicked to care how ridiculous he sounded.

Antinous blinked—then laughed, a warm, genuine sound rumbling from his chest. “Oh gods, you’re so dramatic.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re not going to die, little wolf. Just breathe. Relax.”

Still trembling, Telemachus nodded and tried to do as he was told, drawing in a shaky breath.

Antinous positioned himself at his entrance, his own breath catching as he slowly began to push in. A deep groan escaped his lips as the tight heat of the prince’s body wrapped around him.

Encouraged by the soft whimpers escaping Telemachus, Antinous pressed deeper, until he was fully sheathed inside. His eyes squeezed shut at the overwhelming sensation—but a pained noise from beneath him brought him back instantly.

“You okay?”

“It… hurts,” Telemachus whispered, his brows pinched together.

“It’s normal at first,” Antinous murmured gently, drawing soothing circles along the boy’s waist. “Just a little longer, and you’ll feel good, I promise.”

Telemachus nodded, but the next thrust dragged another sound of pain from his throat. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks. It was too much... too overwhelming.

His hands came to rest on Antinous’s hips, halting him. And Antinous stopped immediately. And when Telemachus looked up at him, he saw no anger, only concern.

Antinous leaned in and kissed the tears from Telemachus’s cheeks, then slowly pulled out. He lay beside him and gathered him in his arms, wrapping him tightly in warmth and comfort, continuing to press gentle kisses over his face.

“I’m sorry,” Telemachus whispered softly.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Antinous murmured, brushing his hair back with steady, caring fingers. “We can always have fun the way we used to. No need to rush into things that don’t suit us.”

He pressed his forehead against Telemachus’s, their breaths mingling, “I’m happy with what we have now.” His voice was soft, sincere... and it left Telemachus aching in a way that had nothing to do with his body.

“Lie down with me. No expectations. Just… be here.”

He shifted slightly, pulling the covers up around them before wrapping his arms tighter around the boy. Even though he knew Telemachus wouldn’t run anymore, not like he did in their early encounters, he still held him as if he might.

Telemachus buried his face in the man’s chest, soothed by his warmth, his words, and the rhythm of his heartbeat.

"You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this... of you, like this, soft for me." Antinous whispered, brushing his lips across the crown of Telemachus’s head.

Telemachus clung to him a little tighter. “I thought you’d be disappointed…”

“Why would you say that?” Antinous frowned.

“Because I’m the one who offered… yet I couldn’t keep my word.” Telemachus murmured, lifting his head to rest his chin on the man’s chest, eyes meeting his.

“And I told you, that’s alright.” Antinous’s voice was steady, his hand gently brushing Telemachus’s back. “We’ll move at your pace. And if you never get ready for it… I’m already satisfied with this.”

Telemachus pouted, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Could this man be any more perfect? Any more fitting for him?

His hand wandered, fingers tangling in Antinous’s hair, gently massaging his scalp. He smiled with quiet pride as the man’s eyes fluttered shut, a sigh escaping his lips. Telemachus pressed a few small kisses to his chest, heart fluttering when Antinous’s mouth curved in contentment.

“I was so scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. At his words, Antinous’s grip instinctively tightened, holding him closer.

“I never planned to hurt or scare you,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. “I know I probably looked furious when I killed those—”

Telemachus cut him off with a kiss, soft and sure. Antinous melted into it, though it ended sooner than he would’ve liked.

“That’s not what I meant,” Telemachus said, his expression dimming. “You scared me when you said you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.” His fingers fidgeted in the suitor’s curls, voice fragile. “I don’t want to lose you before I even… before we even figure out what this is. So can you stop pushing me away?”

Antinous’s heart twisted, a pang of guilt hitting hard. He kissed Telemachus’s temple, trying desperately to draw him closer—though they were already flush against each other. “I won’t let my temper get in the way again. I’ll do better. I promise.”

And Telemachus believed him. Whatever small pieces of armor he still wore, they crumbled completely now.

“Let’s sleep,” Antinous whispered.

Telemachus let out a quiet hum of agreement, already exhausted. He yawned, shifting closer and pressing his body against Antinous—then paused. He could feel it... Antinous was still very much aroused... 

Antinous, realizing the shift, adjusted slightly. He moved his lower body just enough to give Telemachus space, making sure nothing pressed against him that might make him uncomfortable. His chest and arms remained exactly where they were, holding him safe. He didn't want to lose the warmth between them. Not even for a second.

Telemachus bit his lip, watching the man beside him. He couldn’t just let him fall asleep like that, unsatisfied and aching. Antinous had done everything for him―protected him, pleased him, respected every boundary, made him feel seen. And how did he repay him? Pretending it was enough just to cuddle close and call it a night. Even if the man didn’t mind, he did.

He shifted, straddling his lap. Telemachus smiled softly, a breath of a laugh escaping him. Antinous was too stunned to even speak.

He lifted his hips and guided the man's length between his cheeks, brows furrowed in concentration as he started to descend, taking him in.

But Antinous tensed, and in the next heartbeat, he cursed as he flipped them in one swift motion, settling above him

“Damn you, Telemachus! Just what are you trying to do?”

Telemachus wiggled his hips beneath him, breathless. “I want to try again.”

“But—”

“You said it’s normal to hurt in the beginning. I can take it till my body learns to enjoy it.” Telemachus murmured, reaching between them, but Antinous slapped his hand away. “Besides, if I die taking you, at least here no one would know the embarrassing reason.”

“Oh gods, you're not going to die,” Antinous muttered, nearly rolling his eyes.

“Then what’s stopping you?” Telemachus raised a brow.

“Because you can’t fool me. You’re still scared. It’s only guilt forcing you. You feel like you need to make it up to me.”

“That’s not true!” Telemachus said, frustration and longing tangled in his tone. “I want to. I want you. You already know the stupid things I did hoping for this moment. Please don’t make me beg... It’s hurting my pride.”

Antinous hesitated. The boy’s eyes were too sincere, too open. And stubborn—so stubborn. He exhaled slowly, brushing the hair from Telemachus’s damp forehead. There was no changing the prince’s mind. “Alright,” he said at last. He searched his face, trying to come up with something, anything. And he did.

Lifting the prince gently, Telemachus didn’t resist, letting Antinous position him however he wanted, placing a pillow beneath his pelvis to raise his hips just slightly.

Telemachus parted his legs again, expectant. Waiting for the man to fill him—this time fully, deeply—and finally fuck him the way he longed for.

He all but moaned—loud and needy. A sound that made his cheeks bloom with red, and shame washed over him at how slutty he sounded. He was no whore, but the wet feeling against his entrance made him feel like he was seeing the sun god himself.

Another lick, and Telemachus was already squirming, trying to escape. But Antinous kept a firm grip around his hips, pulling his backside closer to his face every time he tried to pull away.

"Antinous! Antinous!"

Great, Antinous thought. Now everyone in the palace knew someone named Antinous was having sex with another man. But he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed by the boy’s cries. If anything, they made him even more aroused.

His tongue pushed through the rim and slipped inside—a gesture that should've felt disgusting, if not for the fact that everything about Telemachus felt holy and sacred.

The prince was going insane as he was worked open by the small, wet muscle. Mumbling random words Antinous wasn’t too focused on trying to understand. His main goal was to get the boy's body to relax, and it seemed to be working perfectly.

When he pulled back, Telemachus was panting like he’d just run a race. "If you... if you don’t fuck me now, then I swear I’m going to die for real."

Antinous laughed, then grabbed the flask of oil, pouring a generous amount over the boy’s entrance.

"Antinous, that’s too much."

"Shut up."

He poured some into his hand as well, stroking his cock with it. He leaned in again, kissing the boy’s shoulder, then groaning loudly against it as he slowly pushed inside him. He paused, waiting for a sign—whether to stop or continue.

Telemachus arched his back and pushed his hips toward him, and that was all the permission he needed to start thrusting. Slow at first, despite his body protesting the torture, desperate for release. He closed his eyes, letting his ears savor the sound of his name moaned over and over again from the boy’s lips.

His thrusts began to quicken, the sound of their bodies colliding loud and wet—proof that he was no longer gentle. It only earned louder whimpers and cries from the prince.

"Telemachus..."

He moaned the name against his ear, the pressure building fast, the urge becoming unbearable. He fucked into him senselessly, discarding all rational thought and restraint.

Telemachus lay beneath him, taking it like an obedient lover—like a wife who wouldn't hesitate to kneel for her husband's pleasure. The comparison drove him insane with craving. What if Telemachus was always like this for him? Always waiting for him at home—their home. Far from anyone else, where they could be as loud as they wanted. Where Telemachus could adorn himself for him without anyone seeing or trying to steal him.

He suddenly pulled out, amused to hear the prince curse him under his breath. But he needed to see him—his face, his expression. He needed to see how he looked when he was inside him. So he fought every muscle in his body that protested and moved just enough to get the boy onto his back.

Telemachus whined, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him closer. And when Antinous pushed in again, penetrating him with the force he could no longer hold back, the prince wrapped his legs around his waist, welcoming every thrust. Antinous kissed his eyes, then gently wiped away the tears he hadn’t realized he was shedding.

Antinous wrapped his hand around his length, stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts. Telemachus didn’t last long—he was already on the edge with how perfectly the man’s cock kept hitting his sweet spot.

But his screams never subsided, not with the way Antinous kept pumping him—fast and hard—and all he could think about was how he wouldn’t mind being Antinous’s bitch if it meant feeling like this every night.

Antinous’s breath grew shallow as he hilted himself deep inside, spilling his cum with a guttural groan. And Telemachus, at last, got his answer—how it felt to be claimed and used by the man he had longed for. How it felt to hold his release inside him like a woman desperate to be bred. And he had never felt more satisfied.

He didn’t hate it. Antinous wouldn’t let him hate it—with the way his lips found his and kissed him so tenderly. Like he wasn’t just some body to be used. Like Antinous wasn’t thinking of him as a woman or a toy—but as something more.

When their lips parted, both were panting, staring into each other with equal parts admiration.

“We did it,” Telemachus whispered, blushing—as if he were celebrating a victory.

And Antinous, still inside him, smirked like he was the one who’d just won a war.

“Do I get to do that to you again?”

“Please.”

Chapter Text

The messy sheets barely covered his body as he shifted in bed. It had been a while since he’d slept as deeply as he did last night, with no intrusive thoughts disturbing his peace. He might have slept longer if not for the sun rays slipping into the chamber, tickling his face.

An arm reached out, sprawled across the empty side of the bed, savoring the lingering warmth. He smiled softly. A smile that quickly vanished when his eyes flew open in panic as full consciousness set in. He scanned the bed anxiously, letting the horrible realization sink in. The prince was gone.

Antinous felt a sudden wave of cold. Why? his mind demanded in panic. Everything had seemed just fine. Telemachus appeared satisfied after their rounds. Why would he leave like that? Had he done something wrong last night? Had he been too rough? Perhaps Telemachus didn’t appreciate that they’d gone at it multiple times on his first night, sharing each other over and over again. Maybe he felt… used? Antinous had heard of such things—guilt and shame haunting people after intimacy. But he never expected Telemachus to feel that way… though perhaps he should have. Telemachus was a prince, a well-mannered, mature man, whether he liked to admit it or not. Being taken might have stirred a storm of conflicting emotions and a weight he hadn’t anticipated.

Antinous cursed himself as he buried his face in the pillow Telemachus had used, exhaling the fading trace of him. He should’ve been more careful. Should’ve reassured him that this wasn’t a sin, that it was okay and nothing to be ashamed of. He should’ve told him clearly that he wasn’t using him... He was just as powerless to this pull as Telemachus was.

A quiet rustle broke the silence. Antinous froze, breath held. His heart thundered as he slowly raised his head, eyes darting to the other side of the room.

There, by the far wall, Telemachus stood, back slightly hunched as he reached for his tunic, fingers trembling just a bit as he winced and clutched at his lower back. He was careful, as he eased the fabric over his body, trying not to draw attention. But then a soft, trembling sound escaped his mouth. The kind of whimper that spoke more of soreness than words ever could, tight and laced with discomfort.

He turned, trying to make sure he didn’t disturb the man. And their eyes met. Then for a little while, neither of them moved. Neither of them looked away.

Telemachus tilted his head, studying Antinous’s expression from across the room. His brows twitched slightly, as if trying to read the panic still fading from the man’s eyes. Was Antinous afraid? Did something happen? A nightmare?

Antinous didn’t move. He just stared, the thundering in his chest slowly ebbing into something warm and stunned. The prince hadn’t left. He was still here.

Telemachus took a careful breath. He padded back toward the bed, eyes never leaving Antinous’s. When he reached it, he climbed up with quiet grace, and crawled across the bed, until he was above the man.

"Your face looks like you've seen a man returned from death," Telemachus chuckled, and everything inside Antinous softened.

A veil of tenderness fell over his eyes. The panic melted away, replaced by an overwhelming relief that washed over his features. He cupped the prince’s cheeks, the slightly rough texture of his thumbs brushing the delicate skin. “You’re here,” he said in a ragged whisper, as if the words were torn straight from his chest.

"Where else would I be?" Telemachus raised an eyebrow, wondering. Was this not normal? Was he supposed to walk away? After a night spent cradled in those arms... How could he create space when every fiber of his being yearned for that embrace? How could he bear distance when his soul ached for closeness? How could he possibly force himself to step away? Ridiculous.... 

Antinous’s hand slid down his thigh in a featherlight touch, then moved under his tunic, cupping and gently massaging his ass. Telemachus gasped, breath catching as his legs parted in anticipation.

But Antinous’s hand drifted to his waist instead, caressing the sore skin there, trying to soothe the pain. The prince whined in disappointment, earning an incredulous look from Antinous.

"I'm judging you," Antinous murmured as he continued to rub at Telemachus’s tender muscles.

Telemachus laughed again and rested his head on Antinous’s chest, relaxing under his touch. He started tracing slow circles on the man’s skin, breathing softly.

This kind of peace, this comfort, filled Antinous with warmth and made his eyes grow heavy again. "Let’s sleep a little more," he murmured as he stroked the prince’s hair, ensuring he was fully at ease.

"It’s well past midday. We should get moving...”

Antinous groaned in annoyance. Not only was he surprised he'd slept so late, but he was also being reminded of the outside world—the journey, the duties, the kingdom. He had been so caught up in his emotions, he forgot everything else. He was a suitor for this boy’s mother. How did Telemachus feel about that? No doubt the thought haunted him too. What would happen when they returned to Ithaca? There was nothing to gain but a forbidden relationship destined, sooner or later, to end in heartbreak. His thoughts tangled, a knot of guilt and inevitability tightening in his chest.

But then Telemachus shifted, curling closer with a soft breath "This feels so good," he whispered, his body relaxing more with every soothing stroke from Antinous’s hands.

Antinous tried to bury the heavy feeling around his heart, choosing instead to press a kiss to Telemachus’s forehead, before gently moving him to the side and starting to get dressed, earning a very unimpressed look from Telemachus.

Antinous snorted under his breath. Funny, considering he was the one who said they needed to get moving.

Their fingers kept finding each other in light, fleeting contact as they walked side by side through the corridors. Telemachus pressed his lips together in a thin line, trying to keep them from curving upward, while Antinous kept stealing swift glances at him from the corner of his eye.

At the final turn, they met their companions again. Diomedes leaned against the wall, one brow raised and a smirk playing on his lips that he didn’t bother to hide. Telemachus barely had time to blush before another man came into view.

“Ctesippus!” he surged forward, profound relief flooding him and propelling his movements. The sheer joy momentarily eclipsed the throbbing ache in his limbs. He forgot how weak and unresponsive his muscles had become.

His foot, lacking strength and stability, gave way. His ankle twisted inward with a sickening lurch, and his knee, unable to compensate for the sudden imbalance, buckled. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as his balance deserted him. His arms flailed uselessly as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Antinous lunged forward instinctively, arms shooting out in a desperate attempt to catch him. But two arms were already wrapped around the prince in a secure hold.

“Easy there.” Ctesippus smiled as he helped him steady himself again. Telemachus clung to the man, hugging him tightly as he fought back the tears threatening to fall. Ctesippus was alive. They hadn’t lied. He was truly okay.

Antinous watched them with an unimpressed look, murmuring more to himself than to anyone else, “Should I be jealous?”

Diomedes placed a hand on his shoulder and just shook his head.

Ctesippus placed a hand on Telemachus’s hair, ruffling it and earning a protesting sound that quickly turned into something close to a sob. Telemachus sighed as he squeezed him tighter. Then his gaze drifted downward, and he noticed the bandages wrapped around Ctesippus’s leg. His heart clenched at the sight “You’re hurt…”

Ctesippus shook his head firmly. “No, of course not. I’m totally fine.” He laughed nervously when the prince gave him a doubtful look, but the motion next to them suddenly shifted the mood.

“I’m glad you’re okay, little prince—”

Lysanderious barely had time to rest his hand on Telemachus’s shoulder before Ctesippus slapped it away and pulled the prince tighter against him.

“Hey now! I come with pure intentions!” Lysanderious said, hands raised in mock surrender.

“I doubt that.” Ctesippus regarded him with an expression of clear mistrust and distaste.

Dionysus watched in disbelief. Was this the same man who had been trembling like a leaf in his presence just the day before? Meanwhile, Antinous and Diomedes both nodded in approval. Telemachus would always be safe when this particular suitor was around.

The road to Sparta was long, longer than Telemachus had expected. But he didn’t complain, not with Antinous riding beside him on the chariot. Diomedes had casually suggested that Antinous accompany the prince instead of him, and though neither of them commented on it, they both knew why. Their private affair was no longer a secret, if it ever had been.

Funnily enough, Diomedes ended up sharing the second chariot with Dionysus, who muttered curses under his breath the entire way. Meanwhile, Ctesippus took the lone horse Antinous had brought—well, stolen—from Pylos.

Eventually, they camped by the roadside, deciding to rest for the night before continuing their journey in the early morning. When they finally reached Sparta, Telemachus discovered that Nestor wasn’t the only long-winded veteran of the Trojan War. Menelaus was even worse. Thankfully, Diomedes was there to absorb most of the attention, as the two old warriors reunited and dove headfirst into their memories.

 "That's a terrible idea…"

Telemachus whispered anxiously, his head swaying from side to side as he made sure no one was watching.

"You sweet fool… I'm literally a walking bad decision. Anything you do with me is a terrible idea. Seriously, that's public knowledge at this point!" Ctesippus grinned, holding a plate full of peaches and a vessel of wine.

They had just finished a lavish meal upon arrival, so Telemachus had no idea why he was tagging along on this foolish mission to steal from Menelaus’s stores. It would be terribly embarrassing if he got caught doing something so juvenile. He was walking on tiptoe like a common thief, for gods’ sake… and yet he followed the man anyway, hiding behind a large tree in one of the king’s courtyards, out of sight.

Ctesippus laughed brightly as he handed the prince the wine, then picked one of the stolen fruits and took a bite, savoring it. Telemachus sighed in disbelief, but a small smile tugged at his lips as he gave in and joined him.

Within an hour, both of them were already quite drunk. Ctesippus slung an arm lazily around Telemachus’s shoulders, grinning. "Well, wine’s no good without secrets, is it?" he said as he refilled the prince’s goblet.

Telemachus noticed. How the man always made sure to refill his cup before his own. How his lips twitched slightly whenever Telemachus took a deep sip. So when Ctesippus spoke, Telemachus finally understood what all of it was for. "You did this on purpose."

Ctesippus blinked, feigning innocence. "What, got you drunk? But I’m only pouring."

"Gods, you're a bastard." Telemachus chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Well, that’s only ‘cause you’d be fidgeting like a guilty man if I didn’t loosen you up with a drink first." Ctesippus chuckled, completely unfazed by the insult.

Telemachus snorted, taking another sip of wine. "If that’s your way of bringing it up, then know this, I carry no shame for what happened."

Ctesippus licked his lips and leaned in, eyes gleaming with curiosity "So… how was it? I mean, was it… good? Come on, don’t leave me hanging!"

Telemachus's eyes flicked up to meet Ctesippus’s with a knowing glint, a mischievous smile on his lips "Let’s just say... it was worth every scandalous thought you’ve ever had about us." For a moment, he looked almost smug. But then, just as quickly, his gaze dropped, and a soft flush crept into his cheeks. His smile softened, and he looked away, as if replaying those moments in his mind.

"Was it, uh… rough? Like… did it hurt? Was there, y’know, any… blood or something?" He asked casually, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

Telemachus’s eyes widened, breath catching in surprise. "Blood?! What? No, no, nothing like that! I… I can’t even imagine." He gave Ctesippus a doubtful look. "Why would you assume that?"

"I don’t know, just asking. I heard it can happen sometimes… that’s all.” Ctesippus shrugged, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Forget it. Dumb question." He turned away quickly, voice tight, as if regretting the question.

Telemachus tilted his head slightly, watching the way Ctesippus avoided his gaze. That grin… it didn’t quite match the unease in his eyes. Silence stretched between them, and for a moment, he considered pressing further. He felt the need to reach out, to soothe whatever pain was the suitor hiding. But instead, he softened, wanting to reassure him.

"It hurt at first, yeah, but only because I was tense and nervous. Antinous was so careful, he made sure I was okay every step of the way." He shook his head, almost in disbelief. "Honestly, it was amazing after that." His voice was gentle, steady. "It was tender. Safe. Like nothing else mattered but us holding each other."

Ctesippus blinked, then looked away, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "I’m glad he… that it was good for you. That he treated you right." His voice was sincere, though it wavered slightly at the end. Then, with more warmth, he added, "You deserve someone who does that for you, you know? Someone who takes their time with you."

Telemachus watched him carefully for a moment, then smiled softly and reached out, giving Ctesippus's hand a light squeeze. "If you ever let someone close… I hope they treat you just as gently." He rested his head on the suitor's shoulder, closing his eyes. He didn’t see the bittersweet smile on the man’s lips.

Not far from them, hidden in the shadows nearby, a man stood still as a statue. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the pair and the quiet intimacy unfolding between the two "You’re sure I’m not supposed to be jealous?" Antinous murmured, his voice low and edged with irritation. He wished he could hear the conversation between the two.

Diomedes’s deep laugh rumbled in his chest. He leaned casually against a column, half-amused by the scene playing out in front of him. "Trust me, there’s nothing to worry about."

Antinous stood at the edge of the bed, gaze lingering on the soft sheets he couldn't wait to sink into. He'd been told he’d be sharing a room with the prince, and he was pretty sure it was Diomedes who arranged it. For that, he couldn’t be more grateful. He definitely owed the man.

He unfastened the pins of his chiton, letting the heavy fabric slide from his shoulders. It dropped away easily, baring the broad expanse of his chest and the firm curves of his muscles. The rest of it clung around his waist, caught by his belt, forming a loose drape over his hips.

Then his movements stilled, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath to steady himself as two familiar arms wrapped around him from behind, settling warmly on his chest.

He looked down at the hands that began playfully squeezing his skin and let out a soft laugh, amused. He brought one of them to his lips, kissing the knuckles, earning a small sigh from the boy behind him, who rested his forehead gently on Antinous’s back.

"You know," he murmured, "I’d really appreciate it if you weren’t so touchy with everyone else." He wasn’t trying to start a fight, but he knew better than to bottle up his feelings and let them fester into something worse. He’d done that too many times before, and each time, he ended up hurting the prince with his uncontrolled rage. The memory of Telemachus flinching away from him still haunted him. He hated himself for it. That guilt had a grip on him he couldn’t shake. So he’d already spent the last hour wrestling Athena's warrior just to cool off. And honestly, it had been a relief to finally meet someone stronger than him, someone who wouldn’t back down from a fight.

He turned to face the boy, and Telemachus let out a small sound of protest, not appreciating the loss of contact. He was clearly wasted, but Antinous couldn't hold in his discomfort any longer. "I’d like it if you kept that level of affection just for me," he said, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. His mind screamed that he sounded childish, but he couldn’t take it back now.

Telemachus nodded and immediately rushed back into his arms, craving the warmth he’d momentarily lost.

“You’re not even listening to me…” Antinous sighed, a hint of fond frustration in his voice as he brushed his fingers through Telemachus’s hair.  

"Mhm… I’m listening… just tired," Telemachus mumbled, rubbing his cheek lazily against Antinous’s chest. "I won’t do anything that makes you pull away… Promise. I’ll stop. Just… stay close, alright?"

Antinous's breath hitched slightly at the words. He held the prince tighter, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “But you have to understand… when you let others in so easily, it makes me feel like I’m just another one of them.”

Telemachus’s brows knit together, the haze of wine not dulling the sting of those words. He looked up at Antinous and reached up, using both hands to cup his face. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said gently. “I don’t want anyone the way I want you. Not even close.” 

He held his gaze, soft and unguarded. “You’re not just another one, Antinous. You’re the only one.”

Not another word escaped Antinous. He couldn't fathom any man on earth answering without trembling and collapsing, not after the prince had so utterly undone his feelings and toyed with his very soul. So he responded the only way he knew how, compelled by his deepest instincts.

His mouth collided with Telemachus's, his hands tightening on the boy's waist, drawing him in as if his existence were at stake. This was not a gentle kiss, nor was it driven by base hunger or carnal desire. It was something profoundly stronger, an emotion he couldn't yet name. He relished every sound that escaped the youth's lips as Telemachus surrendered completely, granting him absolute control.

Their tongues found a rhythm, a fervent conversation. Telemachus's hands left Antinous's face to bury themselves in his hair, tightening their grip whenever the sheer intensity threatened to shatter him. Antinous was unrelenting, consuming Telemachus's lips repeatedly, as if each kiss were a precious, fleeting sustenance.

Antinous didn’t fully grasp what was happening until Telemachus buckled in his arms, his legs giving out beneath the weight of emotion. A small mercy, Antinous found just enough composure to catch him, preventing them both from falling. With a soft groan of reluctance, he broke the kiss, leaving them desperate for breath.

“You taste like wine…” he said, still panting. 

Telemachus gave him a lazy smile, “Hope it’s your favorite kind.”

Antinous leaned in, resting their foreheads together, “From your lips? Without a doubt.”

The mattress dipped under his weight as he gently guided Telemachus onto the bed. For a moment, he just looked at him... wine-flushed cheeks, lips parted in anticipation, body warm and pliant beneath his hands. Then, unable to resist, he bent down and tasted his mouth again.

Telemachus, now beneath him, responded by lifting his tunic, baring his thighs and lower half. Antinous caught his wrists before they could go any further, “I thought you said you were tired.”

“I want you,” Telemachus whispered, arching his back, clearly offering more than just words.

Antinous’s jaw tensed. He pushed the tunic back down and gave him a stern look. “Absolutely not,” he said, his tone sharp with control. “You’re not fooling anyone, kid. A blind man could see you’re still sore.”

Telemachus’s brows furrowed. “But…” His hand slid down, fingers curling over the clear evidence of Antinous’s arousal.

“No buts.” Antinous caught his wrist again, holding it firmly. The commanding edge in his voice wasn't helping Telemachus to keep himself in check.

“Well… can I at least suck you off?” Telemachus asked without a second thought.

Antinous froze. Where had Telemachus even learned about that? And more importantly... what happened to the shy boy who used to blush when he so much as touched him? How much of this boldness was the alcohol, and how much was truly him? Not that Antinous was complaining. Just… stunned.

“So?” Telemachus asked again when he received no reply from the man, too impatient. He lifted his hips, grinding up ever so slightly. 

Antinous narrowed his eyes. “Is this some bold strategy to humiliate yourself, or are you just being you?” He leaned down, letting his voice graze over Telemachus’s lips. “What will you tell Menelaus tomorrow? That your voice mysteriously vanished overnight?”

Telemachus flushed red. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want his father’s old companions knowing what shameful things he’d done with the man. Even if he didn’t regret any of it, he still had a reputation to uphold, as the mighty son of Odysseus. Luckily, Antinous was already doing the overthinking for him.

Antinous smirked faintly, brushing a knuckle against the boy’s cheek. But Telemachus wasn’t going to back off that easily. His hand slipped beneath the man’s chiton, fingers wrapping boldly around his length. The sound Antinous made was a reward enough. Telemachus felt a sense of pride at how the man's breath turned heavy in an instant.

He almost whimpered when Antinous pulled his hand away. But that sound caught in his throat when the suitor licked his palm, and returned it to its place. Telemachus’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t hesitate. He began stroking him with quiet determination, the slickness of saliva easing each motion.

Soon, Antinous’s hand found him in return. Their movements stayed unhurried. Despite the growing intensity, they kept their rhythm slow, savoring the moment like something sacred. Neither of them wanted it to end. They craved continued contact, a silent agreement to prolong this intimate moment for as long as humanly possible. And neither of them had any intention of letting go.

Ctesippus wandered the halls of Menelaus’s palace with the disoriented amble of a man who neither knew nor cared where he was going. The wine had gone to his head long ago. He let his fingers trail lazily along the smooth columns. Then when the world swayed, he leaned against a cold stone wall, head tipped back and eyes half-lidded. His thoughts were not on the palace, or its king, or any rules he might be breaking.

His mind played his conversation with the prince over and over. The way Telemachus talked about sex, like it was something sacred. Not fearful, not shameful—gentle, Safe. He said.

That wasn’t what it had been like for him. It wasn’t anything close to what Ctesippus had experienced when Lysanderious had forced himself on him.

He rubbed his thighs together subconsciously, still feeling the dull ache of pain. Not sharp anymore. Just… present. A reminder.

Ctesippus smiled faintly. He remembered what Telemachus had said. About how soft the touch had been. How safe had felt. The softness in his voice. The way he smiled, flushed. He wanted that. He’d do anything to feel the same, even if just for one night.

A scuff of boots on the stone pulled him back. Someone was coming. He didn’t move at first, not until the footsteps got closer. He found it hard to lift his head, but he did anyway, his gaze landed on the man, a palace guard, judging by the armor and posture.

The guard’s eyes raked over him instantly. “Lost?” the man asked, tone light but his gaze dragging shamelessly down his body.

Ctesippus shrugged and gave a weak smile, “Kinda.”

The guard chuckled, stepping closer, too close. “You shouldn’t be here.” His eyes lingering more on Ctesippus’s form than his face. He didn’t even bother to be subtle about it.

“I was bored,” Ctesippus replied, not paying much attention to his attitude. It wasn’t anything new, after all.

“Not enough of a reason.” The man’s tone shifted, low and rough, as he stepped fully into his space. Before Ctesippus could back away, large hands gripped his hips. The wall chilled his back. The man’s warmth pressed into his front. “Maybe I should drag you into the dark,” the guard murmured. “Teach you not to wander.”

Ctesippus tensed. “Careful. I’m a guest.”

The guard snorted, not letting go. “You’re a drunk little brat in someone else’s palace. If you weren’t so pretty, I wouldn’t bother talking.”

Ctesippus frowned slightly at that.

“But you’re too pretty to ignore. Bet you’re used to men staring.” he pressed harder, and Ctesippus could feel his body being crushed between the man and the wall. He tried to push away, but the wine dulled his strength, and the guard was solid. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

But the man didn’t stop. He leaned in, rutting lightly against him, breath heavy. “Come on,” he whispered, “You’ll enjoy it. You want to feel good, don’t you?”

Ctesippus closed his eyes, stomach twisting. He did want to feel good. To feel something different from what he remembered. Maybe it wouldn’t be the same. Maybe... 

His thoughts raced. He wondered—foolishly—if the man might be gentle with him. Might make him feel what Telemachus described. Perhaps he wouldn’t be cruel. Perhaps his attitude in bed wasn’t as horrible as his personality. Antinous was proof enough that it was possible.

He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe someone could touch him and it wouldn’t feel like a punishment.

“…Okay,” he whispered, though he didn’t sound convinced.

The guard didn’t hesitate. But Ctesippus’s heart sank before the man even moved. Something inside told him this wasn’t what Telemachus meant. And still, he let it happen.

Chapter Text

He was wrong... It wasn’t anything like he’d hoped.

Arms wrapped tightly around himself as he sat on the cold floor, knees drawn up, waiting for the throbbing ache to dull enough to move. His body trembled, not just from pain, but mingled shame and Disappointment.

A nobleman, brought low and used by a mere guard. What a humiliation. And gods, he had tried. He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy it. Tried to pretend it was something else. Someone else. A future lover perhaps? But the man had been rough and uncaring. The only courtesy he showed was spitting on him first.

Ctesippus didn’t even know when it had ended. Only that now he was still here, silent and sore, with cum leaking between his thighs. He forced himself to stand, though his limbs protested every movement. He didn’t know where to go, only that he had to move.

The palace was quiet, too quiet. He’d muffled his screams earlier, biting down on his arm to keep from being heard. As he staggered forward, a hand caught his wrist, halting him mid-step. 

“No,” he sighed in irritation, exhausted. “Absolutely not. I can barely move.”

He didn’t even look. He assumed it was the same man from back again. The same man who had his chance with him and ruined it. He didn’t make him feel good like he promised, and Ctesippus wasn’t about to let him go for another round. He had nothing left to give, and all he wanted right now was to rest and sleep. But the grip didn’t budge, and no words came. 

Ctesippus turned, jaw clenched, ready to fight if he had to. “I swear, if you even think about pinning me to another wall—” 

His words faltered. 

“Diomedes?”

The warrior stood there, still and silent. Watching him with a blank expression.

Ctesippus’s face flushed hot. Of all people to see him like this, it had to be him. Diomedes had a cruel habit of showing up exactly when Ctesippus was at his lowest. After a long pause, Diomedes finally placed a hand on his shoulder. His voice was calm and neutral, as he nudged him forward. “We’re supposed to share a room. I came looking when you didn’t show up.”

Ctesippus’s blood turned cold. What if Diomedes had come just a little earlier... and seen him bent over for that man? Nothing could ever restore his pride. His stomach twisted. He said nothing, just let the man lead him away, walking in silence through the corridors.

As the door of their shared room clicked shut, Ctesippus realized, that Diomedes knew, just as he had last time.

“Diomedes, I said I’m fine!”

Ctesippus shifted in his grasp, wincing every time his hand brushed over skin. He sighed and tried to maneuver himself upright. The position was awkward... bent over the man’s lap, his pelvis pressing intimately against the firm, warm plane of Diomedes’ thighs. The contact only pushed his hips higher, presenting the curve of his bottom in a way that made him feel even more exposed.

Diomedes’s patience was thinning. With a sharp motion, his hand came down in a light but firm smack against Ctesippus’s backside. Just enough to make him jolt and go still. “Behave!” his voice clipped, sharper than usual.

Ctesippus let his head fall forward against the bed, neck arched and nape exposed in surrender. He wasn’t about to risk another slap, his ass had been through enough already.

“I thought you were the gentle kind,” he muttered, pouting like a scolded cat. Diomedes was never stern with him, until now.

“I am,” Diomedes replied, inspecting him with care, checking for cuts or any serious damage like the last time. “But you’re not exactly making it easy.” Relief softened his expression when he saw no fresh lacerations. The edge in his tone faded.

“So you only play nice when people obey?” Ctesippus murmured, trying to mask his discomfort with playful defiance.

Diomedes smirked. His thumb traced briefly over Ctesippus’s skin before pulling away. “I play nice when people don’t make me want to lock them in a box.”

With one hand, he tugged the tunic back into place and gently helped him shift, adjusting his weight so he could sit beside him properly. “Had you been any younger, I’d have made you my eromenos,” he said dryly. “Someone clearly needs to teach you some discipline.”

Ctesippus tilted his head and fluttered his lashes with mock innocence. Then, in his most theatrical voice, “Then be gentle with me, Erastês~ I’m not built for rough handling. Not everyone can handle your kind of lessons.”

Diomedes scoffed. “Oh, please. You wouldn’t last a day with me.”

Ctesippus frowned, but the expression didn’t last. He quickly burst into laughter alongside Diomedes.

Rising to his feet, he glanced around the room until he found a clean cloth, then handed it to the man with a flushed face, his eyes deliberately turned away. “You… might want to clean your hands.” Diomedes had cleaned him earlier when they entered the room, and just now, his hands had been on his most intimate parts.

Diomedes took the rag but didn’t use it. Instead, he set it beside him, a wicked grin blooming across his face, “Want me to wash them? Or should I put them to better use?” He planted his hands on his knees and leaned in, watching Ctesippus’s wide-eyed reaction with clear amusement. “Nothing about you makes me want to stay clean anyway.”

“Don’t joke like that!” Ctesippus snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed the attempt at sternness.

Diomedes’s smile faltered. The grin faded as silence crept in. He didn’t reply right away, just studied Ctesippus’s face, gauging whether he had gone too far. But the suitor didn’t look angry, just... flustered. “I’m not joking,” he said at last, voice quieter this time. His eyes never left the other, watching how his lips parted slightly with the words he couldn’t form, how his chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths. And then how he shifted with discomfort at the silence that stretched, too awkward to move.

His hand hovered near Ctesippus’s side hesitantly, waiting for some sign, a retreat, even a slap, anything... then he let his fingers brush the fabric at his waist. He grabbed more firmly when he heard no protest, just a confused look with a blushing face.

Ctesippus closed his eyes and allowed himself to be guided gently onto the man's lap again, this time straddling him, legs on either side, facing him fully. He felt a small kiss on his collarbone, then another, lingering longer on the same spot. The lips moved higher, to his throat, where they sucked gently, leaving a faint bruise behind. He sighed at the blissful sensation, then opened his eyes to find Diomedes watching him, a rare softness in his gaze.

Ctesippus’s hands tightened on the warrior’s shoulders, a silent permission. Diomedes understood, and pressed another kiss to his skin, then another, trailing warmth wherever his lips landed. The quiet sighs and soft gasps that escaped the suitor’s lips encouraged him further. He knew Ctesippus was seeking comfort more than pleasure, but he was willing to give him both. 

The suitor moaned with delight at every gentle touch. But when he felt himself being laid back on the bed, Diomedes settling between his legs, his body tensed. The warrior didn’t make any move to go further, his kisses remained slow and unhurried. He seemed content with just making out. However, Ctesippus was thinking otherwise. It didn’t matter that his body needed rest. Or that it might hurt again. He just wanted to erase the awful memory, burn it out of his skin before it etched itself deeper into his mind.

He wrapped his arms around Diomedes’s neck, drawing him close, “You’re going to have to go slow. Really slow,” he whispered, voice trembling. His fingers curled into the man's tunic, but he didn’t look away. Nervous, yes, but trusting.

Diomedes held his gaze for a long second. The meaning of those words settled in his mind. Then he nodded. Though the expression on his face quickly shifted into something Ctesippus couldn’t read at all. His voice came low. “There’s something you should know.”

Ctesippus hummed, encouraging him to speak, though his focus was slipping. His eyes were lidded, heart racing in anticipation, far more tempted to feel those lips on him again than to hear a confession.

“I have a wife.”

The words landed heavier than a slap. Ctesippus leaned back slightly, blinking. The heat in his body turned cold. “Then what are you doing?” he asked, disbelief twisting his voice.

Diomedes let out a slow breath, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. He just stared at the little space between their faces that the suitor created. “Losing control,” he said at last. “Wanting you.” He gave a crooked smile, hungry and bitter all at once. “Want doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Ctesippus didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His expression tightening with pain. Diomedes saw it, and still—perhaps stupidly—he asked, not that hopeful though, “Do you still wish to continue?”

Ctesippus hesitated... Diomedes was a king, perhaps no longer in Argos, but he'd heard rumors of the warrior ruling over some distant land, even being worshipped there. Of course he was married. It made sense. And he almost felt foolish for questioning the man’s loyalty. Kings didn’t marry for love. Their unions were for politics, for alliances, for duty. It was normal for men like Diomedes to take lovers outside of marriage. Ctesippus knew that. This wife of his definitely knew too. But still… His throat worked before the word finally came, soft but sure. He couldn’t look at him when he said it. “No.”

Diomedes looked away. He didn’t argue. Just nodded and slowly withdrew his hands, and it hurt more than he expected it to. He had never thought to mention his marriage before, but Ctesippus… Ctesippus wasn’t the kind of man who’d be content sharing a lover. Not after everything he’d been through. He looked like someone who longed for something whole. Someone to walk beside him through every step of life. Diomedes knew he could never be that person. He was bound by marriage, by duty, by his kingdom and the responsibilities that came with it. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he cared, he could never offer Ctesippus the kind of love he deserved. And yet… he had let himself hope, selfishly...

A part of him was relieved when Ctesippus said no. It stung, yes―but... not as much as it would’ve if the man had said yes. If he had accepted him. If he had become his lover. The guilt would’ve been unbearable, knowing he could never give him enough. Never give him everything. 

Ctesippus blurted only a moment later, propping himself up on his elbows. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re hot! Really hot… I mean, I was just lying there for you. It’s just that… uh, you know… it’s hard to...”

Diomedes found it impossible to suppress a smile, even wounded. The suitor looked absolutely adorable, flustered and scrambling to justify his decision. There was something endearing about the way he yapped, so eager to be understood.

He reached out, took Ctesippus’s hands, and gently squeezed them between his own in a reassuring gesture. “Shhh. I get it,” he murmured. “You don’t have to explain yourself so much.” Then his expression softened, a faint frown tugging at his brow, more fond than disapproving. “Don’t lose yourself trying to please everyone else.”

Ctesippus blinked, letting the man's words settle in his mind. He didn’t really know who he was if not trying to be what others wanted. That was why he was courting the queen of Ithaca in the first place, following his father's orders. That was why he’d never had a real relationship, despite his age. His parents had warned him that feelings were obstacles to a man's glory. And yet, he didn’t even know what glory truly meant, only that he was expected to chase it, to earn it somehow.

But now, hearing Diomedes say those words… Don’t lose yourself trying to please everyone else—it left him shaken. Did he really have a choice? Could he live for himself instead? He wasn’t sure. Not yet. And he wouldn’t be sharing that out loud anytime soon. Still, he gave a small, breathless laugh and nodded. Diomedes smiled in quiet satisfaction.

Diomedes leaned in again, his forehead resting gently against the other’s. “There’s one thing I’d still like to claim, because it’s never been my way to leave empty-handed.”

Before Ctesippus could ask what he meant, Diomedes’s lips met his in a passionate kiss. It was brief, but deep, strong enough to leave a mark on both their souls.

“I understand your choice,” he said once they parted, breathless. “And I honor it. I only hope we can still walk beside each other—as friends, as companions. That would mean a great deal to me.”

Ctesippus averted his eyes, as if that would hide the blush blooming across his face. He lifted a finger to his chin, humming in mock thought. “Well… you make a decent companion. Just don’t expect me to follow orders like your soldiers.”

Diomedes scoffed, “I’d be disappointed if you did.” Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, he stood and began rummaging through his belongings. Ctesippus watched curiously as he returned moments later with a dagger and a thin leather sash in hand.

The dagger’s hilt was a work of art. Ornate, with edges flaring like wings. At its center, just above the guard, sat a polished gem, dark and gleaming, cradled in claw-like metalwork. The grip was wrapped tightly in black leather cord, built for both elegance and function. The pommel flared into a spiked, leaf-like design. It radiated power. Royalty. Ctesippus could only stare, awestruck.

"Keep this close," Diomedes said quietly, his tone firm, “in case anyone ever tries to cross your boundaries again.” He knelt slightly, fingers slipping under the hem of the suitor’s tunic to reveal his thigh, his breath catching at the sight of the scattered moles dotting the pale skin. His hands paused, as if restraining the urge to bow and kiss each one. Whether it was those or Ctesippus’s lips, parted in soft shock, he couldn’t tell which tempted him more.

Instead, he did only what he had to do, carefully wrapping the thin leather sash around the thigh and tucking the dagger in place. “Here,” he murmured, fastening it snug. “Easy to hide. Easy to reach. And sharp enough to keep you safe.”

Ctesippus swallowed hard, his breath shaky as he looked down at the dagger strapped to his thigh, Diomedes’s hands still lingering close. “That’s…” He tried to find the words, but his voice caught somewhere between awe and embarrassment. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” he said at last, but his tone was soft, touched with something grateful.

Diomedes looked up at him, one brow arched. “I’m a dramatic man.”

Ctesippus huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his fingers against the gem on the hilt, then pausing to glance at Diomedes with a more soft expression, holding back the tears in his eyes, “Thank you...” 

His head was throbbing.

Groaning in discomfort, he nuzzled his face into the pillow, ignoring the tangling sensation it caused. A moan slipped past his lips at the gorgeous feeling of his scalp being gently massaged. It was heaven, and Telemachus would do anything to make it last. His body began receiving the same attention, touched and rubbed in slow, soothing patterns. It was impossible to suppress the little sounds escaping his throat. May the gods smite him if they must, so long as he could feel this way in the underworld.

The soft, rhythmic tapping against his cheek wasn’t disturbing, just strange. It made him feel as if the pillow itself had a headache, mirroring his own. He smiled foolishly at the thought. Pillows can’t have headaches, you idiot. He chuckled at himself before nuzzling his face in deeper.

His eyes shot open. He lifted his head, staring wide-eyed at the smirking figure beneath him.

“Mm. Morning. Slept well after drooling on my chest all night?”

The prince let out a mortified whine, realizing the steady thumping he’d mistaken for a pillow's headache was actually the man’s heartbeat.

“I did not drool. You probably just sweat in your sleep.” He still wiped his mouth, just in case.

“Can you blame me if I sweated? I had a captivating prince draped over me till sunrise.” 

The smirk only deepened as the boy above him turned all shades of pink and red, “What? Don’t tell me you’re getting shy on me now... That’s not the same Telemachus who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Eager to suck me off—”

“Drop it!” Telemachus snapped, his face burning.

“Oh? So you’ve changed your mind already? You wound me, Telemachus. I was looking forward to it."

“You’ll survive, drama queen.”

He rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the man, reaching for a fresh chiton. The one he had on was far from wearable after the mess they’d made last night.

He didn’t miss the way Antinous’s eyes followed his every move. The intensity of it made heat coil low in his belly, but he forced himself to ignore it. He knew better than to give in to wicked thoughts. And Antinous wasn’t his personal plaything, ready to bend at his will whenever he felt a spark of arousal.

They’d only done it once, and already he craved that closeness again, to feel the suitor moving inside him, to be joined in that raw, intimate way. A part of him still struggled with the shame of it. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy it, not like that. Not to feel so good being taken like a woman. But the stronger part, the part he was learning to stop silencing… he loved it.

He loved the pleasure Antinous gave him, the sense of safety, of being known. It was like a dream he hadn’t meant to fall into. Just weeks ago, their dynamic had been completely different. And yet, even then, he couldn’t deny the strange pull Antinous had on him.

Now? He got to see a whole new side of Antinous. Now the man was soft with him. Gentle. Honest. He was unraveling him, coaxing down his walls with nothing but warmth. It couldn’t be an act… right? This couldn’t be some elaborate trick, could it? The way Antinous looked at him... those eyes couldn’t lie... 

"What are you thinking so hard about?"

Telemachus gasped, breath catching as strong arms suddenly circled his waist. Antinous’s chest pressed warmly against his back. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t even heard him move.

A hand trailed slowly up his torso, slipping beneath the folds of his chiton. Telemachus’s lips parted as fingers grazed his skin, then gave his nipple a firm, teasing pinch that sent a jolt straight through him.

“Ah—” he exhaled sharply, biting his lip.

Antinous hummed, playful and patient, still waiting for an answer.

“Y-you…” Telemachus breathed, doing his best to sound composed, even as his body betrayed him.

"Am I troubling you now?" Antinous meant it to tease, but the concern threaded through his voice was impossible to miss.

Telemachus swallowed hard, his body responding eagerly to every slow roll of the man’s fingers. He reached to grip Antinous’s forearm, then gave a small shake of his head meant to reassure the man. After all, It's neither the right time nor place for such a conversation.

He leaned into the suitor’s embrace fully, eyes fluttering shut as a quiet moan slipped from his lips. It was impossible to prevent his hips from moving, rolling instinctively and seeking friction. He was disappointed with how desperately his body responded. He’d been doing just fine keeping his urges at bay… before Antinous decided to touch him like that.

"My horny prince." 

Antinous murmured against his ear, amused and pleased with the power he held over him.

His hands left him all at once. Telemachus blinked, startled by the sudden loss of contact. He turned, narrowing his eyes at the man behind him. Was he seriously going to tease him like that?

But Antinous wasn’t smirking this time. His voice was low, rough with hunger, and laced with an edge that made Telemachus’s knees weaken.

“By the wall. Now.”

He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need to. The authority burned in his eyes, and Telemachus felt it. Everywhere.

His eyes flicked toward the wall, then back to Antinous. He hesitated just a heartbeat too long before he obeyed, letting his feet carry him to the cold stone. The chill of it pressed against his back as he watched the suitor approach, his eyes sweeping over him like a flame ready to devour.

“Hands up,” Antinous said. “I want to see those pretty fingers stretched above your head.”

A flush spread across Telemachus’s face. Gods. What was this man doing to him?

“I—this is ridiculous…”

The suitor stepped closer, until the space between them was suffocating. His expression remained unreadable, no teasing in sight. Telemachus would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little scared—exhilarated, too.

His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he slowly lifted his arms, hands trembling slightly, then braced against the wall on either side of his head, just as Antinous demanded.

Still nothing from Antinous. No smile. No comment. Just silence—watchful and weighted. The intensity of his gaze made him shiver.

Then, at last, he moved. His fingers reached for the pins of Telemachus’s tunic, confident and unhurried, savoring the moment, as if he had all the time in the world. One by one, they fell. The fabric slid from his shoulders and puddled at his feet, leaving him bare and flushed.

Antinous’s gaze dragged down his body like a caress, no shame in the way he devoured every inch of skin revealed to him. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Telemachus’s ear, “You drop your arms, I stop. Got it?” It wasn’t a request. It was a challenge. A dare to disobey.

Telemachus swallowed hard, his cheeks glowing. “Y-yeah… got it.” His hands pressed harder against the wall, fingers stiff with tension. His breath came faster.

Antinous smirked, a darker kind of satisfaction curling his lips, one he hadn’t worn in a while, like a predator who had his prey right where he wanted. Then, without another word, he dropped to his knees.

Telemachus gasped—a choked, needy sound—as his length was taken into the suitor’s mouth in one smooth, practiced motion. His spine arched off the wall, legs trembling violently. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, desperate to keep the cry lodged in his throat from spilling out.

And Antinous watched him the whole time, eyes gleaming and satisfied, daring him to lower his arms, to break the rules, to surrender to the pleasure threatening to consume him. he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t one of the most satisfying things he’d ever done—watching Telemachus unravel under him, trembling, struggling not to move, not to fall apart completely. And he moved, determined to bring the prince undone, piece by piece.

"I miss Eurymachus."

The suitor murmured, scratching the neck of the animal. It seemed that during their last journey, Ctesippus had formed a new bond of friendship. The horse nickered, pleased with the affection the man was showering on him.

Antinous regretted accompanying him to the stables. He was bored, and uninterested in the poor pet he had dragged away from home—or at least that’s how Ctesippus had described him.

And just to make things worse, Ctesippus brought up the one subject Antinous had no desire to discuss. He hadn’t forgotten what happened the last time he was with Eurymachus. The whole thing was still too tangled in his head. He didn’t want to dwell on it. Not now.

Ctesippus left the horse’s side and approached him, poking his cheek repeatedly with one finger in that “I know exactly how to push your buttons” way of his, and his grin that knew exactly how annoying it was.

"I. Miss. Eurymachus."

"Then you should’ve stayed with him."

Antinous was now seriously considering tying Ctesippus to a post and leaving him in the stables for the rest of their stay.

"But then I’d miss you."

"Oh Gods, how do I even tolerate you?"

Antinous muttered under his breath, loud enough for Ctesippus to hear, "I swear, the only reason we’re still friends is because you just stick around."

"So you DO confess we’re friends!"

Ctesippus lit up as if he'd won a war. He poked his cheek again with even more smugness, "I knew you liked me."

"Of course that’s the part you latch onto."

Antinous sighed long and loud, thoroughly exasperated. He turned his head and aimed a bite at the offending finger, but Ctesippus yelped and pulled it away just in time.

"Hey—where are you off to now?" Ctesippus asked when Antinous began to walk off.

Antinous grinned over his shoulder, "Might as well go stalk our little prince."

Ctesippus hummed, watching him disappear. He figured it was better not to follow and just let him go torment Telemachus in peace. Besides, he didn’t have much of a choice, with the horse nudging at his arm again, clearly demanding more attention.

Ctesippus ran his fingers through the horse’s mane, scratching behind its ears with a fond smile. “Well, don’t you just adore me?” The animal nickered softly, nudging his chest as if in agreement. Ctesippus chuckled, pressing his forehead briefly to the horse’s. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you home when we're done here.”

“Isn’t it tragic… how all your attention goes to that four-legged thing?”

Ctesippus fought the urge to turn and throw a rock at the owner of the irritating voice.

Dionysus approached, arms crossed with a pout. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Please. Jerks like you don’t deserve a second glance.”

Dionysus' eye twitched. Ctesippus could definitely act like a classic noble brat when you got under his skin enough. Still, he decided to ignore the insult—for now. “Mm. But what if that jerk can’t stop thinking about you?”

Ctesippus glanced at him from the corner of his eye, then looked away too fast. “Then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.” His cheek burned slightly, and he hated himself for getting swayed so easily, even if he didn’t believe the words.

Dionysus laughed hard, but it was genuine, not mocking or teasing, like he truly enjoyed the little banter. He stepped closer, raising his leather wineskin with a wide grin. “Care to lower your standards and drink with a fool like me?”

“You planning to slip something in that?”

His smile turned devilish at the direct question and the raised brow of suspicion. He licked his lips. “Why bother tricking you?”

His fingers reached out, brushing Ctesippus’s cheek in a mock gesture of tenderness, then held his chin. “You act like your consent matters to me. I could always take you again, any time.”

His smile started to fade as he watched the blood drain from the suitor's face. “Oh come now, don’t look like that. It was a joke.”

Ctesippus stayed pale, eyes wide, struggling to breathe. He said nothing, his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to step back, yet his legs wouldn’t move. He flinched when Dionysus leaned in again, immediately avoiding his gaze.

“Ctesippus, it was a joke!” Dionysus shouted, grabbing his arms and shaking him roughly.

“Well, you’re not very funny!” Ctesippus screamed, voice raw. He shoved him away and staggered back. “Stay away from me, Lysanderious!”

Dionysus opened his mouth to speak, but the horse suddenly surged forward, stepping between them with a sharp, angry neigh. It tossed its head, eyes locked on the god, stamping its hoof once as if daring him to come closer. Ctesippus clutched the reins like a lifeline.

Dionysus hesitated, but he didn’t move. Not while the horse glared and the mortal behind it still trembled, doing everything he could to look like he didn’t.

Chapter Text

Menelaus was… a weirdo, if Telemachus was allowed to be honest. Who in their right mind would think about relocating an entire kingdom just to have their dear friend live next door? Yet that’s exactly what Menelaus told Telemachus he planned to do once Odysseus showed up. The poor prince prayed his beloved father wouldn’t be fool enough to agree. Odysseus was known for his great love for Ithaca, surely he wouldn’t want to move it elsewhere… if that was even possible.

Helen had joined them soon after she noticed the boy, immediately concluding he was the son of the mighty Odysseus, for he looked like a younger version of his father. And the rumors hadn’t lied, her beauty was beyond anything the mind could imagine.

After sharing the little they knew about Odysseus, both royals insisted that Telemachus and his companions extend their stay, refusing wasn’t really an option. Menelaus eventually excused himself to attend to royal duties, leaving Telemachus and Helen to wander the palace.

They walked until they reached one of the sun-drenched courtyards, where a regal, majestic fountain caught Telemachus’s attention. The intricate carvings and the graceful arc of the water―everything about it testified to the palace’s grandeur and the king’s power. Helen sat at its edge, gently trailing her fingers through the water as she went on about Odysseus―his brilliance, his role in Troy, even his oath that helped Menelaus win her hand.

Telemachus was doing his best to pay attention when something soft and squishy thunked against his shoulder. He blinked, confused, and looked down to find a green smear on his chiton and a lone grape at his feet. There wasn’t a single vine overhead.

Another grape struck him, this time on the head. He rubbed the spot, scowling. Someone was clearly toying with him, and he knew exactly who. He did his best to ignore the next couple of hits, thankful Helen was too caught up in her admiration for Odysseus to notice.

On their way back, as they passed one of the pillars, he spotted him. Antinous, grinning, half-hidden in the shadows. Telemachus rolled his eyes. The suitor was childish. So childish.

Antinous raised two fingers, placed them in front of his mouth, and licked the space between them in a lewd motion that made Telemachus’s cheeks flare red. Seriously?

He tried to look away, to keep his composure. He wanted to scold him for being so immature, so completely inappropriate in a royal palace. But then he made the mistake of glancing back.

Now Antinous was licking his fingers slowly, the same way he had licked a very different body part that morning. And in one bold move, he slipped his fingers into his mouth, mimicking the exact motion that had once left the prince undone and shivering.

Telemachus’s breath caught, his mouth went dry, and his glare turned into wide-eyed panic. He quickened his pace, cheeks burning, barely noticing Helen’s confused expression beside him.

The first thing Telemachus did when he was finally alone with the man was grab the nearest object—a large, red apple from the fruit plate the servant had just left—and hurl it at him.

Antinous caught it effortlessly, smirking. “Missed.”

Telemachus scowled, but his irritation only deepened when the man’s smile grew wider, more amused. Then he noticed it—realized it—and heat surged through his face. Not even the rich red of Antinous’s chiton could compete with the color of his cheeks.

“What are you two up to?”

Ctesippus strolled into the hall, his tone casual as he chose a bench. But his gaze turned suspicious when he caught the look on Telemachus’s face.

“Telemachus just proposed to me,” Antinous said smoothly, his expression smug.

“Oh gods! Is that right?!”

“I didn’t!” Telemachus barked.

Ctesippus ignored him and slid onto a closer bench near Antinous. “Please tell me you accepted.”

“I didn’t propose!”

Antinous took a leisurely bite of the apple. “Hmm... I still need time to think about it.”

He barely finished the sentence before a cushion hit him square in the face, Telemachus’s new weapon of choice.

“You kids are loud.”

Diomedes stood at the entrance, arms crossed, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched them. He strolled in and took a seat beside Ctesippus, who lit up the moment he saw him.

Antinous didn’t even get the chance to fire back a snarky comment, he was too busy dealing with the prince currently trying to strangle him. Taking full advantage of the situation, he grabbed Telemachus by the thighs and pulled him into his lap, lifting his hips just slightly—subtle enough to avoid the others noticing, but not subtle enough for Telemachus to miss the feeling of him, half-hard beneath him. 

The prince froze, disbelief painted across his face. His expression clearly said: Seriously? Right now? They were gathered here at Menelaus’s request, and disappearing to fool around wasn’t exactly an option. But Antinous, as always, looked entirely unbothered, and just shrugged.

Lysanderious arrived shortly after. Diomedes didn’t miss the way Ctesippus tensed the moment he walked past, eyes dropping quickly to the floor.

Menelaus clapped his hands, drawing the group’s attention as he entered. He launched into a long-winded, appreciative speech, one that, unsurprisingly, centered heavily on none other than Odysseus. 

Telemachus was starting to get suspicious. Honestly, the man sounded borderline obsessed with his father. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Antinous practically vibrating with frustration, which amused him to no end. Hearing the king he intended to dethrone being endlessly praised? It must be unbearable.

Across the room, Dionysus kept his eyes locked on the one person he wished he could avoid entirely. But it seemed avoidance was no longer an option.

Diomedes had his fingers casually tangled in Ctesippus’ hair. The suitor looked perfectly at ease under the touch, which only deepened the god’s scowl. He resisted the urge to stand up and separate them, but barely.

Diomedes, of course, noticed his piercing gaze. He met it with a slow lifted brow that was more of a taunt than a question. Dionysus’s lip curled into a dangerous grin.

“Tomorrow’s dawn promises a day of exhilarating pursuit. What do you say?” Menelaus’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Will you join me beyond the palace walls for a hunt in the wild lands?”

Antinous perked up, interested for the first time since Menelaus had started speaking.

Diomedes rolled his eyes. “You just want an excuse to show off your skills at hunting.”

“I do,” Menelaus said shamelessly, grinning as Helen chuckled at her husband’s behavior.

Ctesippus and Telemachus exchanged a look, both silently praying they wouldn’t run into any wild monsters this time.

Swaying with a man in one of his father’s comrades’ palaces was never part of Telemachus’s future plans. Yet here he was, moving in rhythm with the music, his hands awkwardly placed on the suitor’s chest when he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Antinous, on the other hand, was far more confident, his boldness only growing after the prince accepted his dance proposal. As if their hips brushing with every movement wasn’t enough, his hands began to roam. First teasing, then turning tender, admiring every inch of the boy he held.

Funnily enough, the one who ended up blushing wasn’t the prince, but poor Ctesippus, plucking at the lyre with flushed cheeks. He’d only agreed to play because Antinous had told him to—flashing that infuriating smile and tossing out a casual, 'Set the mood for us, would you?' And now here he was, third-wheeling a scene far more intimate than he’d signed up for. He didn’t mind them being touchy right in front of him, but it seemed the two were getting a little too comfortable in his presence. Still, his gaze never left them. His eyes lit up each time their lips drew too close, silently begging for a kiss that never came—to his utter disappointment.

At some point, Telemachus stopped trying to keep up. He simply rested his head on Antinous’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed as he surrendered to the quiet, intimate moment, letting the suitor continue his slow exploration, as if he hadn’t already mapped every inch of him when they were naked.

He didn’t even know if this counted as dancing. It certainly didn’t follow anything he'd seen before. It felt more like Antinous had made the whole thing up just to have an excuse to touch him, calling it a dance because it sounded innocent enough.

Antinous’s breath hit his ear. "You know... you're ridiculously cute when you're not threatening my life," he murmured, voice husky, low enough for only Telemachus to hear.

Telemachus’s fingers curled into the fabric of Antinous’s tunic, gripping just a little tighter. He dipped his head closer to the suitor’s throat, hiding the blush that crept up his cheeks "I wouldn’t be plotting your murder if you didn’t act like such an ass."

"Funny, coming from someone who always ends up in my arms anyway." Antinous's hand trailed lower, settling just above the prince’s hip.

“Are you going to keep teasing me?” Telemachus mumbled into his neck.

Antinous smiled against his hair. “If I said yes, would you still let me hold you like this?”

Telemachus didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice with Antinous’s fingers brushing under his tunic, squeezing his inner thigh. A soft sigh slipped from him as his hands slid down from the suitor’s chest, pressing against the firm plane of his abdomen.

They began to move again, bodies in perfect rhythm, pressing closer, as if the seam between them could disappear if they just leaned in hard enough.

Antinous leaned in, lips grazing the shell of Telemachus’s ear, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed being inside you. It’s driving me mad.”

Telemachus lifted his head, half-lidded eyes meeting his, lips parted. “I’m not… sore anymore. If that’s what you’re asking.”

"But you're eager to be again… aren’t you?"

The prince didn’t deny. His hands drifted lower... and lower.

Antinous moved quickly, guiding them toward the stone wall. He hoisted one of Telemachus’s legs around his hip, groping the newly exposed skin of his thigh. The prince clung to him, arms around his neck, and their mouths collided in a kiss that ached with all they hadn’t said.

Then Telemachus spun them, sudden and confident, pinning Antinous to the wall. His hands roamed with newfound boldness. A low hum rumbled in Antinous’s throat as he bit down on his bottom lip, a sound enough to make his knees weaken.

Neither noticed that the lyre had gone silent. Not until they heard the sound of someone clearing his throat.

Telemachus jerked back like he'd just been doused in cold water, lips pink, pupils blown wide. He had totally forgotten about Ctesippus, who was very much still there. Antinous exhaled a breathy laugh, head falling back as he grinned at the ceiling.

The poor suitor had frozen, lyre in his lap, a flush burned across his cheeks. “Look, I’m flattered to be the audience, really—but I’d rather not be here when someone walks in and catches you two mid-thrust.”

Antinous laughed, amused at the look of horror on the prince’s face, until he received a punch to the gut.

“Well, guess that’s our cue,” he muttered, rubbing the spot, still not letting go of Telemachus.

The final notes of the lyre faded, leaving behind a hush broken only by the soft crunch of approaching footsteps. Dionysus sat beneath the moonlight, his goblet tilted lazily in one hand. He didn’t look up as someone settled beside him, the air shifting with their presence.

Without invitation, the man snatched the goblet and took a sip, savoring it with an exaggerated sigh. "I couldn't help but wonder," Diomedes began, swirling the wine, "what business does a god have among a company of mortals?"

Dionysus’s jaw tightened. His lashes fluttered as he opened his eyes at last. "Curiosity sours the sweetest drink," he said coolly, "Best you sip your own and leave the gods to theirs."

Diomedes chuckled, taking another drink and licking the remnants from his lips like a challenge. “Oh, but I already got my answer,” he said, voice low and knowing. “You poured it all over the floor with those sharp little glares you threw my way earlier.”

Dionysus finally turned to face him, purple gaze darkened with ire. "He's not yours to touch," he hissed, venom coiled in every syllable.

Diomedes barked a laugh, sharp and scornful. "So what, he's yours now?" He leaned in, brows raised with cruel amusement. "Right. Isn’t that just how the gods work? Take a soul, twist it, and call it affection when they break beneath your touch."

Dionysus’s fingers clenched the empty air where his goblet had been. "What do you know?" he spat, his voice no longer smooth.

Diomedes didn't flinch. Instead, his expression shifted, almost pitying, but still edged with contempt. “Here’s what’s tragic,” he said, softly now. “You could’ve had him. He might’ve loved you. But now?” He leaned back, the final blow in his tone like a knife. “He’ll only ever survive you.”

A beat passed. Silence bloomed between them. Then Diomedes reached out and clapped a hand mockingly on the god’s shoulder, light and dismissive, “Sweet dreams, divine one.”

He rose and walked off without a glance back, leaving Dionysus still, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched as though holding back something far more dangerous than words. 

Behind their door, the little prince of Ithaca was enduring a special kind of torture, the kind only Antinous knew how to administer, with maddening precision. Telemachus writhed beneath him, fingers digging into the sheets, undone in every way except the one he craved most. Every brush of lips, every flick of tongue, every touch was designed to tease, to torment, to leave him breathless, shaking, and burning.

Antinous chuckled when the prince grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking hard "Easy, greedy thing," he murmured, gripping Telemachus’s wrist and gently prying it away before it turned into bloodshed. He dipped lower, tongue swirling around his navel, “Didn’t know you were so desperate to bone me.”

Telemachus was far from amused. His whole body ached with need, every nerve stretched thin. Being prepped and slicked and stretched to the point of trembling, only to be denied again and again, was wearing him down to the bone “Antinous, I swear…” his voice broke, raw and breathless. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m gonna—”

He didn’t finish. A sharp moan stole his breath when Antinous took him into his mouth again, deep and wet and perfect—and just like every time before, he stopped just before release. Pulling back with maddening cruelty.

Telemachus had enough. His hand fisted the fabric of Antinous’s tunic, tugging him up, voice shaking with frustration and arousal “Off,” he growled. “Now.”

Antinous blinked, then laughed, genuine, but with a slight edge of guilt. He couldn’t help it. Teasing Telemachus was addictive, but he’d pushed it far enough tonight. He pulled off the tunic in one swift motion, tossing it aside. His own body was flushed, cock hard, chest heaving. The sight of Telemachus beneath him, desperate, eyes dark with fury and lust, made his stomach twist with desire.

“I was starting to feel bad anyway,” he admitted, brushing his fingers over the inside of the prince’s thigh, voice rough now, his humor finally giving way to hunger. “You’re not the only one aching, you know.” 

“Then stop being so cruel…” Telemachus whispered, his voice trembling, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Please?”

Antinous exhaled sharply, chest tight at the sight—those big, pleading eyes, the shake in his voice, the way the prince trembled beneath him. Gods, he was beautiful like this, for him.

He gave himself a few slow strokes, slicking himself with oil, then leaned down to kiss the boy deeply. As their lips met, he guided himself in with a guttural moan, burying himself inch by inch into the heat of the prince's body.

Telemachus gasped, clinging to him, and the tears he had held back finally spilled. He was overwhelmed—by the stretch, the pressure, the closeness—by the sheer sensation of being so full, so utterly taken.

His toes curled when Antinous began to move, each thrust sending shivers up his spine and scattering every coherent thought. All that remained was Antinous... his hands, his kisses, the way he filled him so perfectly.

It didn’t take long before Telemachus was begging “Harder… please—more,” he panted, nails clawing at Antinous’s back. But instead of obliging, the man slowed... Paused... Teased... Sometimes he stopped altogether, holding still inside him just to hear the prince whimper and sob with frustration. 

Telemachus was torn, part of him wanted to curse the suitor to the gods, to dig his nails into his skin until he bled. The other part wanted to be obedient, to please him, to beg like a good boy if it meant the pleasure would return.

Desperate, he started moving his hips, trying to ride him, to make something happen. Antinous watched, cock twitching inside him, eyes dark with lust, but even that effort wasn’t enough for either of them.

And then, Telemachus broke. A choked sob escaped his throat, and he collapsed back against the sheets, trembling as tears streamed freely now—ugly, pathetic sobs that made his whole chest shudder.

Antinous froze. The sight snapped something in him. “Shh, hey,” he murmured, brushing the boy’s hair back, guilt suddenly burning through the haze of arousal. “No more teasing. I’ve got you. I’ve got you…”

He gripped Telemachus by the hips, tight enough to bruise, and started thrusting, fast and deep, all restraint thrown to the wind. The bed shook beneath them as he finally gave the prince what he’d been begging for all night. No more games, just the full weight of his desire poured into every thrust.  

Telemachus cried out, every thrust forcing breathless moans from his lips. His body rocked with each movement, overwhelmed by the intensity, the roughness, the sheer rhythm of Antinous finally letting go.

He couldn’t form words anymore, just broken whimpers and gasps, clutching at the man like he might fall apart without him, melting into him completely, body and soul.

Antinous leaned down, panting into his ear, “This what you wanted?” he growled between thrusts. “To have your body shaped by mine?”

Telemachus nodded, helpless, nails raking down his back. He was trembling, crying, undone... and loving every second of it.

Antinous didn't stop until the prince was a sobbing mess beneath him, not until he was sure his name would echo in the boy’s head long after they’d collapsed together in the silence.

The cold morning breeze tickled their bare skin, sharp enough to make them press tighter together beneath the covers. Antinous’s arm was still slung around the prince’s waist, holding him possessively, as if even in sleep he wasn’t willing to let Telemachus drift an inch away.

Antinous stirred first. His eyes blinked open, hazy and disoriented, before they focused on the boy nestled beside him. A lazy grin curled at his lips as he took in the sight, Telemachus still tangled with him from the night before, flushed and soft, hair a wild halo over the pillow.

He wanted nothing more than to stay in that bed, maybe sleep a bit longer, but the pale morning light was already creeping into the room, and the day ahead didn’t care about lovers who didn’t want to rise.

So, he leaned in and began planting soft, coaxing kisses along Telemachus’s temple, his cheek, the curve of his bare shoulder, hoping it would be enough to wake him gently. It was a mistake that he regretted instantly.

The prince’s eyes snapped open, and without warning, his hand shot up, grabbed a fistful of Antinous’s hair and yanked. “Ow—shit!” Antinous winced, though there was laughter in his voice. “Okay, okay. I deserve that.”

Telemachus glared, lips tight. “You think?”

Antinous knew exactly what he did the night before. All that teasing. All that touching. All that desperate build-up, only to pull back again and again, leaving the boy aching and furious. He couldn’t help but chuckle, pressing his lips against the prince’s temple again, “Morning, trouble.”

Telemachus, of course, ignored him. Then kept ignoring him for the next several hours, even when they were deep in the woods, riding alongside the rest of the group.

But the tension wasn't just between them, it simmered between others too. The air crackled with a different kind of friction. Menelaus and Diomedes had clearly reignited their quiet rivalry, one that always seemed to rear its head when hunting was involved. It didn’t take long before the usual taunts escalated into a full-blown challenge. Everyone was expected to join in, naturally, and the group soon split. Everyone ended up going their separate ways, each rider vanishing into the trees alone.

The moment the rules were set, Telemachus turned his horse and took off without a word, dust trailing behind him. He didn’t even look back. Antinous watched him go, jaw tight with frustration. He wanted to be irritated, but the boy made it hard not to admire him even when he was fuming. He clicked his tongue and spurred his own horse forward, the thrill of the hunt beginning to take hold despite the cold shoulder he was still being served.

Ctesippus wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d hoped to ride alongside Telemachus, but the prince had vanished into the woods before he could catch up. And even the horse beneath him wasn’t the one he’d grown fond of from Pylos. Menelaus had insisted they try his prized stallions.

Wandering the forest alone turned out to be more frustrating than peaceful. The only animals he’d come across so far were a few hares, too small to be worth boasting about. So when he finally spotted a red deer grazing in a clearing, he smiled excitedly.

He dismounted quietly, spear in hand, moving with careful steps. Every muscle in his body tightened as he crept closer, determined not to make a sound. But just as he lifted his arm to aim, a sharp rustling broke through the trees behind him. The deer bolted.

Ctesippus spun around, already scowling, expecting to find his horse stepping on branches again. But the moment his eyes landed on the figure standing there, all the color drained from his face.

The few forest creatures scattered, seeking refuge where the ragged moans and sharp cries wouldn’t reach them.

Ctesippus didn’t fight him. Not this time. There were no screams at the start, no fists, no resistance. Just the silent tilt of his head, the tremble in his legs, and a breath that never seemed to come. He let himself be turned and pushed, let him take what he wanted. Lysandrious didn’t hit him. There was no violence this time, no wild rage. Just desperate hands and a craving that had long since stopped feeling human.

Then hips slammed into him, again and again, each brutal thrust forcing the air from his lungs, grinding his body against the unyielding tree stump. Bark bit into his skin. The pressure was relentless.

Pain coursed through him with every deep, punishing stroke. The ache wasn’t distant. It still laced every nerve, still tore through him, still made his vision blur and his hands claw into the dirt. But it didn’t shatter him like it had the first time. 

Behind him, Lysandrious grunted, breath heavy, grip bruising on his hips. With each harsh, deep plunge of his thick cock, Ctesippus instinctively tried to squirm away, his body recoiling from the intense pain. But the hands dragging him back didn’t allow escape. They only dragged him into the next, harsher thrust—punishment for resistance.

Ctesippus screamed. Again and again. A raw, broken sound that echoed through the forest. The searing pain tore through him without mercy.

And he bore it.

He took it—until he couldn’t.

There was no pretense left, no pride, no anger, just the raw sound of someone being unmade. The words broke out of him—torn, helpless, cracking, “Lysandrious… please—I can’t. I can’t take it anymore.”

For a breath—only a breath—everything slowed. The relentless rhythm faltered.

Lysandrious’s hand trembled His grip faltered. The world shrank to breath and silence. Then a thrust came, deeper, crueler, and Ctesippus cried out, his voice ripping through the air. “…Don’t say that,” he rasped. The words were breathless, guttural— A desperate denial.

Then another thrust, harder than the rest. “You can,” Lysandrious said—but it wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a threat. It sounded like a plea. Like he needed it to be true. 

Ctesippus shuddered violently, collapsing against the stump, unable to hold himself up, his body limp with surrender. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself grounded.

Lysandrious’s hand landed beside him, pressed to the bark. Ctesippus lunged for it instantly, fingers closing around his with trembling desperation. He clutched it like a lifeline, as if it might shelter him, even if it belonged to the one breaking him. As if even in the hands of the one hurting him, he could still find something that didn’t hurt.

When it ended, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His body buzzed with aftershocks, his breath shallow and broken. Scrapes bled down his thighs. His face was calm, eerily calm, eyes unfocused as he stared forward.

Lysandrious didn’t move right away. He stood there, looming, hesitating... His hand hovered midair, like it wanted to touch, to soothe. He wanted to reach out. To pull him close. Whisper something soft. Apologize. Offer comfort.

But he couldn’t. The weight of what he’d done crashed down with sudden clarity. His fingers dropped to his side.

“Gather yourself,” he said, voice strained as he pulled out and turned away “We… need to rejoin the others.” He couldn’t stand to look at what he’d done.

Ctesippus watched the trees sway gently above “…Yes,” he whispered, almost inaudible.

To say the walk was a struggle was an understatement. Every part of him ached, each step met with protest. The horses were nowhere in sight, not that he could’ve ridden one after what had just happened.

Dionysus kept glancing back at him. Diomedes’ words still echoed in his mind. They hadn’t left him, not since the moment he’d heard them. The truth they carried had been unbearable. So unbearable, he’d tried to outrun it the only way he knew how... through recklessness. Through force. Now, the empty look on Ctesippus’ face said it all. He’d fucked up. Again.

A part of him wanted to stay as far away from the mortal as possible. Maybe that distance would help—help him, help Ctesippus, help something. But he couldn’t just leave him behind. Not when he could barely walk.

“You’re too slow.”

Ctesippus flinched at the remark. He tried to quicken his pace, but pain struck him like a lightning bolt. His legs buckled beneath him, and he dropped to his knees.

Dionysus watched him. Watched the young man struggle to get up, struggle to move. But something told him it wasn’t a wise idea to lend a hand. Ctesippus wouldn’t take it anyway. So he just stood there, until the mortal finally got to his feet again.

Suddenly, the underbrush rustled. Too fast. Too sharp. A wild boar burst through, blood smeared across its hide, eyes wide with fear. It was running from something—or someone—but Ctesippus had no time to think, no time to move, when the beast charged. He didn't even realize the danger he was in before it barreled toward him, his mind and body both still blurry.

Then there was a sickening rip of flesh, a wet sound as blood splattered, coating the ground. A pained groan followed, raw and immediate. 

Ctesippus stood frozen, stunned into silence as he watched it happen. And when it all hit him, when his body registered what his mind couldn’t, tears welled in his eyes.

The boar wrenched its tusk free with a jolt, tearing it from the shoulder it had pierced. Then it turned and fled, crashing back into the underbrush, not sparing a glance, as if its only instinct now was escape.

The man who had leapt between him and death collapsed to one knee, breath hitching. Blood poured freely from the wound, dark and fast. His body had taken the full force of the charge, had shielded him.

The pain, the shock, the memory of the last violation, the fact that it was Lysandrious who’d stepped in to protect him... It overwhelmed Ctesippus all at once.

Dionysus swayed but managed to stand again. His hand came up to press the wound, more annoyed than afraid, like it was an inconvenience, not a gaping injury. But it hurt, blood seeped between his fingers. Just because he wasn’t mortal and couldn’t die, didn’t mean he didn’t feel the same pain mortals do.

Then his gaze drifted to Ctesippus. The emptiness was gone now, all that was left in his eyes was raw panic. Tears streamed down his face. At first silent, but then his sobs broke free —harsh and ugly—his chest heaving, his voice cracking open, as if everything he’d bottled up was now pouring out all at once. It was the kind of crying that shook him from the inside out. His shoulders jerked with every breath. Like something deep inside him had finally torn loose.

Dionysus froze, unsure what to do. He’d never seen the man cry like that, not in front of him. Aside from a few stray tears that had slipped out when he couldn't bear the strain, Ctesippus had always held it in. Always endured. Dionysus had only ever seen flickers of pain in the cracks. But this wasn’t a crack. It was collapse.

But even in this state, to Dionysus, somehow, he looked beautiful. Red-faced, wet-lipped, eyes shining. He was so damn cute...

Before Dionysus realized what he was doing, his hands were on either side of Ctesippus’s face, his forehead nearly touched his. Next thing he knew, his lips were pressed against his. A kiss born out of a desperate need to feel something other than helplessness, as much as it was born from his desire to the mortal.

Ctesippus didn’t kiss back. His eyes widened, breath stuttering against Dionysus’s mouth. But he didn’t pull away either. He just cried, warm tears slipping down as his lips stayed soft and passive beneath the god’s.

Dionysus moved them together until Ctesippus’s back found the rough bark of a tree. There, he cradled his face, tilting it to nip lightly at his upper lip, then the lower. Pausing just long enough for breath, then diving back in. He kissed him again, then again. Slower. Gentler. The pain in his shoulder was a distant thought now—forgotten.

"Please," he whispered between kisses, his voice cracked around the edges, strained. "Please stop crying..." He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the way it made him feel, guilty and helpless, a reminder that he didn’t deserve to touch him but still did. He knew he was being selfish, even when it wasn't the rightful moment.

He brushed his fingers along Ctesippus’s cheek. No, he hadn’t kissed him back. But he didn’t push him away either. Instead, he collapsed forward, burying his face into Dionysus’s uninjured shoulder, his fingers fisting the god’s tunic. His sobs quieted into soft, broken gasps.

Dionysus winced at the pressure against his wound but didn’t let go. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in carefully. The forest faded around them, just the throb of pain, the scent of blood, and the quiet, exhausted shaking of a man who couldn’t hold himself together anymore.

“…Let’s go back,” Dionysus murmured, his voice barely above a breath.

The gentle gurgle of the spring was the only sound as Telemachus washed away the grime and the hunt’s grim evidence, the crimson swirling and dissipating in the clear flow. He knelt, the cold water a welcome shock against his bloodied skin. His prey lay on the ground behind him, the stag had been a real challenge to hunt.

He was exhausted. So damn exhausted. But his mind wouldn’t let him rest. He knew now that his father was alive, stranded on some distant island—news he hadn’t shared with the two suitors. It didn’t seem like a wise idea at the moment. He’d wait for Athena’s instructions instead.

He heard the splash of water behind him, someone approaching. But he was used to the man stalking him by now. It had to be him. There was no way it could be anyone else.

He held his breath when the man pressed up against his back, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. He tried to exhale silently, not wanting to betray how quickly the touch affected him.

The freshwater swirled around their legs, bubbling gently. “You can let go now,” Telemachus mumbled, though he made absolutely no effort to move.

Antinous hummed, tightening his hold. “Mmm. No, I don’t think I will.”

“Oh, now you want to hold me? What happened to ‘patience is a virtue,’ huh?”

Antinous rolled his eyes. The boy was good at sulking like a damn child. He pulled back slightly, placed a hand on Telemachus’s back, and gave him a shove, sending him stumbling into the water with a startled yelp.

The wide grin on his face wouldn’t earn him forgiveness any time soon, but messing with the boy was pleasurable in its own way.

“You—”, Telemachus sputtered, emerging with soaked curls plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his nose. He wiped at his face with both hands, glaring up at Antinous. "You just love ruining my peace, don’t you?!"

Antinous laughed, "Peace? You’ve been brooding before I even came. Besides, you should be thanking me. Look at you now, clean and shimmering like a proper prince."

Telemachus retaliated with a splash of water, then trudged toward dry ground. Antinous followed close behind, either talking nonsense or complimenting the stag, making the boy groan in annoyance and shove him back whenever he got too close.

When his chatter failed to grab the prince’s attention, Antinous frowned, then did the next thing that came to mind. While Telemachus wasn’t looking, he grabbed the stag and bolted.

"Hey—! What are you doing?!"

The prince gave chase immediately, furious at the theft of his hard-earned prey. But Antinous couldn’t get far, not with the dead weight in his arms and breathless laughter slowing him down. Telemachus caught up with ease, tackling him to the ground. They fell together, the stag thudding beside them.

Antinous was still laughing like a madman, too loud, too sure of himself, but warm and grounding. Telemachus sat on top of him, hair dripping and chest heaving, eyes narrowed in disbelief. His hands were braced on Antinous’s chest, fists clenched like he still hadn’t decided whether to punch him or not.

But the glare softened. His shoulders sagged. And then, a small, reluctant laugh escaped him—just a breath at first, then fuller and freer.

The laughter faded into quiet. Only the soft gurgle of the spring and the distant cries of birds filled the silence. Telemachus remained straddling him, hands now relaxed where they rested on his chest. He looked down, a crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Just what were you thinking about?" he asked, the amusement in his voice barely hidden.

Antinous shrugged beneath him, hands resting lazily on the prince’s hips. "I figured I’d give you something to chase besides your thoughts."

"Is it that obvious?"

"No. But I'm not blind." He tilted his head with a smirk, "Though I know better ways to wreck your concentration," He winked.

Telemachus scoffed, "You are not taking me against some tree," he muttered, trying to sound stern.

Antinous’s hands tightened slightly on his hips, thumbs dragging slow circles against damp skin. "No?" he murmured, already sliding lower, fingers pressing into the backs of his thighs "What about the ground?"

Telemachus didn’t push him away. His gaze flicked downward, to Antinous’s mouth, then darted back up like he didn’t mean to look, but it was enough for the man to notice.

Antinous sat up slowly, chest brushing against Telemachus's. The prince didn’t lean back. He gasped softly when the man’s lips brushed his jaw, trailing down to his throat. His hands clenched again, this time gripping Antinous’s shoulders.

Telemachus shifted in his lap, and Antinous felt the friction, the unmistakable press of arousal through the damp fabric clinging to their skin.

“See?” Antinous grinned against his neck. “You’re already distracted.”

“Shut up,” Telemachus groaned, rolling his hips again, less subtle this time.

Antinous didn’t hesitate. He spun them over in a single motion, laying the prince down beneath him with practiced ease.

Telemachus arched into him, thighs spreading without a second thought. Apparently, all that sulking vanished the moment arousal took hold.

Antinous cursed himself for not bringing any oil. He hadn’t expected to get the prince alone like this, so he hadn’t prepared. He'd need to be careful, not just for Telemachus’ sake, but because hurting him might ruin everything.

The prince lifted his hips again, grinding up against him with shameless need, hands pulling Antinous down by the collar of his soaked tunic. He could stay mad later. Or maybe—just maybe—he’d forgive him, if Antinous didn’t tease him this time.

Telemachus moaned softly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep it quiet as Antinous worked his fingers inside him, slick only with spit. It stung, he was still sore from the night before, but he’d rather grit through it than admit it out loud. He knew Antinous would stop if he did.

He hissed when the suitor slipped in a third finger, stretching him wider with care. His body tensed, but he didn’t ask him to stop. Then, all of a sudden, Antinous froze. His head tilted, his whole body stilled, muscles alert like a hound catching scent.

Telemachus barely had time to register the shift before something barreled past, a blur just beyond the edge of the clearing. A wild boar tore through the underbrush, heavy-footed and snorting, blood smeared along one tusk. Not close enough to be dangerous, but close enough to see the madness in its eyes.

Antinous lit up like he was offered a treasure. His hand slipped away, and before Telemachus could protest, the man was already on his feet, snatching up his spear with the grace of a trained hunter. “Perfect prey,” he muttered under his breath, and then he was off, half-dressed and laughing under it all.

Telemachus lay there, stunned and thoroughly abandoned, legs still spread indecently on the forest floor. He let out a long, exasperated sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “May Ares break your leg, or Aphrodite curse your cock. One of the two.”

His gaze sharpened toward the direction Antinous had vanished. He swore, next time, he’d make the man choke on his own damn orgasm.

Chapter Text

Two days had passed, and Antinous was still exiled from their shared chamber, left to squeeze in with Diomedes instead. Ctesippus had taken his place in the prince’s bed, though “taken” was a generous word. He barely occupied it, curled in on himself beneath heavy covers like he believed stillness might make him disappear. He hadn’t left the bed since then. Telemachus could only lie beside him, growing sicker with worry by the hour. When asked, Ctesippus had muttered that he was “tired.” But Telemachus knew better. A man doesn’t sleep for two days out of fatigue alone.

Now the prince stood at the bedside, arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes fixed on the still lump beneath the blanket. His tongue felt stiff in his mouth, but he forced the first word out, “Ctesippus,” he said softly.

No reply. No shift. Just the slow, shallow rise and fall of breath, barely noticeable unless you were watching closely. And Telemachus had been watching very closely. 

“I know you said you were tired,” he went on. His voice didn’t rise, but something in it tensed, trying to keep still. “But it’s been two days. You barely eat. You barely speak. And I’m starting to feel like I’m sleeping beside a shadow, not a man.”

Still nothing. Just that same stillness. Ctesippus didn’t even flinch, curled too tight beneath the blanket, like being seen was unbearable.

Telemachus sat down at the edge of the bed, careful not to shake it too much. His hands twitched in his lap, aching to reach out, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His lips pressed into a line. He didn’t know whether to keep talking, but something told him that Ctesippus was listening.

“Menelaus is throwing a banquet tonight,” he said. “A proper one. Music, wine, roasted lamb. Everything you used to ask for, remember?”

The blanket didn’t stir. Not even a breath caught in reaction. Silence settled again, thick as snowfall.

“You can be angry, or sad, or both,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “But not like this. Not hiding under a blanket like the world’s already ended.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment, breathing through the heaviness, then leaned forward, his voice gentler, like an apology, “I can’t lie to Menelaus for you again. I don’t know what to tell him anymore.” A pause, he hesitated, “I need you to get up.”

Still no sound from the bed. But Telemachus kept going. He had to. “Ctesippus,” he said again, softer, “I know you’re hurting. I know something’s wrong. I’m not asking you to explain. I just…” He faltered, standing abruptly. The quiet was too much, too loud. He began pacing across the room, trying to keep his voice level as panic twisted in his chest.

“You’re a guest of Sparta. A friend to me. When you disappear like this, they don’t see a man grieving. They see an Ithacan acting like he’s too good to share a table.” He stopped and wiped a hand over his face, more frustrated with the silence than anything else. “It’s giving the wrong impression. Not just of you, of me, of all of Ithaca.”

His throat tightened as he added, “I’m not asking you to be happy. Just… be present. For their sake... and for mine.”

There was a long pause after Telemachus finished speaking. Just his own breathing—uneven now—and the distant hum of voices somewhere in the hall. The blanket shifted. Not much, but enough for Telemachus to stop pacing and stare. Ctesippus slowly pulled it down from his head, revealing a pale face and tired eyes, blinking sluggishly against the light. His hair was a tangled mess, his lips dry. Then, with a stifled sigh, he sat up.

His back hunched, arms loose in his lap, like he hadn’t yet decided whether to stay up or lie back down again. But he was up. He rubbed his eyes, and a small pout tugged at the edge of his mouth, “You talk too much.”

Telemachus blinked. Then a short laugh slipped out, he definitely hadn’t been prepared for that to be the first reply.

Ctesippus huffed, a tired sort of sound. But he didn’t lie back down. Instead, he held out a hand, silently asking for help. Telemachus took it without hesitation, helping the suitor rise to his feet.

“I’ll… I’ll get dressed,” Ctesippus murmured finally, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. Telemachus nodded. Relief bloomed behind his ribs. If he’d known Ctesippus would listen to him like this, he would’ve dragged him out of bed days ago.

“I’ll help you clean up,” he said as he followed the suitor. Ctesippus gave the smallest nod, then turned his face away. Not in rejection, but in shame, or maybe guilt. His jaw twitched like he wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words.

The scent of roasted meat, honeyed fruits, and spiced wine filled the air of Menelaus’s great hall. Laughter and lyre music drifted above the murmurs of nobles clad in their richest silks and glittering jewels. The king had truly spared no expense, this was a banquet meant to impress, and every noble from the surrounding lands had been invited.

Telemachus and Ctesippus entered together, both dressed in matching dark blue chitons. Not that it made them look alike, Ctesippus’s build was far more muscular than the prince’s, even if they stood nearly the same height.

Despite the short preparation, Ctesippus had managed to clean up well. His eyes still looked weary and a little unfocused, but a wide smile clung stubbornly to his face. Telemachus recognized the performance, Ctesippus wasn’t ready to let anyone else see how fragile he’d been.

The moment Menelaus approached the prince, Ctesippus slipped away, clearly uninterested in a long lecture about wars and ancient glories. Telemachus sighed as the older king launched into yet another tale—this might take a while.

A few seats away, Antinous was quietly fuming. He and Telemachus were seated at the same table, yet the prince had barely looked at him all evening. Diomedes, seated beside him, seemed endlessly amused by the whole situation. The two men had grown closer lately, and when Antinous arrived at his room two nights ago, he hadn’t needed to explain much. 

Diomedes already knew he’d been kicked out of the prince’s chamber, but Antinous had gone and told him exactly why, hoping it would sound less stupid once spoken. Diomedes had laughed for a full minute, and Antinous had regretted saying anything.

He hadn’t expected Telemachus to get so angry. He thought he could kill the boar quickly, return to the prince, and pick up where they left off. But clearly, Telemachus didn’t share that belief. Antinous had made the mistake of thinking the prince would always be waiting and available. Now he was paying the price.

Diomedes, catching sight of the wandering suitor trying to avoid the gathering, grabbed Ctesippus by the arm and tugged him toward their table, despite Ctesippus’s grumbling that he didn’t want to hear another one of the old king’s stories.

“Don’t be cruel now,” Diomedes murmured, his tone teasing but still soft. “You know I miss you when you’re not glued to my side.” Ctesippus shot him a half-hearted scowl, but it faltered the moment their eyes met.

“You’re going to make me beg in public?” Diomedes added, a low whisper. The suitor, weak to that voice, melted instantly, and followed without another word.

“Oh, you’re alive,” Antinous muttered as Ctesippus settled between him and Diomedes. Telemachus frowned from across the table, clearly wishing he were the one beside Ctesippus. But the seat next to him had already been taken, and not by accident. Hermione, princess of Sparta, sat beside him, smiling politely and blushing every time Helen cast a knowing glance their way. It didn’t take a genius to guess Menelaus’s true intentions behind the banquet.

Antinous didn’t miss the act. His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to stay still. He couldn’t afford a reckless outburst that may cause his execution. So instead, he reached for his wine and drank.

At some point, the music shifted, louder now and livelier. Instruments picked up in harmony, and a few nobles stood, clapping to the rhythm.

Performers entered and gathered in the cleared space at the center of the hall, signaling the start of the dance. But before they could begin, Menelaus stood, raising his goblet high. “It wouldn’t be a true Spartan feast without a proper dance!” he boomed, beaming as his gaze swept the room, then fixed on his daughter and Telemachus. “Let us open the floor with beauty and strength combined. Prince Telemachus of Ithaca, will you do us the honor of sharing a dance with Princess Hermione?”

A polite murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Hermione lowered her eyes, cheeks blooming pink, though a small, pleased smile tugged at her lips. Telemachus hesitated. He could feel the eyes on him, not just the nobles, not just Helen’s sharp gaze or Menelaus’s expectant one, but from the far end of the table, the heat of Antinous’s stare, and Ctesippus’s more subdued but no less piercing glance. Still, he rose with a courteous nod, offering Hermione his arm.

“It would be an honor.”

She stood beside him with practiced grace, the embodiment of her title. Together, they stepped into the open, and his limbs obeyed out of duty. Hermione's hands were soft and warm in his, and her steps were perfect and practiced. She blushed, and he smiled back out of instinct. 

And Antinous saw all of it 

His eyes tracked every movement. His fingers tightened around his goblet until his knuckles paled.

“She dances well,” he said dryly, noticing Diomedes watching him.

Diomedes raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to storm the floor and steal him.”

Antinous leaned back in his seat and refilled his cup. “Don’t give me ideas.”

They watched as Telemachus twirled Hermione gently under his arm. She moved with elegance, her every gesture poised to impress. She leaned in, whispered something, and he murmured back. She laughed, clearly charmed, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Antinous’s chest tightened.

Ctesippus sat stiff beside him, his earlier smile gone. He didn’t bother to mask his displeasure now.

“He’s just dancing,” Diomedes sighed, unimpressed by the storm cloud forming around the two men. “Not marrying her.”

Ctesippus frowned deeper. He reached for his cup, only to find it empty. Diomedes refilled it for him without asking.

Antinous huffed, gaze sharp on the scene. “This is ridiculous. Why the stupid dance?”

“Because the world is watching,” Ctesippus muttered, eyes flicking toward Menelaus, who was sipping his wine with the smugness of a man who’d just set the perfect trap. “It’s his way of showing the court there’s already a bond.”

Diomedes glanced at him, interest piqued. “You know your politics well.”

The suitor shrugged in response.

Antinous didn’t join their conversation any longer. His eyes stayed on Telemachus, who bowed and released Hermione’s hand to the sound of applause. Menelaus beamed.

As the prince returned to the table, his gaze drifted instinctively to Antinous, only to find the man looking away, jaw tight, eyes burning a hole into the wall.

He knew that look. And he feared that look. He swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the unease in his chest.

The performers took the floor, their movements commanding attention. Even Antinous looked impressed, though his gaze kept flickering back to the prince. Telemachus did the same, their eyes meeting more than once. The prince was the first to always look away.

He wouldn’t say he didn’t enjoy punishing Antinous this way, but what gnawed at him more was fear. He feared the man’s anger. And more than that, he feared Antinous doing something reckless, something that could get him hurt.

Laughter rippled through the hall as nobles began to rise from their seats, some drifting toward the dance floor, others forming smaller circles to chat, drink, or watch the dancers.

Telemachus remained beside Hermione, offering her his arm again, though his gaze was already drifting elsewhere.

Ctesippus slipped away, pretending to inspect the wine jugs at the back wall, mostly to avoid the one man who had just arrived, and hadn’t stopped watching him since.

Even Antinous rose slowly, stretching his arms with feigned disinterest as he scanned the room, calculating where the prince might drift next.

Dionysus was getting frustrated. Every time he tried to reach for the suitor and speak, Ctesippus would find a new excuse to flee—always a new destination, always a new distraction. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed help if he wanted to get the man alone. And what better bait than the prince of Ithaca?

Unluckily, Telemachus was still preoccupied with Menelaus’s daughter. No wonder Antinous was fuming when Dionysus passed by him. Well, a little madness might help.

He flicked his wrist. Vines slithered up from between the marble tiles, alive and sweet-smelling. They crept silently across the floor, weaving between the mortals, coiling lightly around the legs of the chosen, so gently they didn’t even notice.

Ctesippus had just made it back to Diomedes, who was now trying to convince him to dance. The poor man had to find a way to decline without admitting that his legs weren’t exactly cooperating.

Then the mood shifted. In an instant, laughter erupted... loud, unhinged, far from the polite chuckles nobles usually shared. People moved chaotically, dancing and stumbling into each other, faces flushed with delirious joy. Diomedes was already gone, swept up by the crowd, his expression gleaming with wild ecstasy.

Menelaus, Antinous—everyone in the hall was the same.They had let go of everything they thought they were. And in the center of it all, Dionysus smiled. He approached the prince, who stood frozen in place, stunned by the scene around him. Princess Hermione had released his arm and was now spinning with the rest, eyes sparkling with abandon.

"Joy can look like madness when you’re not part of it.” 

Telemachus turned to him, bewildered. “What did you do?”

The god shrugged casually. “Only nudged their hearts. Just a little.”

“Why am I not affected like the others?”

Dionysus tilted his head and gestured to the prince’s leg, where a thin vine curled gently around his ankle. Telemachus stared at it, blinking, “You left me clear on purpose.”

The god scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Well, yeah. I need a favor.” After being ignored for so long, Dionysus had realized the only way to bait Ctesippus into coming to him... was to make it look like he was luring Telemachus away. So he flooded the room with ecstasy, leaving just two minds untouched: Telemachus and Ctesippus.

“I need a moment with your friend,” he said. “He keeps avoiding me, and he has every right to. But I still need to speak with him.”

Telemachus crossed his arms, wary. He didn’t trust the god—no one sane did—but back in Pharae, Dionysus had saved Ctesippus and brought him back safely. And afterward, the suitor had stayed in the god’s chamber… didn’t that mean they were close? Friends at least?

He sighed. “Fine.” But his gaze drifted toward the other side of the hall, where Antinous danced, laughing wildly, his usual composure utterly undone. “But I’ll need your help too.”

Dionysus followed his eyes, and spotted the storm in human form, spinning in Dionysian madness. That one? That would be easy.

                                     ✦ ✦ ✦

The haze suddenly lifted from Antinous’s mind, leaving him disoriented. He blinked down at the vine coiled around his ankle but brushed it off, something else had taken hold of him now.

Madness reigned in the hall. Laughter, screaming, dancing... nothing made sense. His eyes cut through the chaos, searching for just one figure. Telemachus was gone, and panic flared beneath his ribs

Antinous shoved his way through the crowd. He made a point to knock Hermione aside when she collapsed into his arms. He smirked with satisfaction as she hit the floor laughing hysterically, kissing the stone like it was sacred. Well—he was no gentleman.

Lifting his eyes, his gaze landed on the prince, standing near the exit. Arms crossed, and shaking his head with disappointment. Before Antinous could call out, the prince turned and walked away. 

That was it.

He'd been ignored long enough, denied long enough, and after what had happened earlier… he couldn't take it anymore. Fury and frustration bloomed like fire in his chest.

He followed without hesitation, pushing through the doors and into the corridor. He caught a glimpse of the prince turning a corner and quickened his pace, desperate not to lose him again. Another turn. Then another. Just a flash of that blue tunic in sight...

Antinous snapped, and finally reached him. He didn’t know if he wanted to yell or kiss the boy. So he just grabbed his shoulder and shoved Telemachus hard, slamming him against the wall. The prince yelped, in surprise or protest, Antinous couldn't tell. His hands were already moving, grabbing desperately. His mouth found Telemachus’s neck, biting down like a starving man. The younger boy gasped, a groan tearing out of him.

It all happened too fast. Antinous’s spit-slick fingers were already working deep inside Telemachus, stretching him with careless urgency while the boy writhed beneath his touch, pinned under the suitor’s body and the mouth that stole his every breath.

There was no hesitation. The moment his fingers withdrew, Antinous thrust into him in one smooth, punishing motion. Telemachus cried out, but made no move to stop him, no protest. Not even when Antinous began to rut into him with reckless force, venting all the fury burning in his chest.

He hoisted the prince up with practiced ease, hands gripping his thighs, slamming him back against the wall. Telemachus's legs locked around him, long and trembling. The momentum grew rougher, faster, the rhythm steady as the wall braced their bodies. 

Somewhere in the chaos of the banquet, no one would hear them, or care. The laughter and madness beyond the hall made a perfect cover. Even if anyone had heard, they were too far gone to remember. 

Telemachus tilted his head back, resting it on the stone behind him. He welcomed every thrust, knowing it might be the only way to drain the violence out of Antinous’s hands. The man had just shoved the princess of Sparta to the ground, who knew what else he’d do if not for this outlet?

It was painful. They never did it without oil before, and Antinous clearly hadn’t planned for this. The sting was sharp, the drag brutal, but even through it, Telemachus couldn’t deny the pleasure threading between the pain. Not just from the act itself, but from the way Antinous unraveled for him... feral, breathless, consumed. The loss of control thrilled him. The possessiveness satisfied something deep inside him.

Still, the ache was growing sharper. Antinous wasn’t the type to finish quickly, and eventually, it became too much. He didn’t want to interrupt the man... really, he didn’t. But at some point, the pain tipped past what he could bear.

He cupped the suitor’s face with trembling hands, pulling him just enough to draw his attention, to whisper with his shaky voice, “It’s… too dry—”

There was no accusation in his tone, only quiet need. “Can you do something about it?”

Antinous went still. His eyes widened, as if the spell had just broken—like he was only now seeing clearly. The heat drained from his body, his fury collapsing into breathless awareness. He looked at Telemachus as if waking from a dream, only now realizing what he’d done, what he was doing. His face crumpled in an instant, guilt and fear flashing across it.

“Did I hurt you? Shit,” he breathed, already shifting to pull out.

But Telemachus quickly shook his head. One hand slipped to the nape of Antinous’s neck, keeping him close, grounding him. He spat into his own hand, slicked the suitor’s length that had just slipped free, then guided him back in.

Antinous hesitated, but Telemachus’s firm gaze held him there. So he gave in, sliding back in with a groan, slower this time, like he was trying to hold back, trying to be gentle.

Telemachus didn’t let him. He tightened his legs around Antinous’s hips, locking him in, His voice came out rough, “No—don’t change it. Keep moving like before.”

His fingers dug into Antinous’s shoulders, needing that pace, that rhythm. Not for pleasure, but because the pain meant something. Because the wildness was honest. “I can take it... Don't stop until there's nothing left.”

And Antinous, breathing hard now, his forehead resting against Telemachus’s temple, gave in. He moved again, same rhythm, same hunger... but this time, his eyes were wide open. Now he knew, the boy wanted it just as fiercely.

Sweat slicked their skin as their breathing turned ragged and uneven. Antinous clung to him like a lifeline, fucking Telemachus with unrelenting need, like he was trying to bury everything he couldn’t say into the deepest parts of him.

He pressed his mouth to Telemachus’s cheek, whispering something incoherent. Then, with one final thrust, he stilled, gasping as he came hard, buried deep inside him. A sharp hiss escaped Telemachus, involuntary, making Antinous flinch.

The silence that followed was deafening. Only the distant sounds of the banquet echoed faintly. Muffled laughter, the clatter of goblets, the occasional shriek of madness. But here, in the corridor, the world was still.

Antinous held him close, forehead resting against his, breath shaky. His arms trembled, but he didn’t let go. One hand reached up, brushing a thumb beneath Telemachus’s eye, where tears hadn’t fallen but had threatened to.

“You okay?” Antinous asked, gentleness coating his tone.

“I’m not sure,” Telemachus murmured, too exhausted to form anything clever.

Worry creased Antinous’s features. Did he let his anger get the better of him again? Did he hurt him?

“I’m not fragile,” Telemachus said, rolling his eyes. “You just scared me a little.” Of course he had known this would happen. It had been his plan, after all. Still, what harm in letting the suitor stew in a little guilt? Maybe it would make him easier to handle. His fingers traced Antinous’s chest as he pouted, voice lower, “It felt like a punishment.”

Antinous’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, He nodded slowly. “I won’t do it again,” he said.

A moment passed in silence. Antinous’s gaze lingered on him, searching for any trace of pain or discomfort, any flicker of regret. Then, gently—so gently—he lowered his head to rest on Telemachus’s collarbone, unable to face him fully. “I’m sorry...” he whispered.

Telemachus leaned into him, letting the apology settle in the space between them, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I know.” Now he was starting to feel guilty. His schemes to get Antinous jealous more often suddenly felt a little mean-spirited.

Antinous kept holding him for a long time. When he finally moved, it was only to press a long, tender kiss to his lips. “Just kick Ctesippus out,” he murmured. “I miss falling asleep with you in my arms.”

Telemachus smirked. “Hmm. Why should I? I’m still mad at you.”

“Please? I’ll be good from now on.” Another kiss, softer this time. Too soft for the man who’d just been merciless minutes ago. Telemachus didn’t answer. He was enjoying the pleading.

Then Antinous’s hips shifted, grinding slowly into him again. “Please?”

Telemachus gasped, lips parting in a silent moan. He was far too sensitive for teasing like this. He tapped Antinous’s shoulder with a breathless laugh. “Put me down.”

Antinous frowned, but obeyed. He gently pulled out, earning another soft sound from Telemachus, then eased him down. The prince let his legs slide free, feet touching the floor again. His knees nearly gave out, but Antinous steadied him instantly.

He adjusted his clothes with practiced grace, far too graceful for someone who’d just been wrecked against a corridor wall.

“I’ll wait for you after the banquet,” he said. And with that, he left. Leaving Antinous standing there, eyes lit with fragile hope.

Everyone around him was acting like lunatics, and Ctesippus couldn’t make sense of it. What the hell was going on? Diomedes wasn’t the same. Antinous wasn’t the same. The only person who seemed to still be in his right mind was Telemachus, just as confused as he was. Yet before Ctesippus could call out, the prince was approached by a familiar figure. One who had been circling him all evening like a vulture.

Ctesippus narrowed his eyes as he watched Lysandrious lean in close, clearly trying to convince Telemachus of something. What an idiot. As if Telemachus would fall for anything that bastard said. Or at least… that’s what he thought.

His jaw dropped when Lysandrious reached for the prince’s hand, and Telemachus let him. Together, they slipped away from the crowd and exited the hall. Ctesippus stiffened in disbelief. No... That couldn’t be real... Telemachus couldn’t have lost his senses too.

He’d been avoiding Lysandrious all night, but he couldn’t possibly leave him alone with Telemachus. Who knew what that bastard would try? What if… What if he forced himself on the prince the same way he had on him? Ctesippus let out a shaky breath. He wouldn’t let that happen.

He followed them, no attempt to be subtle, no concern for who saw. He was going to interrupt them. He wasn’t waiting for Antinous this time, the man was off his head, behaving like a damn animal. He was useless now.

But when he reached the corridor, they were nowhere in sight. Panic gripped his chest. Where could they have gone that fast? He searched the nearby passageways, checked the storerooms. Nothing. He walked aimlessly, listening, hoping for a shout, a scream. Maybe Telemachus would call for help once he realized Lysandrious’s intentions. Still nothing.

He stopped to scratch his ankle, and froze. A thin ivy vine coiled around his leg. When had that gotten there? And how hadn’t he noticed? He ripped it away, only to feel it curl back again, higher this time, twisting up around his thigh. 

He stared for a moment, baffled. What the hell is happening tonight? The more he thought about it, the more madness threatened to creep into his own mind. With a frustrated grunt, he ignored it and kept walking.

As he passed another corridor, he heard a soft sound, humming. It came from behind a closed door. Ctesippus rushed toward it, straining to listen. The moment his ear touched the wood, the door flew open. He stumbled forward and hit the floor with a thud. Before he could recover, the door slammed shut behind him. A man stood in front of it, blocking the exit.

His lower lip quivered uncontrollably, but he forced his gaze to scan the room. Telemachus wasn't there, did he manage to escape? Good... That was good. 

But now he was trapped. Alone in a closed space with this bastard. A wave of helplessness washed over him, leaving him feeling small and hopeless. And when Lysandrious stepped forward, all he wanted was to curl into a ball and disappear from existence until the danger passed. But he knew damn well what the nobleman wanted. He wouldn't leave until he got it.

Ctesippus squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his tunic over his pounding heart. The air felt heavy, too thick to breathe, making each inhale a painful failure. When he opened his eyes again, he was met with Lysandrious’s frown, those brows drawn in tightly. There was no way out. He can't escape this.

He turned and crawled on hands and knees, unable to trust his trembling legs. Reaching the wall, he braced himself and slowly got to his feet. But he didn’t turn around. He kept his back to the man behind him, forehead pressed to the cool stone. His throat tightened so badly he couldn’t even swallow. “Please... just make it quick.”

There was a pause. Then, movement. Footsteps. A warm arm wrapped around his waist, and another hand braced the wall beside him.

Ctesippus, just like before, gripped it with a shaking hand. He needed something to hold. Anything to keep him from falling apart. He didn’t want to feel alone going through this again.

Lysandrious pressed a kiss to his nape. Soft. He had never started it with kisses before. Maybe he’ll be less rough this time... Perhaps? Just a small flicker of hope that refused to fade completely. 

“Ctesippus,” the man whispered close to his ear. “Look at me.”

He shook his head weakly, “I can’t…”

Lysandrious kissed his neck again. Then his shoulder. His back. Each one gentler than the last. But instead of comforting, it only made Ctesippus tense more.

Frowning, Lysandrious nibbled his earlobe, then kissed his cheek... but the suitor was still barely breathing, chest rising in short, shallow gasps.

“You can rest, Ctesippus,” he whispered. “I didn’t come to take anything from you.”

That was when Ctesippus finally turned. Eyes shining with unshed tears. Of course he was holding them in, like he always did. Lysandrious leaned in and kissed them away, just as softly.

“You... you didn’t come for that?” The suitor asked, hopeful, but still afraid to believe it, afraid to trust and be betrayed.

Lysandrious stepped back, hands raised, palms open, as if to say 'I swear'.

Ctesippus turned to face him, tension easing slightly. He watched as Lysandrious moved to a nearby table and picked up a plate. Then he sat on the bed, patting the space beside him.

Ctesippus hesitated. He couldn’t possibly be planning something worse now... right? Slowly, he approached and sat next to him. Refusing might risk angering him, and Ctesippus wasn’t ready to break the fragile peace.

He let his eyes drift around the room. This time, not in a panicked scan, but slower. Taking in the details. Was this Lysandrious’s bedroom? Was it safe to be here? His gaze returned to the man, and then dropped. One glance at the plate, and all thought vanished.

“I heard you weren’t doing well the past few days, so I brought you—”

Ctesippus snatched the plate before he could finish. Dionysus blinked, watching as the boy immediately took a bite, syrup wetting his lower lip. He didn’t finish his sentence. He just... watched. So that’s all it took. Who knew the boy was that weak to honeyed quince?

Ctesippus ate too fast. Of course he did. Dionysus had prepared it himself, slicing the fruit, soaking it in honey and rosewater. There was no way it wouldn’t be delicious. And more importantly, it would help restore the boy’s strength. Word had reached him, that Ctesippus hadn’t been eating properly.

He had planned to keep his distance, to sort through the confusion in his own heart... but he couldn’t just stand by and watch the boy wander around pale and fading.

Lysandrious reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of Ctesippus’s mouth. But before he could pull away, Ctesippus grabbed his wrist.

His lips parted. He leaned in, tongue flicking across Lysandrious’s thumb, licking away the sweetness he had just wiped. He wasn’t about to let any of it go to waste.

“Mm,” the boy hummed softly. He didn’t notice the pink blooming on Dionysus’s cheeks, or the way he froze completely.

Ctesippus scowled down at the empty plate, then shot Lysandrious a glare. “You should’ve brought more!”

Dionysus blinked, then smirked at the greedy suitor. He stared at the boy in silence for a few moments, watching the way he licked his fingers. He leaned back slightly, "Do you hate me, Ctesippus?" 

The boy averted his gaze and nodded without hesitation, a small pout tugging at his lips. He expected that answer, but somehow, hearing it still hurt. “Can I change that?”

“I don’t know,” Ctesippus shrugged. But then, catching the flicker of sadness on Lysandrious’s face, he quickly added, “But more quince would be a good start.”

Dionysus raised an eyebrow, amused, “You know, I didn’t even get a taste?”

“You didn’t?” Ctesippus asked, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. He ate everything by himself.

Dionysus shook his head with a matching pout, then leaned in. “Well… there’s one way I still could.”

His eyes dropped to the suitor’s lips, he couldn’t stop thinking about them since that day. He craved them in a way that felt almost sick.

Ctesippus caught the meaning instantly and sucked his lips in, pressing them into a tight line. Dionysus laughed. He leaned closer, one hand cupping Ctesippus’s cheek. With the other, he gently coaxed the boy’s lips free.

“But I won’t be able to taste it properly unless you kiss me back.”

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

“But I’m a good kisser. What, afraid you’ll fall behind?” His grin turned devilish. 

Ctesippus glared, then huffed. But he didn’t move.

Lysandrious leaned in until their lips brushed. He pulled back slightly, then pressed forward, fully capturing his mouth. The kiss was soft but insistent. Dionysus groaned quietly, tasting the lingering honey. He hadn't lied, he could still taste the quince on his lips.

At first, Ctesippus didn’t kiss back. Not until Dionysus’s tongue flicked past his lips, and his fingers traced a line up his spine. The heat crept under his skin before he could stop it, and he gave in, kissing him back. The god hummed, delighted.

But the moment his breathing grew heavier, Ctesippus pushed him away, gasping for air. Dionysus groaned, his hand going to his shoulder, where the boar had injured him before.

“Are you okay?” Ctesippus asked, alarmed.

Dionysus shook his head, his voice needy, “No. I’m not. I need more.”

And then he kissed him again. And again.

His hand slipped beneath Ctesippus’s tunic. The boy tensed, but only until he realized Dionysus was simply unwrapping the vine that had curled around his thigh.

Before long, his back met the mattress. Lysandrious hovered over him, still kissing him, but slower now. Softer. His thumbs brushed gentle circles on his cheeks.

“Please don’t touch me like that,” Ctesippus whispered the moment his mouth was free, pleading softly “not if you’re going to hurt me again.”

Lysandrious shook his head firmly. His breath was shallow, his gaze lidded, fixed on Ctesippus’s mouth like he couldn’t bear to look away. “I won’t.”

By the time Antinous returned to the great hall, the strange spell had lifted. The ivy that had curled around his ankle was gone too. Slowly, he was beginning to piece things together.

Everyone looked dizzy and disoriented. They had no memory of what they’d done. Some called it a curse, and by Menelaus’s order, the banquet was declared over.

Antinous helped Diomedes back to his—well, “their”—room, then waited. He waited until everything had fallen quiet, a sign that the others had gone to rest after the strange event. He wanted nothing more than to sleep beside Telemachus again. Maybe, if he apologized for leaving him in the forest, the prince would let him hold him.

But Ctesippus hadn’t returned to Diomedes’ room, which meant he might still be in Telemachus’s bed. Did that mean the prince hadn’t kicked him out? Or was Ctesippus passed out drunk in some corridor?

Antinous headed for their room, knocking a few times before a voice inside gave him permission to enter. When he stepped in, his throat went dry.

Telemachus was on the bed, wrapped in a sheer, loose muslin fabric belted lazily at the waist. It slipped from his shoulders, exposing his collarbone and one nipple. And it was clear—painfully clear—that he wore nothing beneath it.

His scent filled the room, sweet and seductive. He had never smelled like that before. Perhaps Helen had something to do with it, after all. His hair was longer than before, messy, covering the nape of his neck. He wore no royal jewelry, just delicate earrings that caught the light.

Telemachus shifted, crossing one leg over the other. Antinous’s eyes followed the movement of his thighs like he was under a spell.

“Lock the door.”

Antinous stared like a fool. Then turned to the door, still unsure if he’d heard correctly. 

Telemachus chuckled, amused by the suitor's flustered state. “Lock the door, Antinous.”

He obeyed at once, cheeks burning at how ridiculous he must’ve looked. He took a step forward—

“Did I say you could come closer?”

Antinous stopped, letting out a frustrated breath. He looked at Telemachus with pleading eyes, unable to bear the distance any longer. “May I?”

Telemachus hummed, pretending to think. “I don’t know. All that fabric... it's insulting, really."

Without another word, Antinous began unfastening his chiton, stripping off the fabric that bothered the prince that much and separated them. He undressed completely, his erection now exposed, met by the prince’s unhidden gaze. The prince made no effort to be discreet, his gaze was shameless.

“Telemachus…” It came out as a breathy plea.

The prince felt generous. “You can come closer now.”

Antinous’s face lit up. He stepped closer, eager to touch, to be touched... only to stop again at the prince’s voice.

“On your knees.”

Chapter Text

“Did I say you could come closer?”

Antinous stopped, letting out a frustrated breath. He looked at Telemachus with pleading eyes, unable to bear the distance any longer. “May I?”

Telemachus hummed, pretending to think. “I don’t know. All that fabric... it's insulting, really."

Without another word, Antinous began unfastening his chiton, stripping off the fabric that bothered the prince that much and separated them. He undressed completely, his erection now exposed, met by the prince’s unhidden gaze. The prince made no effort to be discreet, his gaze was shameless.

“Telemachus…” It came out as a breathy plea.

The prince felt generous. “You can come closer now.”

Antinous’s face lit up. He stepped closer, eager to touch, to be touched... only to stop again at the prince’s voice.

“On your knees.”

Antinous’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. What a twist… so the little prince had decided to play his own game? Did he really think he could take on that role? That he was in a position to command, to demand and receive obedience from Antinous? Did he genuinely believe he could simply order him around, expecting not just submission, but perhaps even worship?

Antinous’s lips curled into a smirk, an involuntary reaction to the boy’s unexpected audacity. What a clever move, he conceded internally, the full weight of the power Telemachus now held over him suddenly clear. Antinous, so sure of his control, had let his guards down, and now the young prince was ruthlessly exploiting that lapse in judgment.

Yet a strange acceptance settled over him; he truly didn’t mind. Antinous, who had always mocked the gods and their supposed power, now found himself perversely willing to offer homage to this singular “god” who had so cleverly bested him. He would gladly kneel for him.

The suitor dropped to his knees, catching the prince’s gaze. Despite the amusement in Telemachus’s eyes, Antinous could clearly make out a flicker of surprise. For all his recent display of boldness, the prince hadn’t truly expected Antinous to bend so easily.

Antinous crawled toward him. He wasn’t slow. He wasn’t trying to be seductive. He simply needed to reach him, or he’d lose his mind. When he finally sat in front of him, face inches from his exposed skin, it was all he could do not to devour him whole.

Telemachus lifted a leg and rested it on his shoulder, as if testing just how far he could push. Antinous didn’t hesitate. He turned his head and kissed him at the delicate spot near his heel. Then higher... and higher... Each kiss burned hotter than the last, until he reached the soft skin of his thigh. He didn’t hold back. He kissed and sucked with terrifying hunger.

Telemachus clutched at the sheets, his moans rising shamelessly into the room. How could he hold back... with the suitor on the floor, stripped, between his legs, worshipping him like that?

Antinous' eyes were half-closed, hooded and heavy with desire. Every sound from those sinful lips pushed him closer to the edge of madness. He reached the prince's abdomen, offering it the same reverent attention. If Telemachus were a woman, this stomach would be bearing his child sooner or later. The thought made Antinous smirk before he leaned in, gripping the belt around the boy’s waist with his teeth. He pulled it off, letting it fall onto Telemachus’s lap.

The muslin fabric slipped from his shoulder, now hiding nothing, baring the prince completely.

Until now, Antinous hadn’t used his hands, maintaining the image of the perfect little slave, letting Telemachus believe he was the one in control. But when his eyes met the prince’s, staring down at him through heavy lashes, the charade ended.

He pushed Telemachus onto the bed and rose to hover over him. He leaned in for a kiss, but the prince turned his face away in rejection. Antinous sighed and sat back on his knees, gently lifting the boy’s foot, his fingers tracing the delicate bones of his ankle.

His lips brushed over the big toe. Telemachus flinched. Their eyes met, a silent question in the prince’s trembling pupils.

Antinous held his gaze for a fleeting second, then lowered his eyes in focus. With a gentle suck, he drew the first toe into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it in a slow motion. Telemachus let out a startled sound, a soft moan that caught both of them off guard. He felt every ripple of warmth, every soft pressure. More needy noises followed, falling out of his mouth involuntarily.

Antinous hummed against his sole, the vibration sending shocks up his leg. Telemachus closed his eyes and tilted his head back, a mess of pleasure and disbelief.

He never expected this. Never expected Antinous to kneel for him, to serve him, and still somehow maintain the illusion of control. Never expected to feel so aroused by having his feet kissed and sucked. He’d always seen it as something humiliating, degrading… especially since Antinous previously forced him to wash his feet just to mock him. Was it meant to insult, or did he secretly enjoy it even then?

Whatever the reason, Telemachus knew he needed to act fast before this man made him lose the upper hand entirely. He lifted his other leg, offering a clear view. The temptation laid bare.

Antinous saw it instantly. His eyes darkened, hunger rippling across his face. But instead of lunging forward to take what was offered, he surprised the prince once more. Telemachus had expected him to stop, to rush in and fuck him. But instead, Antinous slid his middle finger inside, slowly pumping in and out.

Telemachus cried out, all sense shattered, every shred of composure unraveling with each slow thrust.

Just as always, Antinous knew exactly how to dismantle him. He possessed an intimate knowledge of the nerves that drew pleasure deep inside Telemachus, and he exploited them, teasing and rubbing that exact spot until the sheer intensity made Telemachus clutch at his own hair.

He only paused to switch to the other foot, but Telemachus was faster. He jerked away and snatched the hand that had been inside him.

"Oil?" Antinous asked, brows furrowed, but received no answer from the boy, who had already left the bed.

Antinous assumed he was right, that Telemachus had gone to bring the oil, so he rested where he was. He wasn’t ready for the featherlight touches on his back. The prince had returned, and now stood behind him, letting his fingertips drift across the suitor’s skin.

His touch moved slowly, along Antinous’s back, up to his shoulders, to his neck, until his fingers curled into the man’s thick hair. He yanked, and Antinous’s head was thrown back, baring his throat.

Telemachus leaned in from behind, letting his soft lips brush the side of his neck. The jut of Antinous’s throat bobbed when the prince’s mouth shifted to his ear.

"You've had your fun, now lie back."

Antinous blinked, startled by the command. He didn’t move at first. But then Telemachus grabbed his wrist and guided him down onto the bed. Antinous allowed it, letting himself be led without resistance. Realization sank in, and he grinned. He let himself fall back, propped up on his elbows, watching the prince with a mix of admiration and amusement.

Telemachus sat between his legs, lashes fluttering as he stared down with open appreciation. Antinous looked incredible, and that grin of his... the one that used to get under Telemachus’s skin, was now good for nothing but arousing him. He knelt between the suitor’s thighs, and Antinous jerked upright, instantly realizing what was coming.

The prince stared at the man's manhood for a long while... It was his first time seeing it this close. The purple, swollen erection stood proudly, pointing at him accusingly, as if blaming him for driving it to such a state and then showing it no attention at all. Antinous would definitely agree.

Telemachus seemed caught in a trance as he traced his fingers along the thick veins curling and bulging in a way that was, oddly, pleasing to look at. Antinous flinched at the gentle contact, his body already trembling by the time the prince leaned down and let his lips trail along the shaft, pressing small, curious kisses along the path of each vein.

Telemachus closed his lips around the tip of Antinous’s length and gave it a hesitant lick. He remembered the suitor doing something similar before, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing it right. Judging by the loud groan that escaped Antinous, he was clearly on the right path. Antinous had always been so sensitive and… loud. Sometimes even louder than Telemachus himself.

The prince shot him a warning glare. Antinous instantly caught on and did his best to stifle his voice.

Telemachus was still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that this "thing" had already been inside him before, while it was now struggling to fit inside his mouth.

He could only manage the head at first, his tongue dipping into the slit to taste the generous leak of precum. Bit by bit, he was starting to get the proper technique, managing to draw more of the man into his mouth.

He worked his lips down until he had nearly all of it, but rather than trying to take it down his throat, he used his cheeks and lips, moving with a steady rhythm. The head pressed against the back of his mouth, but he didn’t push beyond that. He worked him in and out, cheeks hollowing with each motion.

The bulge in his cheek made Antinous twitch. It was so unbearably adorable, he nearly lost control then and there. The suitor ached to grab the boy, pin him down, and fuck him until his legs gave out.

But before he could entertain that thought, the prince shattered every trace of composure left in the man, sucking at him with such passion it showed clearly how much he was enjoying the new experience.

Antinous’s breathing turned shallow. His hand reached out, desperate to thread into Telemachus’s hair, but the boy slapped it away before he could even make contact.

Telemachus’s eyes never left his face, watching every reaction he pulled from the man. He sucked harder, like he wanted to burn every moan Antinous made into memory.

Antinous moaned louder, teetering at the edge, only for Telemachus to stop just before the peak, pulling away with a wet pop that left the suitor groaning in frustration. He let his head fall back on the bed, covering his eyes with one arm. If only Telemachus had kept going for just one more moment...

He felt movement on the bed, but he was too caught up in his burning need to check what the little prince was up to. He found out soon enough. Telemachus straddled his lap, sitting right on top of the still-throbbing, utterly offended length. 

Antinous’s eyes lit up, excitement surging through his veins again. He hadn’t expected the little prince of Ithaca to have other plans in mind. Telemachus rolled his hips, letting the man's length slide between his cheeks. Both of them moaned at the familiar sensation. 

Just as Antinous’s hands settled on the boy’s thighs, Telemachus lifted them and guided them up over his head. Antinous felt a rope tightening around his wrists, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, especially not when Telemachus aligned himself and slowly sank down, letting just the tip slide inside.

His breath caught as Telemachus rose again, the movement slow, the withdrawal complete. He repeated it over and over, a cruel rhythm that left Antinous trembling on the edge of collapse. 

Driven by need, Antinous bucked his hips, thrusting deep into him with enough force to make the prince collapse against his neck, whimpering. 

The suitor kept up the motion, drawing more of those lovely, desperate sounds from Telemachus’s lips. But to his dismay, it lasted only moments before the boy pinned his hips to the bed, stopping him entirely. So the little prince was teasing him on purpose all along? Even earlier?

Antinous was done playing nice. He would hold him down and fuck the brat until he forgot his own name. But when he tried to move his hands, his eyes widened. He really was tied to the bedframe.

Telemachus, panting and breathless, leaned forward and warned, “Keep bucking like that, and I’ll leave you aching ‘til morning.”

Antinous let out a long, defeated sigh. He was totally at the prince’s mercy.

Telemachus wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He had never been on top before. Every other time, he’d been pinned or helpless beneath the suitor. Antinous’s cock still filled him, stretching him just as much as before, but the rhythm? That part was new.

He started with slow circles of his hips, gasping at the friction. Then, grinning ear to ear, he continued drawing random shapes with his waist, letting instinct guide him.

Antinous, overwhelmed by the sweet torment, groaned, “What’s so funny?”

Telemachus, already breathless, replied with a grin, “It’s like writing… with my hips.”

Antinous was utterly dumbfounded.

When Telemachus was finally done exploring this new form of pleasure—one that would no doubt become one of his favorite hobbies—he began moving up and down again. His thighs trembled, but he didn’t stop.

The pace picked up quickly, drawing the suitor closer to the edge. They gasped, moaned, trembled... and just as their climax was near, Telemachus stilled completely, making Antinous curse loudly.

His chest heaved as he stared down at the desperate man beneath him, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t torture for himself too, but he was committed to teaching the suitor a valuable lesson. He had never said he forgave him, not for teasing him that night, and certainly not for abandoning him in the woods.

“Telemachus...”

Antinous whispered softly.

But he was cut off as the prince began to move again, rolling his hips slowly and grinding deliciously.

“Writing again?” Antinous’s loud groan turned into a breathless laugh.

Telemachus chuckled, then suddenly snapped his hips downward, making the bed creak beneath them. He exhaled sharply, his head falling back as he started riding Antinous again, hard and fast.

The suitor’s lips parted, all his sounds choking in his throat before they could escape. He could no longer hold back. Meeting Telemachus halfway with sharp, desperate thrusts, Antinous drove his hips upward again and again. This time, the prince didn’t resist. He leaned in for a kiss, and Antinous welcomed it instantly, pouring all his frustration and hunger into it.

The thrusts grew sharper, harder. He was at his limit, desperate to spill deep inside him. But just as he was about to lose control, Telemachus lifted himself, letting Antinous’s length slip out of him completely.

The growl that tore from Antinous’s throat made the prince flinch. He stood and left the bed. Not just to torment him, but because that sound, low and furious, made his heart race for the wrong reasons. Even tied down, the look in Antinous’s eyes made his skin crawl. Telemachus was scared, truly scared… but he wasn’t backing down now.

The suitor lay trembling with unfulfilled need, his muscles tense, his piercing glare following Telemachus. And though every instinct told the prince to run, he refused.

Antinous didn't say much. He didn’t threaten him, nor did he try to free himself, Telemachus would probably flee the room the moment he did. Instead, he used his most honeyed voice to call for him.

“Telemachus…?”

No reply. The prince sat on the edge of the bed, back still facing him, out of reach.

“Hey, sweet boy~”

Still nothing.

Antinous swallowed. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but something held them back, like he was afraid of saying them aloud. He hesitated for a long moment before finally whispering,

“…My love.”

He saw the prince’s shoulders tense, then Telemachus turned slowly, as if to confirm what he’d just heard. His cheeks were burning.

Antinous swallowed again. There was no going back now. The prince stared at him in silence. With a subtle nod, Antinous gestured with his head, inviting him closer. Telemachus obeyed, sitting beside him with his hands neatly folded on his lap, like an obedient disciple.

He let out a startled yelp when Antinous used his legs to trap him between them and pulled him close. Telemachus rested his hands on the suitor’s chest, eyes flicking up with a nervous glint.

Antinous captured his lips in a deep kiss, but it wasn't fierce like before. A kiss that carried all the pleading his voice couldn’t say.

“You’re doing this to get back at me, aren’t you?” he murmured. “I get it. I’m sorry, truly. It won’t happen again. Please, Telemachus… I can’t take this. You’re driving me insane. I want you so badly it’s killing me. Don’t do this to me.”

Telemachus felt a pang of guilt at the sound of those words, the crack in Antinous’s voice, the way his whole body trembled with unfulfilled desire.

He rested his head against the man’s chest, “You promise you won’t—”

“I promise.” Antinous cut him off without hesitation.

Telemachus rubbed his cheek gently against him, a quiet portrait of affection. “And you promise you’ll go easy on me… when I untie you.”

“That… I cannot promise.”

There was pity in Antinous’s voice. Telemachus bit his lip. He already knew he wouldn't get away with this. He kinda knew… that from the beginning of this night, he’d been digging his own grave.

Once Antinous was free, he rubbed at his bruised wrists from being tied so tightly. Telemachus, meanwhile, was occupied with oiling himself again when he heard the hiss of pain.

Worried, he hurried over, gently grabbing the suitor’s hands to inspect the red marks. His frown deepened at the sight of what he’d caused, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to each wrist.

Antinous smiled at him with quiet admiration and returned the gesture, kissing the prince’s forehead. Telemachus opened his mouth to say something—probably an apology—but he didn’t get the chance.

In a blink, he was flipped over, face pressed into the mattress. He cried out as Antinous thrust into him with force, burying himself to the hilt. He pulled out only to slam back in harder. 

Telemachus muffled his sobs into the sheets, his voice raw with every deep plunge, every precise strike against his sensitive spots. His climax came fast and sudden, his body arching, his scream high-pitched and unrestrained.

But Antinous didn’t stop. Driven by the long-denied pleasure, he chased his own release with desperate thrusts, holding Telemachus tightly by the hips, pulling him back to meet every push. He spilled inside him with a deep, satisfied moan.

Telemachus whimpered softly, overwhelmed but sated. Antinous leaned forward, trailing kisses over his spine, though a few turned into playful bites that made the prince twitch.

The prince's uneven breaths soon turned into whimpers as the suitor, still inside, rolled his hips, moving again.

“Antinous… Ah! T-that’s enough…” he murmured in panic, he could feel the man growing hard again.

Antinous grabbed his jaw and turned his face toward him with a wicked smirk. “Enough? No, not yet. I’m not about to let you walk away unsatisfied again, little wolf.”

Telemachus's heart raced. He had set out to punish Antinous—but here the suitor was, completely in control, turning the tables on him and using it against him. And what could Telemachus do? Nothing but moan helplessly and take it as the man rough-fucked him in every position he knew. The prince was definitely learning a lot of things in just one night, all with his own body.

The suitor was a monster. He’d already gone multiple rounds and was still pounding into the boy, who was writhing and begging beneath him. Antinous didn’t spare him even a moment’s break; his appetite tonight was insatiable, his hunger terrifying,.

“Satisfied?” Antinous asked with a sharp, deep thrust.

“Yes! Yes, I am! Antinous—please!”

Antinous grinned darkly. “Hmm… You say that, but you don’t look satisfied to me. Guess I’ll have to keep going, little wolf.”

Telemachus’s voice cracked, barely hanging on. “Antinous… please... no more. It’s starting to really hurt…”

Antinous paused, eyebrows drawn together, “You’re only saying that because you know I’d stop.”

Telemachus shaked his head, eyes glossy, “No… it really does…”

Antinous’s entire expression shifted. He softened, cupping Telemachus’s cheek and placing a gentle kiss on his lips, “Did I push too far?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled out carefully, laying beside the boy who immediately curled into his chest.

Antinous brushed his thumb along Telemachus’s swollen lips, “Your lips aren’t hurting, are they?” He leaned closer, voice low and warm against his mouth. “Because I don’t remember kissing you nearly enough to be satisfied.”

The prince gave him a tired, lopsided smile and closed the distance himself.

Ctesippus didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep... only that he was now in Lysandrious’s room, on Lysandrious’s bed, wrapped in Lysandrious’s arms.

The man was sleeping peacefully beside him. It took real effort to slip out of his hold without waking him. Ctesippus walked on tiptoes until he was finally outside the chamber.

He leaned against the door, catching his breath. His fingers brushed his lips, remembering how it felt to be kissed like that. They had kissed for so long his mouth still tingled, his lips were completely swollen now. A blush crept across his face and into his ears. He forced himself to move before his thoughts strayed any further.

He wandered the corridors, trying to find either Telemachus’s room or the one where Diomedes and Antinous were staying. Honestly, anything would do, but he couldn’t seem to remember the way.

Thankfully, he was feeling oddly energetic. He wouldn't even mind walking all night if it came to that. Was the quince really that effective? Maybe he should thank Lysandrious for it some time.

“Well, well… what a lovely surprise. I’ve been looking for you these past few days, and now? You just walk right into my path. How thoughtful of you.”

Ctesippus tilted his head. The voice sounded familiar, he’d definitely heard it before, but he couldn’t quite place it.

The guard nudged his companion. “See him? That’s the one I told you about,” he said, eyes glinting. “Told you he’d show up eventually.”

Without warning, he stepped in and grabbed Ctesippus’s waist, yanking him forward until their bodies collided. He smirked, his breath against his face, “Took some work to get him to scream, but once he did? Gods, it was worth it. You’ll see.”

“Finally,” the other guard said, dragging his eyes over Ctesippus slowly, lips curling. “Been dying to see what all the fuss was about. Hope he lives up to your bragging.”

He didn’t wait. He stepped in, letting one hand trace along the suitor’s body while the other grabbed his chin and tilted his head, “So, how do you wanna start? Together, or—”

His words cut off with a grunt of pain as Ctesippus slammed his forehead into the man’s nose. The guard stumbled back, clutching his face and cursing through the blood.

The other guard, still holding onto Ctesippus, gasped in surprise when the suitor dropped low, pivoted, and used his hips to throw him clean over his shoulder. He sent him crashing to the ground.

Ctesippus cracked his knuckles slowly, “Try it,” he said, “See what happens.”

That night... He was too drunk to remember the man’s face. Too drunk to struggle. Too drunk to fight. All he could do was to surrender, helpless under the weight of a man who took what he wanted and left without a second glance.

And now, that same bastard had the nerve to return. This time, with a friend. As if Ctesippus were nothing more than a body to use whenever they pleased. Like a hole they could share. Ctesippus was furious.

One of the guards lunged at him. Big mistake. His fist connected with the man's nose, blood bursting in a sharp spray, just like his companion. 

They rushed again, shame and rage making their strikes sloppy and undisciplined. Just wild fists with no aim. They were overpowered by a single man.

Ctesippus didn’t even bother to take a stance. He didn’t need one. He dodged easily, slipping past their blows like water, letting their momentum bring them close enough for him to strike. Each punch landed with brutal precision, grunts of pain escaping their mouths as they stumbled back, stunned.

He was getting bored. He didn’t care for useless fights like this one. With a tired exhale, he turned his back on them and walked away. But the cold kiss of a blade at his neck stopped him in his tracks.

“Grab him, now!” one of the guards barked.

Ctesippus didn’t even get the chance to move before he was tackled from behind. One of them slammed him to the floor, grinding his face harshly against the cold stone. The other yanked his arms back, twisting them behind him cruelly.

It wasn’t fair, he was unarmed. Sure, it was customary to strip guests of their weapons upon arrival, but maybe they should’ve made sure their guards weren’t animals. 

“Time for discipline, bastard.”

The one holding his arms knelt behind him and shoved a knee between his legs, forcing them apart. Ctesippus barely managed to move before the blade still held by the other guard cut into his skin, a sharp sting that left him bleeding and pinned.

“Go ahead, try something. I’d love an excuse to cut your pretty throat.”

The one behind him hiked up his tunic and ground against him. The other kept him down with a hand gripping his hair, yanking his head back painfully, taking revenge for the blows he’d received earlier.

Ctesippus clenched his jaw, sick with disgust. Not just from the act, but from how cowardly it all was. At least when Lysandrious had done it, he had done it by his own hand, not hiding behind others, not needing backup. What he did was wrong. It still hurt. But it was earned. This… this was pathetic.

Fingers pushed his hips up. Ctesippus shut his eyes tightly, bile rose in his throat. He needed someone. And only one face came to mind. He whimpered the name, “Dio…medes…Ah!” A cry torn from him as the man behind forced himself harder, trying to breach him.

The two laughed,“That’s it, bitch. Cry for us.”

“Having fun without me?” The voice was smooth, but familiar. Ctesippus’s eyes shot open in shock.

One of the guards turned sharply. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Figured I’d slip in,” the stranger drawled. “Looked like a good time.”

They grinned, but Ctesippus... Ctesippus’s heart stopped for a beat, then began to race again.

“…Lysandrious…”

"You won't regret it, man. He tastes so good," the guard behind him beamed proudly.

"I know," was Lysandrious’s short answer as his footsteps approached.

Ctesippus felt like crying, but what would tears change anyway? He didn’t move. Not when his arms were freed, not when the blade vanished from against his throat. Not even when the guard behind him pulled away and someone else sat behind him. He already knew who it was.

His eyes lost focus, as if distancing himself from what was happening, trying to feel nothing at all. He’d gone through this before. Enduring it one more time wouldn’t kill him. Probably...

He allowed himself to be moved, ending up flat on his back. His eyes met none other than Lysandrious’s. The man’s face was unreadable. His arms slid beneath Ctesippus, lifting him until he sat him in his lap, legs parted on either side.

Lysandrious’s arms tightened around his waist as he rested his head on Ctesippus’s shoulder. "I'm sorry. It's my fault."

Ctesippus didn’t know what he meant out of the blue, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it, not after seeing what was behind Lysandrious’s back.

Trapped by long, sharp vines twisted around their necks, the guards' bodies trembled uncontrollably. Their faces were an eerie pale blue, tongues lolling out as suffocated noises escaped their lips. Their hands reached up in a useless attempt to fight, fingers already severed by the razor-sharp tendrils that dug into their flesh.

Ctesippus instinctively clung to Lysandrious, his grasp trembling. He felt the god’s hand on his back, a gentle stroke trying to offer comfort, but how could there be comfort in the face of such horror?

The thorny bonds tightened, simultaneously choking and tearing at their victims. And though the death was meant to be slow and agonizing, Dionysus, seeing the man in his lap shaking with terror, decided to grant a quicker end, purely for his sake.

With sickening ease, both necks were torn open. Blood sprayed everywhere. Lysandrious’s back was splattered, but Ctesippus’s face took most of it. He watched, unable to tear away. 

The guards thrashed one last time, and finally, the dull thuds echoed through the corridor.Their heads hit the floor, followed by the collapse of their lifeless bodies.

A broken sound escaped Ctesippus. Not quite a scream, something between a gasp and a choke. He couldn’t form words.

Dionysus raised his head and stared at the boy’s blood-soaked face. His hand immediately reached up, wiping what he could.

It was his fault. He shouldn’t have taken Ctesippus’s weapon. But when Dionysus was trying to get rid of the vines around the boy's thigh, he had caught a glimpse of the dagger tucked there, one he immediately recognized. A flash of resentment surged through him, and thoughtlessly, he snatched it away. He hadn’t expected… this.

The whole situation infuriated him. Seeing Ctesippus like that... overpowered, violated... it brought back a memory. That day, when he offered Antinous to join him in defiling Telemachus. Antinous refused and chose to fight him. He had mocked him for being possessive back then. But now… he was starting to understand.

And the worst part? The worst part was, that to Ctesippus, Dionysus was no different than those guards. He had also used force. He had pinned him down. He had made him whimper, made him cry out.

His hands dropped. He looked at the boy who hadn’t calmed at all.

“I’m sorr—”

But Ctesippus didn’t let him finish. He staggered to his feet and ran. Away from that corridor, and away from him.

Dionysus remained there, his eyes drifted to his blood-covered hands.

Ctesippus ran blindly, turning every corner, dashing through corridor after corridor, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He didn’t stop until he collided headfirst into someone’s back, stumbling from the impact.

The man turned sharply, his brows furrowed, ready for a fight, until his expression softened in surprise.

“What happened to you!?”

It was Antinous, arms full of a pile of fruits clearly meant for none other than the prince still waiting for him in bed. What was supposed to be a quick trip to the kitchens had taken a strange turn.

“You look pathetic,” he added bluntly.

Ctesippus said nothing. He didn’t even glance at him. Without a word, Antinous grabbed him by the arm and began dragging him away.

He cleaned the blood from his face and clothes before leading him back to the room.

But in his hurry, Antinous forgot one crucial detail.

The moment the door opened, Telemachus jumped out of bed, beaming at the sight of their visitor, completely naked.

Antinous’s hands flew to Ctesippus’s eyes in pure horror. “TELEMACHUS! YOUR CLOTHES!”

The prince yelped, spun around, and scrambled to get dressed, silently begging the gods not to earn Antinous’s wrath again tonight.

Ctesippus, more relaxed now after being in their company for a while, was quietly relieved that neither of them asked questions. Telemachus looked the happiest to see him, and Antinous, for once, kept quiet, focused instead on feeding the prince. Each time Telemachus took a bite, he reached to offer something to Ctesippus too. A berry pressed to his lips, a slice of apple placed gently in his hand. Like some silent rhythm between the three of them.

Eventually, and predictably, Antinous was kicked out of the room once again.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn painted the sky. Though it was still early, Ctesippus couldn’t keep lying in bed. The night had spared him no mercy, and slumber hadn’t offered the slightest comfort. He’d spent the dark hours shifting restlessly beside the prince — thankfully dead to the world and too exhausted to be bothered by his tossing and turning, for obvious reasons.

The darkness had felt endless. At some point, he even started to wonder if morning would ever come, as if they were trapped in some loop where time stood still. Silly thoughts — the kind that creep in when you're restless and your body aches. But that time, that dragging silence, cleared his head just enough. Maybe not fully, but enough to seek answers.

Passing through the same corridor, there was no trace left of last night’s events. If not for the pounding in his temples, or the stinging cut from the guard’s blade, or the soreness where they had yanked his hair nearly clean off his scalp, he might’ve believed he dreamt the whole thing.

Even swallowing turned into a task. His body tensed on its own. And somehow, the path to Lysandrious’s room felt shorter, like the palace itself was pushing him there. He wasn’t sure how he’d memorized the way, but his feet found it without hesitation.

He stood in front of the chamber for several minutes, just staring blankly at the wooden door. It was simple and expensive-looking, yet somehow not quite fitting with Menelaus’s majestic palace. Then again, if the king couldn’t even pick trustworthy people to serve under him, surely he didn’t care about minor things like door design.

Ctesippus let out a low huff. His blood was starting to boil again. He was mad. No, furious. He’d been humiliated by those guards not once, but twice. Even if they were dead now, it didn’t change how they mocked him, touched him, hurt his pride.

Then his stare turned sharp, glaring as if he could pierce straight through the door and into the bastard beyond. But just as quickly, he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. All the overthinking from the night before scattered like dust. He didn’t even know why he came anymore. His thoughts rushed in a chaotic mess.

Lysandrious... He wasn’t any better. He did what those guards tried to do, and worse. He was the one who hurt him the most. The one who scared him the most. He used him in a way that made him feel ruined, like something to be used and thrown away. Took him ruthlessly, when Ctesippus had no say in the matter, and made every second of it a torment.

What right did he have to show up later, saving him like some kind of hero?

At first, Ctesippus had felt guilty for running off the night before. Thought maybe he’d made the man feel like a beast — scared of him, when all he did was try to help. His chest hurt with guilt over not even saying thank you. But Lysandrious... he’d also made him feel like he was the beast. Like his consent never mattered. He beat him that first time, like he wasn’t even human, just an object that could take it and keep going.

He still remembered how it felt to wake up after that, alone and bruised, body aching and cheeks crusted with dried tears. He vividly recalled the devastation he experienced. The memory still stung him, and he never learned if Lysandrious had pushed on after he'd passed out.

Sunset had already fallen. He’d tried to move, to walk, to go back to the palace. But his legs wouldn't work. He’d stared at them, cursing his body for betraying him. But then he saw the blood. Saw the mess that was left behind. That flame of rage went cold.

That night, he’d held himself, wracked with guilt. How could he be angry at his own body, which had endured so much, yet still feel compelled to push it to its breaking point?

He wrapped his arms around himself, whispering broken apologies to no one but himself. And he hadn't gone back to the palace, not until his body was ready. He refused to force himself anymore.

And if Lysandrious was just a horny man who happened to find Ctesippus at the wrong moment… why hadn’t he taken him back after? Why leave him like that? Bleeding in the woods, like a dog tossed out in the cold.

Lysandrious hated him. That had to be it.

He had no right to act otherwise now , not like some good man who cares. Saving him from the guards, from that beast in the woods, getting hurt for him... why? He could’ve let him die. If he hated him so much, why bother saving him? Why…

Or did he prefer to keep Ctesippus alive, just to make him suffer right before his eyes? Yet, if suffering was the goal, why had Lysandrious blocked the boar's attack? Wouldn't seeing him bleed, on the verge of death, be the ultimate thrill? It made absolutely no sense. And why would he...

Ctesippus squeezed his eyes shut, his lips quivering as he wrestled with the fragile, daring thought before allowing it to bloom.

Why kiss him like that? Why kiss him like he meant it? It wasn't the touch of someone who hated him, or who meant him harm. It felt like an apology, like he mattered, like he was human and deserved tenderness. Why would Lysandrious kiss him as if he truly wanted him?

He sank to the floor, palms bracing him against the door. He was going insane. He needed an answer. A clear one. Because this confusion... it was tearing him apart.

If... If Lysandrious didn’t hate him… if he was just a man who acted out of weakness back then, and he merely wanted to unburden himself of his lust, if he truly regretted it then Ctesippus would... Ctesippus would forgive him. He’d call him out for what he did to the guards, for the cruelty, the monster in him. But he’d also thank him, for holding him, for being there, for not letting him die.

Lysandrious was just a man, right? Men make mistakes. And he said he wouldn’t hurt him again, so Ctesippus could give him a chance. He could ignore the painful past and greet him with open arms. But first, he needed answers.

He raised a hand and knocked at the door, then waited. Suddenly aware of how awkward he looked crouched on the ground, he stood up quickly and adjusted his clothes, letting his arms hang stiffly by his sides. Then, with a sigh, he raised them again to fix his hair — which he hadn’t even bothered to check before leaving earlier. The pins weren’t properly fastened either. Maybe... maybe he should’ve taken a shower first?

Not for him, of course. It’s just... the bed he slept in reeked of sex. Telemachus and Antinous had clearly gone at it like lionesses in heat, and their passion clung to everything, including the sheets. And unfortunately, now it clung to him too. Would Lysandrious mind the way he smelled?

Irritated with himself for even wondering that, he kicked the wooden door several times. Why was it taking him so long to open the stupid thing?!

He huffed and crossed his arms, already preparing to scold the man for making him wait. When he still got no answer, he pressed his ear against the door, listening for any hint of sound.

He couldn’t believe Lysandrious was that heavy of a sleeper. That made him worse than Telemachus!

“Are you dead in there?!”

Silence.

“If you don’t open the door, I’ll break it!”

Still nothing.

“Okay then! I warned you!!” He took a few steps back and threw his full weight at the door, shoulder-first.

Turned out the door hadn’t been locked in the first place. Ctesippus immediately crashed to the floor, face first.

He groaned, lifting himself up while silently praying Lysandrious hadn’t witnessed that disaster. But as he looked around, he paused — confused to find the room completely empty. Not a single trace of the man.

He approached the bed without thinking, unable to fight the pull of those soft sheets. He sank into them, rolling over once before hugging a pillow and burying his face in it. He remembered yesterday. The way he’d been completely lost under the weight of the man’s lips. The heat of his body. The way he held him.

A blush crept onto his face, and he used one arm to cover it. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

So what if someone was kind to him? So what if they helped him? That wasn’t enough of a reason to go soft like this — not toward him. Not someone who already hurt him so deeply. What was wrong with him? He wanted to slap himself.

He spent almost an hour tangled in that bed, overthinking every single detail until his thoughts ran dry. Eventually, he sat up, tired of waiting, and ready to leave. That’s when something shiny caught his eye on the nearby table. He reached out for it — and froze. His eyes widened. How did this get here?

He had completely believed he’d lost it. He was even planning to apologize to Diomedes for being reckless with it. After the attack from the guards, he’d reached for his thigh, and panicked when he couldn’t find it.

The dagger — the one gifted to him only a few nights ago. He thought he’d dropped it during the banquet, but it was here, in Lysandrious’s room. Did he take it on purpose?

Ctesippus grabbed the dagger quickly and tucked it back into place against his thigh, right where it belonged. Then he stormed out of the room. Now he had even more questions. And he needed answers. 

Unlike Ctesippus, the prince of Ithaca was in no rush to abandon his warm bed so early in the morning. The night before had left him aching in places he didn’t even know could feel pain. But of course, the world had no plans to let him rest — a knock on the door stirred him from his lovely slumber.

He scowled but made no move to check who it was, only tugged the blanket over his face in a weak attempt to muffle the sound as the knocking came again. His lovely lips curled into a frown when the door creaked open, someone inviting themselves inside like they owned the place.

The mattress shifted under the weight of the intruder, a silent warning of how close the person was getting. Telemachus didn’t flinch. He was too busy chasing sleep again to care.

Then came a warm body pressing up against his — arms winding tightly around his waist. The blanket still covered his face, muffling the world, until it was peeled back — knit brows, thin lips pressed tight, now exposed to the cool air and the intruder’s gaze.

A low chuckle tickled his ear, followed by hot breaths ghosting down his neck, so close they could set him on fire if they lingered much longer. He tried to shift, irritated, but the arms only tightened, trapping him in place — the stranger clearly amused by ruining the prince’s peaceful morning.

To say that voice did nothing to Telemachus’s heart would’ve been the biggest lie he’d ever told. That scowl melted from his face little by little, a soft blush painting his cheeks the loveliest shade of pink — a sight that didn’t go unnoticed. The man leaned down and pressed a trail of kisses along each cheek.

Telemachus sighed, a little sound of pleasure slipping past his lips, he was delighted by this kind of attention so early in the morning. The man coaxed his legs apart and settled between them, both their bodies pressed close.

Telemachus gripped the man's arms, his resolve growing weaker with every kiss. And when their lips finally met, whatever restraint he planned to fake slipped away like water through a fishnet. And just like the fish left behind, he was caught — breathless, defenseless, and helplessly taken.

The kisses deepened, urgent now. The man's arousal pressed against him, hard and hot. Telemachus was no better, his own need unmistakable, rubbing against the other’s stomach.

No words were exchanged. The wet sounds of their mouths meeting and parting were all the consent either of them needed. But still, Antinous held back, waiting. It was Telemachus who reached down first, tugging his undergarment off with clumsy fingers before wrapping his legs around the man's waist, pulling him closer.

That was all the permission he needed. Antinous pressed into him slowly, both of them still fully clothed. Telemachus gasped into his mouth.

Their lips never left each other, their moans swallowed mid-breath. With each slow thrust, there was the soft, wet thap of his thighs against the prince's buttocks.

Compared to last night’s fevered desperation, this was something else entirely. Their current intimacy unfolded with a deliberate gentleness, each stroke and caress imbued with their quiet affection. They savored every moment, their hearts dissolving into one another as their fingers intertwined.

Telemachus's eyes fluttered open to the tender gaze of the man leaning over him. His face glistened with sweat, revealing a painfully vulnerable expression etched with a fondness that transcended a mere momentary reaction.

A torrent of messy emotions—happiness, confusion, unease, and doubt—left Telemachus utterly speechless. He could only gaze at the panting man, every word caught in his throat. Joy warred with uncertainty within him, much like a starving man facing a magnificent meal, tormented by the question of whether it was truly for him to devour, or merely to sniff and then feign fullness.

Not noticing the turmoil beneath his silence, Antinous grinned, his canines flashing — more arousing than threatening. “I’m not going to clean you up,” he said.

Telemachus stared at him for a second, like he was still somewhere else, still tangled in thoughts he couldn’t name. But old habits die hard. And so, with a breath that felt a little too shaky, he raised a brow and smirked. “Yes, you will.”

Antinous laughed, already knowing he’d give in.

Lysandrious was still nowhere to be found. Ctesippus glanced at his companions, already saddled up and ready to return to Ithaca, a knot of unease coiled in his chest. “Aren’t we going to wait for him?”

Antinous blinked in disbelief, raising his hand to slap the back of the suitor’s head—only to receive a smack and a glare from Telemachus in return.

“I think he already left,” Diomedes said, his voice soft, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.

Ctesippus didn’t know why he was wearing such an expression. He didn’t dwell on it long; the sight of his horse-friend approaching pulled him out of his thoughts. He pushed his worries to the back of his mind and busied himself brushing the animal’s coat.

With Telemachus and Diomedes leading the way, the group set off. Antinous and Ctesippus followed shortly behind—the latter choosing to ride alone rather than join Antinous in the chariot. He was determined to return the horse to Pylos.

The road stretched ahead, long and empty, the sky darkening as night threatened to settle in. Eventually, they stopped to light a fire and rest before continuing their journey.

When Diomedes returned from gathering thin branches to keep the flames alive, he paused, puzzled to find only one figure beside the fire.

Catching his confused gaze, Ctesippus offered a dry explanation. “They said they needed to talk about something.” He rolled his eyes at the word talk. He wasn’t dumb enough to believe that. They could’ve just said, ‘Hey, we’re so horny we can’t keep our hands off each other, so we’re going to fuck,’ but no—they had to pretend like he was some kind of fool.

Too busy sulking, he didn’t notice Diomedes approaching until the man was close enough to warm the air by his ear. Then came lips, soft and deliberate against his skin.

“You know,” Diomedes murmured, “we’d be talking too, if you weren’t so racist against married men.”

Ctesippus’s ears turned a deep red. He reached out and placed a hand on Diomedes’ shoulder, giving him a half-hearted shove. “Stop messing around…”

Diomedes laughed, delighted by the flustered reaction, then stepped back to watch him fidget with his hands.

The 'talking' couple wasn't that far away — just far enough that the loud slap of flesh and their throaty groans of pleasure wouldn’t be heard by the others.

Bracing himself against the tree’s bark, Telemachus’s legs trembled as he knelt, offering his backside to the man who clutched his waist, driving into him at a frantic pace.

His body was still sensitive from all their recent activities, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. They didn’t seem to be able to get enough of each other, so why should they hold back?

“Hnnnnngh... mmmmph... A-Aaaah!”

Telemachus shuddered; a soft cry escaped when Antinous buried himself deeper, his thrusts even crueler and sharper. If not for the tree supporting his weight and the tight grip that held him in place, he would’ve collapsed to the ground.

As if not satisfied with just pounding him, Antinous started grinding relentlessly, almost desperate in its intensity. The wet, slick sounds of their bodies rubbing together grew frantic.

Stretched beyond his limit, a choked-off moan caught in his throat and turned into a high whine — hitched like a desperate gasp for air. A pathetic sound. Telemachus's eyes widened. Was that him? Did he really make such a broken, animalistic noise?

He felt like dying from embarrassment. He waited for Antinous’s sarcastic remark or mockery, but none came.

Instead, the grinding turned slow — testing his patience. His eyes were already filled with tears. “Antinous... not again...” he begged, pushing his hips backward. The man's length was already buried deep, filling him to the limit, but as desperate as he was, he still tried to get more, to consume more.

Antinous pulled out, leaving him whimpering, but only for a moment. He turned him over, not even using much strength, as the prince was already easy to handle, swaying the moment Antinous’s body no longer supported him. 

His back met the rough bark behind, his leg pulled onto Antinous’s shoulder. The man took a second to admire Telemachus’s pliant body before sheathing himself inside again.

"No... no, wait... aah... f-fuck..."

Antinous pressed his lips to his neck, biting and licking passionately. He couldn’t help the feeling of victory as he smirked against his skin. “What was that you said earlier? Something about me not fucking you against a tree?”

Telemachus didn’t even bother to reply — or rather, he couldn’t. Antinous hammered into him again, each thrust harder and faster than the last. His control frayed; all pretense of gentleness vanished, replaced by a primal, consuming urgency.

There was a desperate edge to his rhythm, as if he couldn’t get close enough — couldn’t fuck him enough. His hands slid over Telemachus’s skin, gripping helplessly.

Telemachus found Antinous’s loss of control incredibly arousing, a thrilling experience of being utterly dominated by lust. His involuntary intakes of breath quickened, and he surrendered to pure sensation — feeling that deep connection to the man’s desire, being taken over by him in a powerful way.

His fingers scrabbled against the bark, nails digging grooves into the wood as Antinous slammed into him.

“G-Gods—Antinous—!” he cried out, the edge of pain and pleasure mixing in a dizzying blend that made his head spin.

He was wrong. He admits it. He would let Antinous do whatever he wanted to him—whether he wanted to fuck him against a tree, on the ground, or on a table in his own palace’s great hall. He’d gladly bend over for him and let him wreck him until he was unable to move. If Antinous wanted to ruin him on his own bed, he’d gladly spread his legs and thank him for it. That much was already clear.

Another rough thrust made Telemachus arch and gasp. His hands clawed at Antinous’s back now, desperate for something to hold onto. He was being undone, piece by piece, all sense stripped away by the heat building between them.

Antinous shifted his angle, and Telemachus screamed—the sound raw, almost a sob—as Antinous hit that devastating spot inside him again and again. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.

Antinous knew how close Telemachus was. The way he clenched around him, the way his pleading voice had gone hoarse—it pushed him over the edge.

With a strangled cry, Telemachus came, his entire body seizing. The clenching around Antinous was too much, he groaned and buried himself to the hilt, pulsing inside him as he came hard and deep.

They stayed like that for a long moment—trembling, panting, clinging to each other beneath the tree. In his haze, licking sweat from Telemachus’s neck was like heavenly wine for Antinous.

Finally, he leaned back, breath ragged, a lazy smirk on his face. The liquid leaked from Telemachus’s hole, dripping onto the ground. Both the sight and the sound filled Antinous with immense satisfaction.

Telemachus hadn’t calmed yet, still shaking in the suitor’s arms. Antinous sat him on his lap, his usual gentleness returning as he held him to his chest and caressed his hair with tender touches.

They rested until darkness blanketed the area, tempting them to give in to sleep right where they were. But they both knew they couldn’t, it was far too dangerous.

“Antinous...”

“Shhh.” Antinous patted the prince’s back as if trying to lull a newborn to sleep, quickly silencing him. He held his hand, rubbing at his knuckles. “As much as I’d enjoy a repeat, time’s not on our side.” Yet he wasn’t sure he could hold back if he heard his name whispered in that soft tone again.

Telemachus punched his chest lightly, glaring up at him. “That’s not what I wanted to say.”

Antinous glanced down at him, blinking. He couldn’t see the scowl on Telemachus’s face that quickly turned into a little blush, the moon offered little light. He waited for him to speak again.

“We’re heading back to Ithaca...”

Antinous snorted. Why was Telemachus stating the obvious? Had he fucked him so hard he lost his senses?

Telemachus clutched at his tunic with his other hand, trying to find the right words to express what he wanted to say—or rather, what he wanted to ask. After some moments of silence, he gathered his courage.

“What... what will you do when we go back to the palace?”

Antinous stilled. He completely understood what the prince meant, what he wanted to say. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t have an answer to offer. He could only avert his gaze, even though Telemachus couldn’t actually see him.

“What do you mean what will I do? Things will go back to normal, as they always have. You’re the prince of Ithaca, and I’m...” He hesitated for a second, feeling the trembling hand in his. “I’m the queen’s suitor.” He finished.

Telemachus was crestfallen, his heart completely wrung out. He had high hopes that this wasn’t the answer he’d receive. He thought—he so dumbly thought—that Antinous would choose him.

“Antinous...”

In his heartbreak, he could only whisper his name again, tearing at Antinous’s own heart with the hurt in his voice.

“Yesterday, didn’t you call me love? If I’m your love, shouldn’t you want to be with me instead?”

His words fell from his mouth alongside the tears falling from his eyes. They weren’t tears of pleasure this time—but of sorrow and disappointment. He really thought they had a deep bond. Was he the only one affected by everything? Was he the only one feeling this way?

“Love?” Antinous’s sarcastic tone pierced through his heart. “Surely you’re not that naïve. Those were just words for the sheets. I’d moan that to anyone warming my bed.”

Antinous waited for a slap, or even a stab by some hidden dagger—anything that might dull the pain in his heart as he said those words. But none of it came.

He dared to glance back. Maybe Telemachus would finally spit in his face. He knew he deserved it.

Antinous suddenly hated the moon—hated the light it cast on Telemachus’s features and the expression he wore. His heart squeezed too tightly; he didn’t know how to handle the pain.

Telemachus shifted, pulling his hand from his grip and rising to his feet. His legs clearly lacked the strength to hold him, but he fought against it, forcing them to carry him as he began to step away.

Antinous would never forget that face — that quiet portrait of devastation. He’d never forget those trembling lips, those glistening eyes that seemed to beg for comfort.

Telemachus had always looked younger than his age, but in that moment, he looked like a boy chasing a lovely, golden bee, only to be stung and learn that beautiful things can hurt. He, too, had been stung — by the cruel realization that love was just a lie his desperate heart had invented. As he wandered away, lashes heavy with tears, his mouth was caught between a sob and a bitter laugh. After all, nothing hurts quite like one's first heartbreak.

Ctesippus was still busy trying to escape Diomedes’ flirty attempts — it seemed that, even though the warrior knew their relationship would be impossible, he still found joy in making him blush.

His face lit up when a shadow approached them. The two dummies had taken so long he was starting to worry. But his expression swiftly turned confused when he saw that only one of them had returned.

Lit by the fire, Antinous’s face looked vacant and lost. He sat beside them without a single word, his empty stare fixed on the flames, as if they could warm his heart. He looked so pathetic that Ctesippus couldn’t bring himself to speak, even though millions of questions flooded his mind.

It was Diomedes who finally broke the silence. “Where’s Telemachus?”

Antinous shook his head. His lips parted, but no words came, like he was still figuring out what to say. “I couldn’t find him,” he said at last. “He wouldn’t respond to me even if he heard me.”

Diomedes stared at him before standing up straight. He placed a hand on Ctesippus’s shoulder to stop him from rising as well.

“Stay here. If he comes back, he might leave again if the only one he finds is him.” His eyes drifted toward Antinous. It was crystal clear the two had a huge fight.

Ctesippus realized Diomedes had a good point. After all, his mentor was the goddess of wisdom, Athena herself. He sat back obediently, watching as a small smile played on Diomedes’ lips when he didn’t argue.

Ctesippus watched him vanish into the darkness, his voice calling Telemachus’s name until it too faded.

His eyes turned to Antinous. He approached him and let his chin rest gently on the suitor’s shoulder, his gaze filled with concern as he tried to read his expression, to understand how serious this was.

“What happened...?”

Antinous, lacking the courage to face what had happened, shrank away and stood, taking a few steps back before starting to pace in place.

Ctesippus, still worried, didn’t take offense at being pushed aside. He rose and moved toward him, hoping it was just a big misunderstanding. Just like that time Telemachus had foolishly let Peisistratus touch him, thinking he was merely teaching him for Antinous’ sake. It had to be something like that.

He reached out and gently caressed Antinous’s arm, offering what little comfort he could. Even without words, the look in his friend’s eyes made it clear: his heart was in gut-wrenching agony. It pained Ctesippus to see someone he cared about like this.

“Antinous…”

In that moment, Antinous’s eyes flew open. The way his name was whispered — it sounded just like Telemachus. He didn’t know what got into him or why he did it, but the next thing he knew, he had grabbed Ctesippus’s hand and shoved him — with a brazen force — against the nearest tree.

His eyes widened at the sound of the impact. It was a terrifying crash. Antinous feared he’d just broken every bone in Ctesippus’s body.

He stared at the shaking figure still pressed to the tree. Ctesippus' eyes were tightly shut, lashes quivering, his head ringing from the hit and the headache that made the world spin.

With trembling hands, Antinous hesitated, then stepped forward. Guilt tore through him. Why had he taken his anger out on Ctesippus? He hadn’t done anything wrong. He hadn’t even said more than three words since Antinous came back.

He placed a hand on Ctesippus’s waist, trying to steady him, in case he collapsed. But Ctesippus slapped it away.

With trembling lips, Ctesippus finally looked him in the eye. “Antinous… this temper of yours…”

His tone was meant to be flat, but it carried a note of blame. And not just for this. Ctesippus understood now — whatever had happened, it was Antinous who screwed up. That, If he hadn’t also hurt Telemachus physically.

Antinous swallowed hard. He wasn’t used to seeing Ctesippus look at him like that — with coldness in his eyes. He was clearly in pain, but his expression was stern, like he’d just exposed the real him.

He had no words. What could he possibly say? What right did he have? He could only watch as Ctesippus, with what little strength he had left, dragged himself away, leaving Antinous frozen in place.

They all left. He was alone. With no one to caress his arms this time. No one to tell him that everything would be alright. He had fucked everything up. He’d ruined his relationship with Telemachus. And now he’d done the same to Ctesippus. He hurt the only ones who genuinely cared about him. He wasn’t a good person. All he did was cause pain. He sank to his knees, helpless and broken.

Ctesippus’ escape wasn’t out of anger or disappointment, as Antinous had assumed. He didn’t leave to make him feel bad, or to punish him for his recklessness. It was simply that he couldn’t collapse in front of Antinous. He couldn’t groan in pain and add even more weight to the guilt already crushing him.

Once he was far enough, he braced himself against the nearest surface—a rock. He knelt in silence, letting his pained whimpers bleed into the eerie stillness.

Everything he had endured lately—from Lysandrious' violations to that time with the guard—had left him with a lingering, excruciating back pain, a brutal reminder of every time he’d been torn open and left to mend himself.

Being slammed against that tree only made it worse. Once again, he was left with that same helpless sensation—being forced to endure a kind of pain no one should have to carry.

His hands reached behind him, trying to massage his back as if he could rub the agony away. He knew it was delusional, but desperation made him cling to any illusion of relief.

For a second, he thought he heard something approaching. Alert, he drew the dagger strapped to his thigh. But nothing came. Just silence. As if his imagination was now turning on him too.

Telemachus, lost in the dark, didn’t even notice. He wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings—not in his current state. He walked deeper into the woods, utterly unaware of the danger quietly trailing him.

The shadows didn’t faze him. Neither did the shrieking wind, nor the eerie creak of the trees. What finally made him pause was the chilling realization that he no longer had control over his own feet. They were moving—but not by his will.

It was a strange feeling. Unbelievable, even. He tried to stop—he willed himself to—but his body ignored him. He had no idea where he was going. His legs moved like they belonged to someone else.

Then, far off, he heard it—his name. Someone was calling for him. A voice he’d come to know over the past few weeks.

Relief briefly softened his chest. He opened his mouth to call back, to tell Diomedes he was here, that he wasn’t lost, that something strange was happening, but when he tried to speak, no sound came. Not even a whisper.

His lips moved. Nothing. Panic struck him like lightning. He tried again, this time screaming—screaming with everything he had. But the forest gave no answer. His voice was simply… gone.

“Telemachus~”

That voice... Not Diomedes. Telemachus froze. He knew that voice, it was the one Dionysus claimed belonged to Apollo. The god had come again, there would be no escape this time.

Unlike the previous times, he was fully conscious now. He didn’t go to the voice willingly. But what did consciousness matter when he couldn’t even control his own body—walking toward doom on his own two feet? He closed his eyes, as if doing so could make it any less humiliating.

His name rang out again. Was it Apollo this time? Or Diomedes? He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t focus anymore. Whatever was meant to happen, he would endure it. There was no way out.

The tight grip on his wrist made him shudder. Would it choke him again this time? If not for Dionysus stopping him those two previous times, he would’ve already been gone. But Dionysus wasn’t here now. Antinous wasn’t here either.

Even if the suitor couldn’t face a god alone, he wouldn’t have let him face this alone. No matter what Antinous claimed about their relationship—“nothing but a shared bed”—Telemachus knew better. He knew the man who stood in Dionysus’ way that night, knowing full well it meant death. No hesitation. So where was he now? Had he not come to look for him?

Just then, Telemachus was yanked firmly into someone’s chest. His lashes were heavy with tears, but through the haze he saw the wrist gripping him belonged to none other than Diomedes.

The warrior’s face was tense with concern, eyes scanning Telemachus’ expression, trying to understand. Why hadn’t he responded to him? Why hadn’t he stopped walking when he called his name?

Telemachus parted his lips. This time, his voice came out. “I can’t…”

Diomedes’ brows pulled together. “You can’t what?”

Telemachus meant to say he couldn’t talk, he couldn't stop himself—that something had taken hold of him. But as he tried to explain, he froze, stunned to find his body was his again. His limbs obeyed him. He was in control. The words died in his throat. How could he explain that?

Diomedes didn’t press him further, not yet. He would ask later, once they were back by the fire. Once the strange fog in Telemachus’ eyes faded.

He turned to guide them back toward camp, but a sudden rustling pierced the silence, rushing at them with impossible speed.

Both jolted. Their swords were drawn in an instant. The sound echoed from every direction. There was no clear source, only motion, only menace. Back to back, they waited, blades ready, for whoever—whatever—was coming for them.

They didn't wait for long. From between the shadows and scattered darkness, the creatures appeared. Coats thick and unblemished, silver-grey, luminous—contracting the darkness around them. Their eyes a piercing gold. Their long, sharp fangs reflected a clear menace.

"Apollo's wolves..." Diomedes gritted through his teeth.

Once he heard the murmur, Telemachus instantly understood why they were here—unlike Diomedes, who was completely perplexed.

The wolves didn’t waste a second. They lunged forward immediately, attacking almost at the same time. There weren’t many—just three or four—but these were divine creatures, sacred animals of Lord Apollo himself. Both Telemachus and Diomedes struggled to catch their breath amidst the ferocity of the fight.

Diomedes suffered countless injuries from the predators that bit and tore at his skin. He realized, to his bewilderment, that the same wasn’t true for Telemachus.

The wolves weren’t trying to hurt him. They were trying to lure him away. Diomedes had fought in wars since the day he opened his eyes to the world; he could read an enemy’s intent in battle, even if that enemy wasn’t human.

Tucking Telemachus behind him, the prince glanced at his blood-soaked body and the reek of iron that clung to him. Diomedes wasn’t in a good state.

The wolves circled them, their fur now matted with blood—whether their own or Diomedes’. It felt like even they were catching their breath, preparing to strike again with renewed strength.

When they did, Diomedes found it harder to focus. He tried to protect the prince, but even though Telemachus showed he could hold his own, Diomedes couldn’t stop glancing at him, afraid the beasts might drag him away.

"Telemachus!"

Someone shouted.

Telemachus’s heart skipped a beat. His hands stilled, and he turned his face. He saw Antinous.

“Telemachus, are you insane? It’s too dangerous to stay there—you know they’re looking for you!”

Antinous shouted, his voice heavy with concern, warming Telemachus’s heart.

Diomedes quickly agreed. "He's right. You better go with him. I'll take care of things here."

Knowing he was the one causing all this, Telemachus obeyed. But strangely, the wolves didn’t try to stop him or follow. They remained where they were, their full attention fixed on Diomedes.

He hesitated for a moment, but Antinous’s firm grip gave him no time to overthink. He dragged him away from the battlefield without a second glance.

Antinous didn’t even look at him. He didn’t seem fazed by their earlier encounter, perhaps because of how serious the situation was now. There would be time to talk later. Maybe Antinous would apologize and admit he was wrong. Telemachus, of course, wouldn’t forgive him that easily. He’d have to earn it. He’d have to make it up to him. Then they could be... they could be... something?

Trapped in his thoughts, Telemachus didn’t realize where Antinous was taking him. Up ahead, the murmur of falling water grew louder. The air turned cool and damp, and the sheen of a small cascade came into view, tumbling into a dark pool.

To the side—almost invisible in the dark—was the mouth of a shallow cave, perfectly hidden by the waterfall. Inside, it felt like the cave had carved out a world just for the two of them.

Telemachus was stunned. How did Antinous know of such a place? And why hadn’t he brought them here to spend the night from the start, leaving them to light a fire in the open?

Still exploring the cave with curious eyes, he felt arms wrap around him from behind. Trying to act stern, trying to regain some of the dignity shattered by this same man, he wanted to push him away, even if his thundering heart protested. But before he could move, sharp fangs pierced his skin.

He cried out in pain, tearing himself from the man’s embrace, spinning around with disoriented eyes. He clutched his neck, blood gushing from the wound. “What is wrong with you?!”

Antinous didn’t respond. He grinned and advanced again. Telemachus stumbled back until his spine hit the wall. It wasn’t that he had never feared Antinous before—he had, many times—but right now, he didn’t even look like himself. Even his eyes had changed. Gone was the usual sharpness or soft warmth. Now, they were cold. Dead.

“Antinous… what’s going on?” His voice trembled.

Antinous didn’t answer. His hands instead reached out, clawing at his clothes with maddening urgency.

Telemachus yelled, tried to resist, but it was useless. Antinous had never forced himself on him before, but this Antinous… this wasn’t him. There were no kisses. No foreplay. No warning.

Shoved to the floor, Telemachus cried out when Antinous entered him—without oil, without care. Pain surged through him like fire. He writhed, scratched at his shoulders, but nothing helped. His chest ached. So this was what he truly was—a warm body. Used. Forced, because Antinous knew he wouldn’t have him again otherwise.

The violation was brutal. Sudden. But worse than the pain was the betrayal. The knowledge that this was a mockery of everything they’d shared. Of every tender word, every glance.

Above him, Antinous’s grin widened, revealing bloody teeth. Through glassy tears, Telemachus watched the figure shift—its shape changing. His heart dropped.

Back with Diomedes, things had grown... oddly peaceful. The wolves had retreated—suddenly, inexplicably. The warrior was reaching the edge of confusion. He rushed back to the camp. The firelight flickered against his bloodied figure. But what he saw wasn’t what he expected.

There, on the ground, lay an injured Antinous—propping himself on his elbows. He looked no better than Diomedes, covered in blood. It never crossed Diomedes’s mind that there might be another pack of wolves.

Right beside Antinous sat another man—expression worried. Ctesippus.

“Where’s Telemachus?”

Diomedes demanded, his patience cracking.

Both men looked at him, brows furrowed.

Antinous, hissing through the pain, sat up straighter, confusion in his eyes. “Didn’t you go to look for him?”

Diomedes froze. His sword slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

Then who the hell did I leave with him?

Chapter Text

The smell of sex quickly thickened, turning his stomach, he fought the urge to throw up. His guttural cries echoed off the cave walls. Shame crept over him for not being able to control his voice; sounds tore from his throat despite every effort to stay silent. The only thing he still had control over was the name he screamed when the pain became too unbearable for his youthful body.

The figure on top of him was a blur of motion — frantic, brutal. Jade eyes gleamed with pure ecstasy and satisfaction. The taste of vengeance was even better than expected. The son of the hero he despised now writhed beneath him, tortured and humiliated.

He lifted the boy’s legs, spreading them farther as he drove himself deeper into that heat. The prince shuddered, feeling his insides tear from the violent intrusion. Still, his lips only moaned the name they had grown accustomed to.

“Antinous... Antinous…”

A large palm struck his cheek, leaving a red mark and a spinning head. But with every thrust, he kept moaning that name again and again.

“Still crying out for that ridiculous mortal?” The voice curled with venom. “Look closely at who's over you now. Who's the one inside you?”

Telemachus didn’t need to look. He knew exactly who it was ravaging his body. How could he not? The midnight-blue hair. The sea-glinting eyes. That devilish grin. Those shark teeth, still wet with his blood. Only someone like him — temperamental, impulsive, hot-blooded — would use such a cruel method to vent his rage.

He knew he was at Poseidon’s mercy, but his lips would not utter another name. Only Antinous. Always Antinous.

Even if the pain was unbearable, even if it wasn’t pleasure, he wouldn’t risk crying out another name. He couldn’t risk upsetting Antinous again.

He was scared—terrified that if he moaned any name but Antinous, the man would never forgive him. But that only fueled the god’s wrath. Poseidon made it his mission to break the boy further, to push him past his limit until his throat could no longer produce any sound.

Telemachus only wished Poseidon had chosen a different position—one that made it easier to shut his eyes and pretend. Pretend that it was Antinous holding him now. But even then, he knew it would never work.

Antinous was rough at times, yes, but always caring. Always checking if he was alright, even mid-act. Antinous would have been kissing his tears, murmuring apologies into his ear. Not like this.

He could feel liquid pooling between his thighs. He didn’t know if it was Poseidon’s release or his own blood. He didn’t dare look. He shut his eyes and prayed—prayed to anyone who might still be listening—that his torment would end soon.

And, miraculously, it did. The weight atop him was suddenly yanked away. The god’s curses echoed through the cave, indignant and full of venom.

“That was unnecessary,” came a familiar voice—smooth, composed, but laced with disgust. “Even for you, Poseidon.”

“Spare me your pity,” Poseidon spat, rising to his feet. “Justice isn’t always clean. I’m sure you know that.”

“Was that really justice? Or just your temper again?” the voice shot back. 

Telemachus could hear the disdain in the speaker’s tone. Slowly, he forced his swollen eyes open.

Before him stood a beardless youth, radiant in the gloom. A powerful, graceful figure with long golden hair flowing behind him like sunlight. His face was flawless, serious, and unmistakably divine.

Apollo.

“I did what had to be done,” Poseidon growled. “Odysseus needs a reason to come crawling.”

At the mention of his father, Telemachus flinched.

Apollo’s jaw tensed. “Don’t dress it up as duty. You did what you wanted to do.”

“Enough,” Poseidon snapped. “Argue with yourself if you want to mourn the boy’s dignity. I’m taking him with me.”

“You’re not taking him anywhere.”

The growl that followed was low and full of warning. From the shadows, golden-eyed wolves emerged, encircling the cave’s entrance.

“Don’t forget where you are, Poseidon” Apollo said coldly. “This is my domain. And here, I decide who leaves, and who doesn’t.”

Poseidon’s teeth clenched. Rage burned in his chest. For a moment, he considered cracking the earth beneath Apollo’s pets, swallowing them whole, reminding the god of who ruled the sea.

But Apollo was a vengeful god, just like him, and Poseidon was no fool. A direct conflict with the sun god, especially in his own sanctuary, wouldn't be wise.

Poseidon stepped toward the cave mouth, snarling under his breath. “You’re going to regret this.”

Apollo didn’t flinch. He merely watched until his uncle disappeared into the night. Only then did he sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. Slowly, he turned to the boy lying broken on the cave floor. Telemachus stared up at him, dazed and barely conscious.

Expression unreadable, Apollo stepped forward. With a flick of his fingers, he waved a hand in front of Telemachus’s face, and the boy fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Back in the forest, things were in total chaos. They had split up, scouring every inch of the woods to no avail.

Antinous was deeply injured. He could barely move, painting the ground red as his bleeding refused to stop. Ctesippus tried to clean and bandage the wounds first, but was met with another outburst of rage, as if the death of his horse companion wasn’t already enough to endure. The animal had been torn apart during the earlier wolf attack, and the loss hit Ctesippus harder than he was willing to show.

Now, with Telemachus missing and Antinous barely hanging on, Ctesippus’s thoughts became a messy playground of dread. Antinous hadn’t said much, but what little he shared was enough to drain the blood from his face. If Telemachus had truly been captured by Apollo... how could he possibly survive?

When they all regrouped, every face was downcast, frustration heavy in the air. Diomedes left without much explanation, muttering something about seeking sanctuary and praying to a goddess. Again — no details. Ctesippus pressed his lips into a hard line and moved to sit beside Antinous. He hated how everyone was hiding things from him, it left a bitter taste in his mouth to always be the odd one out.

Ignoring the lump forming in his throat, he returned to tending Antinous's injuries. Eventually, things escalated to the point where he had to use force — pinning the man in place just to remove the clothes that were in the way. Antinous didn’t put up much of a fight, caught off guard by this assertive side of Ctesippus — one he wasn’t used to seeing.

Against the usual practice, no more words were exchanged. They sat in silence for a long, long time. It was nearly noon of the following day when Diomedes finally returned. One look at his expression was enough

 He didn’t bring good news.

Antinous shot to his feet the moment he saw him. "Did you talk to Athena?"

Diomedes shook his head, his face clouded with frustration and regret. "I don’t know what’s wrong… I couldn’t reach her at all."

Antinous ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief. "Where would they go? It doesn’t make sense… there’s nothing, no trace at all."

His voice trembled with a quiet desperation. Ctesippus watched him and, for a moment, almost reached out to offer comfort again.

Diomedes broke the silence. "Apollo’s likely gone from the forest already," he said after a pause. "We’re near the base of Mount Taygetus. He may have influence here, yes—but we’re far too close to Artemis’ domain. And she honors Athena. She wouldn’t let her brother flee unchallenged. Not after what he’s done."

Ctesippus glanced between them, confused. More gods? What’s happening? Why is no one telling me anything?

Diomedes continued, "He wouldn’t have taken him to Gythion. That city reeks of sea salt and Poseidon’s pride."

He didn’t elaborate further, but it was clear what he meant. If even Apollo had taken Telemachus out of spite or divine grudge, then Poseidon—who had far more reason—would be no less ruthless

"Then… Amyclae?" Antinous muttered. "It’s Apollo’s. The temple there still stands, guarded by sunlight."

"Isn’t that too close to Sparta?" Ctesippus asked, frowning.

Diomedes nodded. "Exactly. If he went there, Menelaus would know in hours, and he wouldn’t stay out of it."

Antinous’s face fell. "Then where the hell did he take him?"

No one had answers. The other temples were either too obvious or too small to hide. The panic deepened, threading through the silence like smoke.

"Wherever Telemachus is…" Ctesippus glanced at the dead horses nearby, their blood staining the ground. "We won’t be able to reach him on foot."

Diomedes hummed in agreement. "There’s a village nearby. We can try to get help from there."

The terrain was steep and rough, and the road long. By the time they reached Vordonia, the sun was setting behind the mountains, painting the village in soft gold and amber hues.

A healer was called for Antinous, though he still refused to acknowledge the severity of his injuries—gritting his teeth and brushing off any concern, as though the pain barely mattered compared to what they’d lost.

He felt terrible. Why would something like this happen right after he acted like such a dick, as if the gods wanted to make Telemachus’s pain even worse?

He still couldn't forget that face. The way Telemachus looked right after Antinous denied any emotional bond between them. Just what the hell had he been thinking back then...

 “Love?”

“Surely you’re not that naïve.”

“Those were just words for the sheets. I’d moan that to anyone warming my bed.”

He gritted his teeth. He was so furious with himself, he didn’t know what to do. Slamming his hand down on the nearby table, the poor thing cracked in half. The healer flinched, already flipping through his memory for any herbs that might help soothe a mental breakdown.

Diomedes returned a short while later, leading a few new horses for the journey ahead. But even he looked lost. He had no idea what had happened to Athena. Why he couldn’t reach her, couldn’t ask for her guidance. And worse, he had failed to protect his friend’s son.

He remembered clearly the day Odysseus made him promise. If I don’t make it home, Diomedes— he’d said, —watch over him. Watch over my boy. Odysseus had known the gods wouldn’t make his return to Ithaca easy. He had made his peace with it. But Diomedes had sworn, and now...

Now, he had been distracted. Too distracted to pay attention. To protect. To notice the signs.

When Ctesippus returned later, it was clear to everyone that Diomedes was keeping his distance from him—avoiding his gaze, brushing past him without a word.

Ctesippus didn’t understand why, and the silence hurt. Trying to shake it off, he unrolled the scroll he’d just bought from a villager, pretending not to notice the cold shoulder.

"Would you come take a look at this?"

Antinous was the first to approach, peering down at what he was doing. The impressed look on his face piqued Diomedes’ curiosity, and he finally stepped closer. His eyes widened slightly.

It was a map. Not just any map, but a detailed, full rendering of Greece, with the locations of most known temples of the gods clearly marked.

"How did you find something like this...?" Antinous murmured in disbelief.

Ctesippus bounced his eyebrows, smiling faintly. "I'm just that lucky."

With more options now laid out in front of them, it became easier to start analyzing and eliminating locations from their search. They formed a small circle around the map, and after hours of intense discussion, three pairs of eyes finally landed on the same spot.

The Temple of Apollo Epicurius at Bassae.

But now, a new problem emerged… Outsiders couldn’t simply walk into the temple.

Once again, gloom fell over the little room they had rented.

Legends say the god sealed the temple with an unseen boundary. Only someone with Apollo’s blessing—such as a sanctioned priest, or someone who has undergone purification rites—can safely pass. These permitted individuals act like keys. If they are present, they “carry” the god’s permission, allowing companions to enter as long as they remain under their protection.

So, the only way to enter Epicurius was by finding a priest willing to help them—a task far more difficult than pinpointing a location on a map.

“Maybe… I do know someone,” Antinous said at last, his voice calm but serious. But what he said next left them stunned.

“We need to go back to Ithaca.”

The first light of morning revealed the disappearance of another. Their group—once crowded—had shrunk to just two.

Antinous and Diomedes stared at the empty sleeping arrangement, then at each other, their expressions vacant as they silently blamed themselves. One of the horses was gone too, confirming what they feared: Ctesippus had left willingly.

Unlucky for them, time wasn’t on their side. There was no room to dwell on why he had suddenly left without so much as a word. They had to cross the Peloponnese and reach the Ionian coast, where a boat would carry them across the sea to Ithaca—a journey far from short.

Their path led northwest, into Arcadia—land of mountains, nymphs, and forgotten altars.

While they were trying to achieve what Antinous had told them—bringing someone who could guarantee their entry into the Temple of Epicurius—Ctesippus was more than aware that even if they succeeded, there was no way they could simply overpower an Olympic god and save Telemachus. So, he had come up with a plan of his own.

His path was no less challenging: a narrow trail weaving through dense pine and crumbling rock, with just enough space for a single traveler.

Ctesippus leaned forward, whispering to the horse, which had already begun to snort and flatten its ears. “Easy,” he said. “Just a little farther.”

The horse cooperated for a while, but as they rounded a sharp bend, it suddenly froze. Ctesippus peered ahead.

There, stretched full across the narrow track, lay a man. No pack. No shoes. Just dusty limbs and tangled hair.

Ctesippus blinked. “Move,” he said after a long moment of staring. But the stranger didn’t stir.

“You’ll get crushed,” he warned, louder this time.

The horse pawed the ground nervously, ears twitching, sensing his master’s rising irritation.

“Hey!! Get. Up!”

Ctesippus let out a frustrated sigh and dismounted. He crouched beside the man and nudged his shoulder with a finger. “You’re not dead, right? I said—”

The man rolled over with a sigh, turning his back to him. “Why don’t You move?”

Ctesippus blinked again. “Well, I’m trying! You’re blocking the path. If you don’t move, you’ll get crushed under the horse’s hooves. Hey! You! Stop ignoring me!”

He kept nudging the stranger’s back again and again, hoping to annoy him enough to make him leave.

The man peeked over his shoulder, one eye open. “Where are you off to?”

“None of your business,” Ctesippus shot back, waving a dismissive hand. “Shoo. Shoo.”

But the man rolled back to face him, propping his head on one palm. Both eyes were open now, glinting with something like amusement.

“Take me with you.”

Ctesippus froze, then raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely not. Now stop wasting my time and move.”

This time, the man obeyed. He stood, lazily dusting off his tunic.

Satisfied, Ctesippus turned to mount his horse—but didn’t make it. Mid-step, he was yanked backward. His legs swept from under him, arms twisted behind his back, face slammed against the dirt. The stranger’s full weight pressed down on him, pinning him in place and worsening the strain on his back.

He didn’t panic—there wasn’t much the stranger could rob from him. So, for a moment, he didn’t fight. But when the man moved again, he tensed, trying to wriggle free.

In one swift, brutal motion, the man grabbed his wrist and twisted it backward. A sickening crack split the air. Ctesippus gasped, his voice sharp with pain. 

The continuation of the journey was accompanied by the man’s low humming, while Ctesippus’ glare bored into his back like a drawn dagger. His wrist throbbed with every movement, making it impossible to hold the reins. That left the steering to this strange, unwanted companion.

His mind kept circling the same problem: how to kill him. Strangling was out — two hands required. Stabbing was out — the dagger was in the pack, too obvious to reach for. Anything else would be too noisy, too noticeable.

So, instead, he killed him a hundred times in his head. Pushed him off a cliff. Drowned him in a stream. Snapped his neck clean. Again and again.

For over two hours, neither spoke. Only the rhythm of hooves, the man’s tuneless hum, and Ctesippus’ dark thoughts filled the air.

Without turning, the stranger broke the silence, voice smooth and faintly amused. “You’ve been burning holes in my back for a while now. One might think you’re planning my funeral.”

“I am,” Ctesippus shot back without hesitation.

The stranger chuckled, a low and unbothered sound, like someone receiving a compliment. He glanced over his shoulder with a lazy smirk.

“Tsk. No thanks at all? I’m the one keeping you on the road, seeing as your hand’s out of commission. You’re awfully ungrateful.”

“That’s your fault!” Ctesippus snapped.

The man’s grin widened. “Me? Can’t say I recall.”

Ctesippus stared, jaw slack, then narrowed his eyes. “I could help you remember.”

The stranger gave a quiet, amused hm, as though indulging a child’s threat. “You’ll need both hands for that.”

Ctesippus let out a sharp huff and looked away. “Anyway, you’re on my horse. Least you can do is tell me your name.”

“If you must know,” the man said, “it’s Aethon.”

Ctesippus was ready to make a joke, but the name landed well. It suited him. He shut his mouth.

“Now,” Aethon went on, “what should I call my charming host?”

Ctesippus clicked his tongue. “You don’t need to know.”

“That’s fine,” Aethon said lightly. “I’ll just keep calling you brittle-bones.”

“It’s not ‘brittle-bones,’ it’s Ctesippus!”

Aethon’s smile curved slow and wicked. “Mm. Brittle-bones it is, then.”

Aethon had found them shelter in a dry cove beneath the trees to spend the night.

Ctesippus sat with his back to him, left hand limp in his lap. His mind stayed fixed on the throbbing pulse in his wrist, the slow, heavy ache that crept up his forearm like a bruise spreading beneath the skin. He’d wrapped it himself earlier—a crooked strip of cloth already loosening—and every throb made him grit his teeth harder. He refused to let a sound escape him.

Still, despite the unwelcome company of the pain and the stranger, he felt a certain contentment. They had covered good ground; another two days and he’d be where he wanted.

“Let me see it.” Aethon’s voice came suddenly, close.

“Don’t,” Ctesippus snapped without looking. “It’s fine.”

Aethon reached anyway. Ctesippus slapped his hand away and twisted to move, but Aethon’s fingers closed around his ankle. With a sharp tug, he yanked him down, hard enough to topple him sideways.

Pain exploded through Ctesippus’ wrist. He couldn’t stop the gasp that broke from him. His tunic rode up in the fall, cloth gathering at his waist, skin flashing pale in the dim light. Panic flared; he shoved it down fast, covering himself.

Aethon snorted, a humorless sound, eyes glinting as he leaned over him, clearly enjoying Ctesippus’ flustered state. “Easy now. I’m setting your wrist, not your legs.”

His lips curved in a smirk. “I’ve got higher priorities than chasing you under a blanket.”

Ctesippus’ cheeks burned hot with humiliation and fear.

“Hold still,” Aethon said, voice firmer this time. He caught the broken wrist in one hand before Ctesippus could pull back.

“That,” he muttered, unwrapping the poorly tied cloth, and ignoring the sharp breath the younger man sucked in. “isn’t a proper bandage. You’ll make it worse like that.” 

The skin beneath was flushed, swelling fast. Aethon's hands were warm and confident, the kind that knew exactly how much pressure to use and when to let go.

When the bandage was redone, Aethon gave the wrist one last check, his thumb brushing just under the pulse. “Better,” he said simply, then rose and returned to his place.

Ctesippus didn’t thank him aloud. But as Aethon moved back to his own place, his lips shaped the word silently. He lay down, wrist cradled against his chest, and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep—though the heat of Aethon’s hands refused to leave him.

Chapter Text

When they woke that morning, Aethon offered his hand. Ctesippus stared at it too long before turning away and mounting awkwardly, wincing the whole time.

He’d had a bad night. His hand ached, his back ached, and no sleeping position stayed comfortable for long. It had sucked.

The second day wasn’t as unbearable as the first. Ctesippus was starting to get accustomed to this Aethon. He wasn’t as mean or ruthless as he’d first seemed, sometimes even cracking a joke or tossing out a sarcastic comment that Ctesippus found, to his surprise, almost… endearing. It was better than traveling alone, he had to admit.

Strangely, Aethon didn’t even know where Ctesippus was going or what he intended to do, yet he was tagging along anyway, as if he were lost himself, and any road would do so long as it led somewhere.

Ctesippus didn’t ask. He was still giving him the cold shoulder—hard to forgive a man who had just broken your hand—and yet, with each hour, it was getting harder to hold that grudge.

Along the way, Aethon kept plucking what Ctesippus called “ugly plants” from the roadside and handing them to him, ignoring the much prettier leafy kind growing in abundance. Ctesippus had no idea why, but he kept them anyway, tucking each into a small pouch.

By sundown, the pouch was stuffed with herbs and shoots. But apparently, they weren’t for him. Aethon snatched it away as soon as they made camp. Ctesippus frowned at losing his little ugly gifts.

Aethon began crushing and mixing the leaves with other things Ctesippus didn’t bother to identify, the result a potent, bitter-smelling green paste.

Ctesippus had just found a comfortable spot to lie down when Aethon approached. Knowing how this was going to end, he didn’t fight—better to cooperate than risk the other wrist.

Aethon unspooled the old bandage with care and smeared the concoction onto the swollen flesh. “This’ll help with the swelling. Once it’s down, I can set the bones back in place.” He then rewrapped the wrist tightly in a fresh, wide strip of cloth. 

Ctesippus barely managed to nod. Whatever Aethon had applied, it hurt. Not that his hand hadn’t been hurting before, but now it was even less bearable—so much so that the next day, when Aethon offered his hand to help him mount the horse, Ctesippus almost spat on it from sheer resentment.

While his temper usually flared easily at strangers, it was even worse now that he was sleep-deprived after another restless night. Aethon decided it was wiser to stay on his good side for the day.

Ctesippus didn’t register how it happened, but at some point he blinked and realized his eyes had been closed. Things were blurry at first, but as his awareness slowly returned, he realized he had fallen asleep.

A few more blinks—and then the horrifying realization—his forehead was resting against Aethon’s back, and his arms were wrapped around the man from behind. A habit of his, to hug something while sleeping.

Burning with shame, he jerked upright, wanting to adjust his position and put some distance between them. But his hand—his uninjured one—was caught fast, strong fingers locking around it, refusing to let him pull away. The hold was firm, making any escape from this unexpected closeness impossible.

“Sleep a bit more.”

Aethon’s tone left no room for argument, nor any sign that he intended to let go. So, despite his hot cheeks, Ctesippus stopped struggling.

The warmth against his chest was more than enough to tempt him back to sleep. Besides, the man was surely strong enough to keep them safe if something happened, so why not take the chance and rest?

“We’re still… going the same way… yeah?” Ctesippus yawned. He was too drowsy, yet still suspicious of this stranger’s intentions to completely lower his guard.

The other laughed, amused at the subtle accusation. “We’re still on course. Rest.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You really think I’d get us lost while you nap?”

Ctesippus wanted to argue, to say that he had seemed lost when they first met, but he didn’t have the strength to speak any longer.

He hummed something that might have been agreement, his forehead dipping forward again, this time settling against Aethon’s shoulder. He told himself it was only because the road was uneven. But his arm around Aethon didn’t loosen… and neither did Aethon’s grip on his hand.

A sheer wall of pale limestone adorned the bank where the grass lay thick and inviting—the perfect place for a weary traveler to stretch out his limbs. Beside it, a stream ran clear, its surface mirroring the unmistakable shape of the moon, which cast its gentle light and offered what little comfort it could. The rock they chose served as a windbreaker, allowing them to kindle a small fire without fear of the flame sputtering out. It lay close enough for them to hear the water’s quiet murmurs, yet far enough that the rock’s shadow did not fall upon the shimmering surface.

It would have been the perfect place to let go of one’s worries and release some tension, if not for the guttural cries that tore through the night’s solemn peace.

Ctesippus, usually the restrained and pain-tolerant sort, had long since abandoned the useless mask that never improved his situations. What was the use of pretending to be strong when he was suffering and powerless to change the outcome? Pain had stripped him of pride; without thinking, he had sought Aethon’s lap, curling to his side with knees drawn close.

Aethon wasn’t in a better state—his stomach churned with helpless guilt. The firelight flickered across his face, illuminating the stark lines of his concentration. He had no wine he could offer to numb the senses, no potent mixture to dull the sharp edges of reality.

The swelling had barely gone down, but if he delayed the reduction any longer, the bones would heal incorrectly, leaving the wrist permanently deformed and poorly functioning. In his opinion, some pain had to be endured for a greater good.

Ctesippus simply surrendered his body to a fate he could not control. His skin was slick with cold sweat, his hair damp against his forehead as he burrowed into Aethon’s arms, trying to ground himself.

The wrongness of it gnawed at Aethon—how the man clung to him, seeking comfort, despite knowing he was the very reason for this pain.

“Hold fast,” he rasped, voice tight. It was a useless command. His hand was on the swollen wrist, fingers probing for the displaced bone beneath the taut, inflamed skin. He found it. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and pulled.

Ctesippus’ body arched, a bowstring drawn to its limit, and in his fevered state, his teeth closed around the flesh of Aethon’s shoulder, biting hard to stop himself from screaming.

Aethon ignored the sharp pain and focused on the task. He felt the grinding—the scrape of bone, the sickening give as the fragments reluctantly shifted into place. He worked with brutal, single-minded efficiency, ignoring the muffled cries, ignoring the tears that now streamed from Ctesippus’ eyes and dampened his skin. The bone settled with a faint, audible click, a sound that brought him brief, fierce satisfaction.

He held the position for a moment longer, hands trembling with strain, then gently released his grip and began to wrap the bandage.

When Ctesippus came back to his senses, his eyes widened at the damage he’d caused. His face jerked upward, still red and damp with tears, guilt shining in his watery eyes as he mumbled through the strain of his voice, “I… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—” His lower lip quivered, threatening to spill more tears.

With the back of his fingers, Aethon gently pushed an unruly lock of hair from his face. “It doesn’t hurt,” he lied.

Now it was his mission to distract the man from the intense throbbing in his joints. Luckily, Ctesippus was the type to get easily swept up in conversation and gossip.

Lying side by side on the thick grass, facing each other, Ctesippus listened intently to the stories Aethon shared from his long years of travel. He absorbed them like a child listening to a bedtime story, interrupting from time to time with questions and comments.

“So… you keep living like that? A wandering man? You’ve never thought… about going back to Crete?” Ctesippus asked, his tone more sympathetic than genuinely curious. He felt a deep sadness. Aethon had been forced to leave his homeland after a failed expedition to Egypt. A disaster had struck when his men raided without orders, and the locals fought back. Many were killed. He had only survived by the king’s mercy, condemned to wander for the rest of his life. It wasn’t fair.

“I’ve thought of it… but some things keep a man moving. Maybe one day… but not yet— Oh? What’s this, gonna cry again?” Aethon’s mouth curved into a faint, lopsided grin.

“Shut up! I won’t!”

Aethon’s grin widened at the outburst, the spark in his eyes catching like a man who’d just gotten exactly the reaction he wanted. He shifted slightly, stretching one leg until the top of his foot nudged Ctesippus’s calf. The contact was light at first—barely more than a brush—before he slowly dragged his foot downward, the faint rasp of skin against skin.

Ctesippus jerked his leg back as if burned, pinning Aethon with a glare that was more flustered than furious. “Cut it out!”

The tips of his ears were already pink, betraying him before he could hide it. He huffed, averting his eyes as if escaping Aethon’s amused gaze could shield him from further provocation.

Aethon, enjoying the flare of another’s temper, didn’t give up on trying to rile him further. His toes traced teasing patterns along the sensitive skin near the top of Ctesippus’s legs, brushing softly, then retreating just enough to keep him on edge.

But soon, the playful teasing shifted into something more urgent. Aethon’s touches were no longer light brushes—they lingered, exploring, testing boundaries. Each small movement carried intent.

Ctesippus’s protests grew quieter, mixed with hesitant curiosity. His hands twitched, as if to push him away, yet not quite wanting to. His body leaned in, drawn to the heat of their legs pressed together.

Aethon noticed immediately. He leaned closer, using his knee to trace slowly up the inside of Ctesippus’s thigh, the pressure firm enough to draw a sharp intake of breath.

Ctesippus froze for a heartbeat, then shifted even closer, curiosity battling embarrassment. His chest rose faster, and their eyes met—half-lidded, heavy with anticipation. The teasing had melted into a shared, silent acknowledgment.

Aethon’s hand drifted, resting just above Ctesippus’s hip before sliding a little lower, tracing the curve of his form.

Ctesippus shivered, caught between pulling away and needing the closeness, discovering how far curiosity could stretch before it became surrender to desire.

Aethon’s lips curved into a slow, teasing smile as he dipped his head closer, a kiss at the hollow of his neck, lingering long enough to make Ctesippus’s pulse spike.

Ctesippus parted his lips slightly, letting out a soft, surprised sound. Aethon responded by pressing closer, his hand sliding confidently along the side of his waist.

Their legs twisted together, Aethon’s hands roaming carefully, each touch drawing soft gasps. Ctesippus’s initial surprise melted entirely, replaced by need.

Holding back was now far from Aethon’s mind, and his body craved more. He buried his face in the suitor’s neck, sucking fiercely and drawing all manner of sounds from him, guiding him onto his back as he moved over him.

Ctesippus’s hands lifted, reaching for the man’s shoulders—an instinctive attempt to anchor himself—but before he could, both wrists were slammed harshly above his head, trapped by Aethon’s tight grip. A sharp breath escaped him, quickly muffled by Aethon’s mouth on his.

Kissed? No—he was being devoured. Aethon’s lips were desperate, hungry, leaving him unable to move or even breathe. His muffled moans vanished into Aethon’s throat, his protests lost. Unable to voice the pain, he writhed beneath him, legs shifting in restless resistance.

Aethon broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, eyes dark and impatient. “Hey… I’m not forcing you. If you don’t want it, just say so.”

His gaze flicked over Ctesippus’s flushed face, his lips curling with irritation. “What the hell are you whining for?”

Ctesippus stiffened, discomfort flickering across his features. The weight of Aethon’s stare tightened his chest, but the sharper edge of his voice made his throat work in a swallow.

“I’m not—” He stopped, lips pressing into a thin line. His eyes dropped, then lifted again, the hurt faint but clear. Whatever words he’d meant to say withered under that gaze, leaving only silence and the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Aethon’s brow furrowed, impatience flashing. “So? Spit it out already.”

The shift of Aethon’s grip sent another jolt through Ctesippus, forcing a hiss from between his teeth. Finally, in a small, uneven voice, he muttered, “M-my hand…”

The sharpness in Aethon’s face melted instantly. His gaze darted to where his fingers pinned the injured wrist. “Damn it…” The words came low, almost to himself.

He released him at once, his touch skimming the bandaged joint in a gentler sweep, as if afraid to worsen the injury. “I didn’t—” He caught himself, meeting Ctesippus’s eyes instead. “Are you alright?”

His voice had lost its edge; the heat was still there, but it had shifted—protective now, not demanding.

Shifting his weight off him, Aethon slid a hand behind his back, guiding him upright. “Come here,” he murmured, taking his hand carefully and turning it over to inspect it.

Ctesippus forced a faint smile. “It’s fine,” he said, though the faint crease between his brows betrayed the sting. “Just… go easy on me.” Then, narrowing his eyes, “Try not to break anything else.”

His tone was casual, teasing, but Aethon was far more interested in the fact that he wasn’t telling him to stop. The words, though light, were a subtle green light.

Aethon swallowed. He wasn’t certain if he should, but the heat in his body hadn’t faded, and the sight of the flushed-faced suitor was temptation enough to make him yield.

Ctesippus’s back met the pale limestone, his lips parting willingly this time as Aethon hummed in satisfaction, tasting him with the patience of a warrior savoring a rare victory.

Clothes loosened—not torn or tossed aside, but shifted just enough to allow his hands to explore. Ctesippus shuddered when skin met skin, Aethon’s hands wandering restlessly, groping every line of his body. He flinched more than once, unaccustomed to being touched like this—unaccustomed to being wanted in a way far more tender than just having his tunic shoved up and someone’s arousal driven into him until they were satisfied.

Aethon didn’t press. He slowed, letting Ctesippus adjust, letting him want more, until at last he reached lower, unable to resist the way every inch of him seemed to belong in his hands.

Ctesippus whimpered at the loss of contact when Aethon pulled away. He was too dazed to remember which hand was healthy and which was injured. Unable to determine, he kept them both at his sides, watching in puzzled silence as the man began to remove his tunic.

Aethon checked the ground first, brushing away needles and small stones before placing his tunic neatly on the spot. Ctesippus' chest ached at the realization, that he was doing this for him, making the floor safe and comfortable.

The man’s eyes met his, a silent question in them. The ghost of old fear tightened Ctesippus’ throat, but seeing the care in Aethon’s actions—so few ever thought of his comfort, so few ever considered him—he allowed himself to trust. If he could endure the pain others had forced upon him, the cold, sharp bite of sex that had always left him raw, he could endure this for Aethon. At least he deserved that.

Slowly, he let the man guide him down onto the ground. His legs shifted without conscious thought, making space, and Aethon took it as permission.

Ctesippus’ chiton was gently removed, and his face flushed. No one had ever been patient enough to undress him, to linger with curious admiration over every inch of his naked body. No one had ever cared.

Aethon’s fingers traced lightly along his arm, tilting it until his hand rested above his head. “Keep it there,” he said, voice low and controlled, heat radiating from every word, but his gaze tender. “Don’t move… I don’t want to hurt it again.”

He brought his fingers to his lips first, sucking them slowly, before trailing them downward.

Ctesippus felt the wet touch at his entrance, confusion and curiosity battling in his chest. When an index finger breached him, he whispered, “I—I don’t understand… why are your fingers there?”

Aethon raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment. “Is this your first time?”

Ctesippus shook his head, denying it. Aethon's brows drew together, but he explained anyway. “I’m just helping you open up. I need to stretch you, so nothing hurts.”

Ctesippus was flushed with embarrassment, but at the mention of avoiding pain, he couldn’t help blurting, “T-then… use all your fingers… the other hand too… I don’t want to leave anything un-stretched!”

“That… isn’t quite how it works,” Aethon murmured, a teasing edge in his tone, though his eyes glimmered with care.

Being stretched wasn’t as painful as he’d imagined. It felt almost like his insides were being massaged, though the strange heat blooming there was something he couldn’t name or control.

When it became too much, his good hand gripped Aethon’s shoulder, grounding himself. Aethon stilled instantly—the kind of stillness that said, tell me if you want to stop. Then Ctesippus nodded once, and that was enough.

Ctesippus thought Aethon deserved to be touched too. He tried to lift his hand from his shoulder, but the attempt faltered when lips closed over his nipple, licking and sucking with focused intensity. 

The fingers inside him slipped free. Aethon looked troubled, as if reconsidering everything. When Ctesippus met his gaze, he sighed. His voice dropped, hesitant. “I don’t have oil… and if you’re not sure, we don’t have to. It could still hurt without it.”

Stop? After all this? Ctesippus shook his head firmly. He might never find this courage again.

Seeing the resolve, Aethon spat into his palm, stroking himself. Then again. Ctesippus began to fear he’d drain every drop of spit in his body before they even started. Before the thought could root, Aethon was between his legs, length rubbing against him.

Ctesippus had braced for it—the tearing, the burn, the sharp flash of pain. He’d prepared for it: every muscle drawn tight, shoulders braced, jaw locked, ready to take it like always. But when it happened, when Aethon pushed inside him, there was only a faint sting.

That’s it? He almost laughed. His thighs opened wider, breath leaving him in something closer to surprise than relief.

Aethon’s eyes searched his. “Is it okay if I move?” Ctesippus blinked, stunned—then nodded.

The pace was slow. The man was patient, too patient. And with every push, Ctesippus felt it—not just pressure, not just motion, but pleasure. Real pleasure that made his breath hitch and his spine curl.

He moaned, rolling his hips to meet him, chasing more. At a sharper angle, his legs curled tight around Aethon’s waist.

Aethon’s hand slid over his ribs to his hip, holding him steady. He bent down until their foreheads touched, holding him close as he moved — not just chasing release, but trying to leave something of himself inside that would stay long after they parted.

Ctesippus’s hand traveled downward, tracing where they were joined. He was trembling with a mix of curiosity and disbelief, that the very thing that had once torn cries of pain from him was now coaxing out shivers of aching pleasure. His fingers found something hard—yet not all of it was inside. Aethon was only half way in. 

Ctesippus’s confusion earned him a low whisper against his ear. “Next time, when you’re properly lubed, I’ll give you all of it.”

Next time…

Ctesippus’s mind lingered on the words for a fleeting heartbeat before they shattered into nothing. His back arched, a raw sound slipping out, and both hands flew wildly again, desperate to clutch at anything.

Aethon caught his arm by the elbow, placing the broken wrist back above his head, bracing himself with his other arm so as not to crush him.

He felt every shiver, every twitch of muscle. The pleasure was maddening, but it was the way Ctesippus’s eyes softened, the way his voice broke, that made Aethon’s chest ache more than his body throb.

His thrusts picked up pace, more urgent now, his body starting to shake with restraint. He pressed his forehead to Ctesippus’s, his pace faltering, his grip tightening. Then, just as his breath grew ragged and his rhythm trembled toward climax, he reached between them, hand sliding down to stroke him—and froze.

He blinked down, confused. He’d read Ctesippus’s body like scripture, followed every sign of pleasure. How could he be feeling all that, and still—

Ctesippus was soft. Entirely. Not even half-hard.

Aethon's brows knit, as if uncertain whether he’d done something wrong. His hand faltered, hesitant. 

“Don’t,” Ctesippus said gently, breathless. He caught his wrist. "It's not you. I… uh… I can’t… it’s just not happening anymore." His gaze slid away, unable to bear the weight of Aethon’s eyes, shame and frustration coiling in his chest, leaving his body tense with both embarrassment and want.

“But I’m really enjoying this,” he added, meaning it. “You feel… good.”

Their foreheads pressed together again, breath mingling, heat shared in the narrow space between them. Aethon’s thrusts slowed, each one drawn out, rolling deep, as if to make it last.

When release finally took him, his body shuddered hard against Ctesippus’s, hips pressing flush, spilling deep inside with a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his chest. 

Ctesippus clung to him, arms trembling. His voice cracked, pleading through the haze. “Please… stay… please.” The words tore out of him, raw with a fear that went beyond the moment—fear of being left, of being used and discarded like before.

“I’m here,” Aethon murmured, the words firm and quiet, like an oath. He stayed exactly as he was, still joined, until Ctesippus’s breathing eased and his heartbeat slowed from frantic to steady.

Only then did Aethon ease out, careful and slow, and lie down beside him. His gaze searched Ctesippus’s face, like he was afraid to see regret there. “It felt good?” he asked softly, the question a whisper, afraid of the answer.

Ctesippus exhaled a long breath, then turned to meet his eyes. “I felt… like a human again.”

Something shifted in Aethon’s expression, subtle but warm. His thumb brushed along Ctesippus’s cheekbone, lingering there as if memorizing the shape of him.

In Arcadia, things were going smoothly, except for the turmoil of emotions and the wild thoughts both of them were struggling to dismiss.

Overthinking what they couldn’t control or change was pointless, yet given the way things had turned, avoiding it was impossible.

While they couldn’t share what troubled them most, they exchanged a few words about the current situation and the possible reasons Apollo might have taken Telemachus.

It was definitely connected to Odysseus, since Telemachus rarely left the palace, so he couldn't possibly have done something that they didn't hear about that could offend Apollo. Antinous tried not to cuss the old king out loud, fully aware of his strong bond with the warrior accompanying him.

They sat against a gnarled lotus tree to rest—their first stop after long hours of travel. Antinous’s stomach growled, demanding food before hunger turned to anger, so they decided to hunt before resuming their journey.

Before they could rise, a white stag emerged from between the trees, its golden antlers glinting like polished bone. They watched, breath held, until its dark eyes met theirs for a long moment before it turned and vanished.

Diomedes glanced at the suitor. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not that dumb,” Antinous rolled his eyes. It was obvious this was a divine creature, or at least one that belonged to a god.

As the stag disappeared, the bark and branches above them shifted, and a woman’s laughter, warm and resonant, echoed from the trunk.

“Oh, to see the White-Horned One… One’s fate may truly change.”

Antinous shifted uneasily. “What are you?”

Diomedes stepped forward, answering him. “Dryope.”

A sudden breeze shook the branches, and the tree chuckled again. “What stirs the shadows in your hearts, travelers? This rooted one has seen many roads… and perhaps holds the answers you seek.”

Diomedes and Antinous glanced at each other. Neither wanted to speak in the other’s presence, but given the rare chance, they pushed aside pride and poured out their fears to the tree nymph. All was laid bare, with no secrets remaining

Dryope sighed, genuinely sympathetic. “You carry heavy storms within you, travelers. Unfortunately, I cannot lift your burdens… but one truth I can share, the help you seek waits in Killini.”

Then, in a gentler, reassuring tone: “As for the other boy… you shall cross paths again, of that this old one is sure.”

Feeling slightly lighter, they thanked her before leaving, both more aware of each other after learning of each other’s fears, everything was revealed.

Diomedes tried not to dwell on the revelation that Antinous was one of Penelope’s suitors—a fact he hadn’t known before. Now was not the time to consider it, or to doubt Telemachus’s choices. But he certainly would, when the time was right.

Ctesippus sighed, a faint crack in his chest he refused to name. When he woke, the spot beside him was empty—no trace of the man who had shared his warmth through the night.

It wasn’t love, not after only a few days, but it still felt strange… wrong… to be left alone after such a night.

He didn’t cry. He wouldn’t. Not for a near-stranger. But he also didn’t move, lying there in quiet stillness, mourning something small and private. His clothes had been draped over him, shielding him from the early chill, though he was still completely bare underneath.

Footsteps rustled the grass behind him, and he jolted upright. Aethon was approaching… naked. Entirely.

Relief and embarrassment crashed into him at once. “H-how can you be this—this uncivilized?!”

The man only dropped a freshly hunted hare onto the ground, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“It’s not attractive for a man to walk around bare—o-or are you trying to show off your…?” Ctesippus’s gaze flickered down, catching on the sight of Aethon’s soft length before his thoughts caught fire and he looked away too quickly.

Aethon chuckled, rubbing his forehead like he couldn’t believe him. “If you’d kindly get off my tunic, I might manage to be ‘civilized’ again.”

When Ctesippus glanced down, he realized with a shock that the clothes he’d been sitting on were Aethon’s. He’d probably left them there so as not to wake him, enduring the morning air bare.

Aethon crouched in front of him, grinning. “But if you keep sprawling all over my clothes, I’ll start thinking you want me to stay like this.”

Heat flared in Ctesippus’s face. Before he could reply, Aethon extended a hand. “Come with me.”

He let himself be pulled to his feet, and before he could argue, was coaxed toward the stream—and convinced not to put on his clothes yet either.

The water was cool and clean, ankle-deep in places, then suddenly waist-deep. Ctesippus stiffened as Aethon’s hands slipped between his cheeks, eyes snapping to his in alarm.

“I just want to get you cleaned up… from last night,” Aethon explained, voice low and unhurried. There was the faintest tug of a smirk on his lips, as though he was biting back something far more wicked.

The tension in Ctesippus’s shoulders loosened, though a sharp gasp escaped him when those fingers slid inside again, knowing exactly where to press. It was the same as when Diomedes did it; both men had that rare mix of skill and tenderness, the kind that lingered like warmth in the bones. He only just realized how alike they were—not in face or voice, but in the way they cared for him. 

And then there was another shared trait… the one he’d been trying not to stare at since the start of this short trip, but with them bracing him now, every shift of muscle under skin was impossible to ignore.

His good hand rested on Aethon’s shoulder to keep the bandage dry, the other splayed over his chest. Somehow, in the space of a few heartbeats, he was standing within the circle of the man’s arms.

Cold water lapped at them, but heat coiled low in his belly. The excuse was “cleaning him up,” but each slow curl of Aethon’s fingers was pushing him toward a different kind of ache entirely.

Leaning in, Aethon’s breath warmed his ear. “Once I get some oil… I’ll make you feel so incredible you’ll beg me not to stop.”

Ctesippus’s eyes darted away, flustered. “So… that’s your polite way of asking for another round?”

Aethon’s hand caught his chin, tilting his face back until their eyes locked. The words he spoke next carried no tease, only heat and intent. “I most certainly would like to bed you again.”

And Ctesippus hadn’t said he wouldn’t let him.

For the next full hour, he lay face-down, grumbling and cursing at the man who only stroked his back in silence.

After their passionate night, Ctesippus couldn’t sit on the horse—his bottom ached every time he tried. They had no choice but to wait until he felt better.

"I shouldn’t be wasting time like this..." he whined.

Chapter Text

Aethon stayed true to his word. By the time they reached their destination, evening had already fallen, and they secured a room at an inn where they could rest for the night—perhaps longer, depending on what Ctesippus decided.

The first thing Aethon sought was oil. Soon after, the suitor was on his knees on the bed, Aethon driving into him from behind. And just as he had promised, he gave him everything, burying himself to the hilt.

His arms circled Ctesippus’ waist, palms pressed firm against his stomach as he thrust with a slow rhythm, making sure the man in his grasp felt each stroke, every inch dragging deep inside.

Ctesippus let out a heavy sigh. If not for Aethon anchoring him in place, he would have already collapsed. But trapped in his embrace, there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but take it. His lips parted, desperate to moan, to release some sound that might ease the pressure building inside him, but nothing came.

His panting grew harsher, chest rising and falling as Aethon struck a hidden spot inside him again and again. The sensation left him adrift—how could such overwhelming pleasure come from a place unseen, a part of himself he could never reach on his own?

He didn’t know whether the heat building inside him was meant to be endured or surrendered to, but every drag of Aethon’s body against that secret place pulled him closer to an edge he had never known before.

Aethon noticed the tremor in his breathing, the way his shoulders shook as though he were resisting rather than yielding. He dipped his head into the crook of Ctesippus’s neck, brushing his lips against the damp skin there, and at last a sound broke free, low and raw. Aethon smiled against him, tightening his hold.

As his thrusts worked into a faster, deeper rhythm, a new sensation bloomed within Ctesippus, terrifying and overwhelming, yet irresistible.

A whimper escaped him, then another, and hot tears slipped past his lashes. It wasn’t pain, not the kind that begged for escape. It was shattering—an emotional torrent he could no longer contain. A sob tore out of him, raw and broken, a plea without words.

Aethon felt the way Ctesippus shuddered. He froze, breath catching. He eased his hips back, fear rising, and only then did he see it clearly: the tears streaming hot down Ctesippus’ cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

For a heartbeat, he thought he’d hurt him, but the way Ctesippus’ lips parted, his voice breaking into moans that hadn’t heard before, told another truth. His sobs weren’t of suffering, but of baring himself completely.

He reached up, cupping Ctesippus’ tear-streaked cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly. Then his lips found his, a kiss so gentle it unraveled the suitor further.

Slowly, Aethon moved inside him again, shallow, careful thrusts. Enough to keep them connected, enough to remind him he wasn’t alone in this. He held Ctesippus tightly as the boy broke against him, sobbing openly in his arms.

The slow rocking left Ctesippus strung taut, his body begging for more, and the frustration showed in every quiver of his thighs. 

Aethon never intended on teasing him that way. The moment he noticed his desire, he set a firmer pace, each thrust pressing harder, deeper, making certain Ctesippus felt exactly what he needed. 

Still, Aethon couldn’t hold himself back from taunting him, “I thought you were far too old to be sniveling like a child.”

Ctesippus huffed, breath shaky but eyes defiant as he turned his head just enough to meet Aethon’s gaze. “And aren’t you far too old to be bullying someone more than a decade younger than you?”

That earned a laugh. Aethon’s grin widened, delighted by the boy’s spirit, and glad to see he was still in the mood to banter even in such a state. But the laughter soon dimmed, giving way to the hunger in his eyes. He leaned close, his breath hot against Ctesippus’ ear.

“Mmh… can you deny it? That this old man knows exactly how to please you?”

His hands wandered upward, sliding along the younger man’s torso in a slow, teasing path. His fingers curled around the hardened swollen peaks he had teased earlier, rolling them as if savoring their every twitch.

“Ah—d-don’t… ngh, don’t pinch them again!”

His protests went ignored. Once Aethon focused on his tender spots, it was impossible to tear him away. He toyed with them obsessively, utterly absorbed.

Ctesippus’ nipples stood stiff with arousal, yet the one thing that should have responded to all this refused to stir. His cock—just like last time—remained stubbornly soft no matter how desperately Aethon tried to rouse it. It left him baffled. Ctesippus clearly felt arousal; his body betrayed him in every other way. So why... 

The suitor brushed it off, insisting it didn’t matter, but Aethon couldn’t shake his unease. Not because of pride, but because he couldn’t tell when Ctesippus was truly satisfied. He didn’t want to stop at his own release and leave the youth unsated. And he refused to humiliate him by asking outright. Not being able to get hard must already weigh heavy, no matter how casually Ctesippus pretended otherwise.

Aethon shifted him, pulling out only to flip the suitor onto his back. He guided his wrists above his head, holding them there firmly. Ctesippus, lost in the haze of sensation and long since forgetting his broken wrist, only thought it a show of dominance.

Aethon was determined to spend the entire night inside him. He would fuck the boy until there was no doubt left, until his body went limp with satisfaction. And so he did, taking him again and again, ignoring his own exhaustion each time he climaxed.

Ctesippus never complained, though confusion flickered in his eyes when Aethon kept going long after release. It was only when the suitor finally passed out that Aethon allowed himself to stop.

The next morning, Aethon woke up to a flurry of curses when Ctesippus discovered that his limbs had taken a little vacation. Aethon laughed so hard his stomach ached, calling him "brittle-bones" again. That, of course, earned him a deadly glare, forcing him to step out of the room.

He didn’t return immediately. They had already agreed that once they reached the village, they would go their separate ways to handle whatever needed attending in private. Aethon was eager to reach the market, he was searching for something important he said. Ctesippus, on the other hand, was dragging himself toward his own destination. 

When Ctesippus arrived at the temple, he was met with silence. The emptiness was unsettling, and for a moment he wondered if he had come to the wrong place. He turned on his heels to leave, and only after some investigation, he realized this was indeed the temple he had been seeking. 

The god here, as the rumors claimed, only appeared to answer the most significant prayers. Simple wishes, blessings, and trivial requests were beneath him; the god would appear on his own terms.

Almost no one prayed there anymore; the villagers avoided it entirely, afraid of angering the god with silly wishes and inciting his wrath. Only the most significant prayers ever drew his attention.

Resigned yet hopeful, Ctesippus returned inside. He knelt before the altar, lit the incense he had bought along the way, and placed the laurel leaves as an offering. He spent what felt like an eternity praying, whispering, pleading—hoping beyond hope that the god would answer. Sweat soaked his forehead, and his knees cramped from holding the same posture, but still he prayed, determined to be heard.

Yet nothing happened. The god remained absent, offering neither reply nor sign. Ctesippus felt a mixture of relief and also disappointment, his frustration mirrored in the pout that tugged at his lips.

Returning to the inn, he found Aethon with the same defeated expression. Whatever the other had been searching for, it had eluded him as well. Ctesippus stared at him for a long moment, a flicker of unease passing through his chest. The man’s face was familiar, but he couldn’t place where he had seen it before.

Noticing his arrival, Aethon’s pout curved into a grin. He closed the steps between them with lazy confidence, slid an arm around Ctesippus’s waist, and pulled the suitor flush against him. His lips claimed his in a deep, adoring pressure. 

Ctesippus—never the unflappable—melted on the spot, his thoughts scattered to the edges of his mind. Soon he found himself backed against the wall, enduring the man’s smaller pecks as if this were the most natural thing in the world. This Aethon… Ctesippus thought, he acts as though all of this is perfectly acceptable.

With great effort, he tore himself away. “Food first. I’m starving. And before you get clever—yes, actual food.” He wagged a threatening finger. Aethon raised his hands in surrender.

Despite the infuriating attitude that so often made Ctesippus want to punch him, he couldn’t deny that Aethon had a commanding aura—charismatic, magnetic, and terrifying in its own way.

Ctesippus was halfway through his meal when Aethon, lounging at his side with his chin propped on one hand, decided to dig into his private matters.

“You’re a grown man,” he drawled, “and yet you’re this clueless about sex?”

Ctesippus choked on his food. “Forgive me for not being as experienced as you’d prefer,” he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Aethon blinked, then chuckled, quick to recover. “Oh, I don’t mind inexperience. It makes teaching all the more fun.” His grin widened at the unimpressed glare he received. “It’s just that… don’t tell me you’ve gone your whole life without wanting someone.”

Rolling his eyes, Ctesippus said, “I’ve liked plenty before. That’s why it never mattered. My interest burns quickly, then it’s gone.”

“And here I thought I’d managed to stand out.” Aethon pressed a hand to his chest in mock heartbreak, leaning dramatically against him, only to earn himself a sharp kick.

He winced, rubbing the sore spot with exaggerated care. “You said I wasn’t the first one you fucked… so who was?”

“What’s the point in asking? It’s not like you’d know him.”

“Was he someone you actually wanted?”

Ctesippus hesitated, and he paused for a long moment before finally giving a small nod. For once, he didn’t dodge the truth. He remembered too clearly how smitten he had been when Telemachus first brought Lysandrious as a guest to the palace.

From the very start, Lysandrious slipped effortlessly into their circle, laughing, jesting, and moving among the suitors as though he had always belonged. Ctesippus found himself swept into the merriment as well, joining the dancing and games.

In that chain of clasped hands and swaying bodies, he had maneuvered himself closer until his arm was intertwined with Lysandrious’s. The simple contact warmed his heart. 

But then Lysandrious slipped away, and when Ctesippus’s eyes trailed after him, he caught the sight of him with Telemachus, tucking a stray strand of hair behind the prince’s ear before cupping his cheek.

He didn’t deny the flicker of jealousy that followed, nor the disappointment that Lysandrious’s gaze was already fixed elsewhere. But the “elsewhere” was Telemachus, and for Antinous’s sake, he had to act.

Later, when the truth surfaced, that Lysandrious had drugged the prince and taken advantage of him in his powerless state, any lingering affection curdled into disgust.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Aethon said shamelessly. “Realizing the one you’re after can’t even fuck properly. And no, don’t ask how I know, some things are just obvious.”

Ctesippus calmly chewed his food. “I was interested in another by then. So it wasn’t much of a disappointment.”

That gave Aethon pause. The man beside him didn’t seem the type to whore himself out. So why sleep with someone he no longer wanted? Choosing to change direction, he asked instead, “Why aren’t you with either of them now?”

“Well, one of them was an asshole. The other was married.”

The way Aethon’s expression stiffened made Ctesippus narrow his eyes. “Hold on—damn it, you’re married, aren’t you? No—worse! You’re both. Married AND an asshole.”

Aethon only gave a sheepish smile and shut his mouth. When the suitor’s glares finally faded, he managed, “So, how come you’re not married yourself?”

“I dodged my parents’ little schemes,” Ctesippus said with a laugh. “Once they tried to force me on a noblewoman. I bribed a servant to take my place. The room was dark, she wasn’t supposed to notice. But the idiot moaned his lover’s name.” He grinned at the memory. “Guess who they all blamed? Me!”

Aethon raised a brow. Of course they blamed you, he thought, but wisely kept it to himself unless he wanted another kick.

And so the night passed with shared stories, half-teasing, half-confessional, until their laughter gave way to exhaustion. When at last they sank into the bed, their bodies found each other in the quiet, closing the space between them.

The next day, Ctesippus dragged himself back to the temple once more.

Antinous and Diomedes had reached the coast at Killini, where the sea of Ithaca rolled endlessly ahead. The air was thick with salt, and the harbor was alive with shouts and ropes creaking. Not a single boat was free to rent or buy; coin made no difference when every vessel was spoken for. One merchant, pity in his eyes, promised them his tomorrow if they still hadn’t found another.

Another day wasted, Diomedes found his companion smashing his forehead against a plastered wall. He let him go at it for a while, but when the sound grew sickening, he caught him by the shoulders.

Antinous groaned, “Had I known it would come to this, we should have turned back to Pylos, where your ship still lay.”

“Are you certain you want old Nestor and his sons drawn into this?”

Antinous stilled. For an instant, Peisistratus’ face burned in his mind, and his expression curdled. No... Diomedes was right. Pylos was closed to them.

The warrior slipped into the city, searching the markets for anything of use, though he knew their stay would be short.

Antinous drifted like a restless ghost through the streets, his hands clawing through his hair, his mutterings scattering children and grown-ups alike. Almost a week gone, and they had nothing—no word of Telemachus, no proof the boy was even in the temple they were staggering back to Ithaca for. His chest tightened, every thought worse than the last.

By the time his feet slowed, he stood on a low rise overlooking the sea. A modest shrine waited there, its offerings piled high with stones and Crocus flowers. Antinous had never knelt before one—never trusted the crooked games of the Olympians. But now, knowing that sooner or later he would have to stand before one with his own eyes, he doubted his strength to face it alone. 

The tree's spirit had said they would find aid here. Did she mean this? A god’s hand reaching through a humble shrine?

He took a step forward, courage mounting—then stopped dead. The place swarmed with travelers, their heads bowed, praying for whoever was supposed to be inside. His gut clenched, shame and stubbornness tangling in his throat. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel, retreating before anyone could see him falter.

A quicksilver laughter shimmered out of the blue, a sound both near and impossibly far. Antinous whirled, searching for its source, but no one was in sight, only a bright voice that teased lightly, “Not even a brief visit for me, little mortal?”

He took a few steps back, only for the sound to rise just behind his ear. “Now, now… I can see you’re desperate. Just ask properly, and perhaps I’ll even be generous.”

Antinous jolted again and stepped further away, only to find himself eye to eye with a handsome youth draped in white garments. His hair was a mass of medium-length brown curls, and a sly half-smirk curved his lips as he fixed Antinous with a knowing, almost predatory gaze.

Antinous didn’t need to be a genius to know this was no mortal. Hermes was a familiar figure in Greece, and rare were those who had never come across his likeness in statues or painted scenes.

The god’s words finally sank in, and despite his hesitation and pride, Antinous dropped to his knees, bowing to the only being who might tell him where Telemachus really was.

Bowing his head, he murmured, “Grant me your help, and you’ll never find me ungrateful.”

Hermes, apparently satisfied with this show of reverence, hummed thoughtfully.

Antinous opened his mouth again, intending to elaborate, but Hermes cut him off with a chuckle. “Oh, I know what you’re after… and I know the little games my older brother is playing.”

Antinous swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the god as Hermes casually rose into the air, speaking more to himself than to his listener. “Hmph! Off having fun again, and not even a thought to include me. I ought to spoil his fun, just for that!”

So that was it. He wasn’t truly interested in helping, he only wanted to ruin Apollo’s pleasure for his own amusement.

Carefully, Antinous ventured, “Is Telemachus… truly in the Temple of Epicurius, Lord Hermes?”

The god hummed in confirmation without hesitation. A rush of feeling washed through Antinous, his heart thundering in his chest. He couldn’t decide if it was relief at finally knowing where Telemachus was, or dread that he was still caught in Apollo’s grasp. He exhaled a heavy sigh. At least now he knew he wasn’t chasing shadows.

Hermes drifted closer, his voice softening, almost sympathetic. “If your heart longs for it, I can grant you two a chance to speak.”

As if offered immortality itself, Antinous leapt to his feet, seizing Hermes by the shoulders, searching his face for confirmation. Was this real? Was he truly being offered the chance he thought he’d never have? He couldn’t shape the words to accept or deny, but the raw urgency in his eyes betrayed his desire.

The god chuckled, leaning close until only inches separated their faces. “But of course… you shall give me something in return.”

Antinous arched a skeptical brow. “Provided you’re not like the rest of your kin in what you ask.”

Hermes gave him a slow once-over, curiosity flickering in his gaze, then shook his head with a wry smirk. “Hardly my taste, if you must know.”

Relief loosened Antinous’s chest, but before he could ask what the god did want, Hermes vanished without a trace. Startled, the suitor glanced around, calling out for him, but no answer came.

Frustration welled in him, until a sharp blow struck the back of his head, sending him stumbling to the ground. Cursing under his breath, he reached to snatch up the culprit: a small, unremarkable stone. Nothing in its shape or color marked it as special.

He almost tossed it aside, until a faint, pained grunt vibrated through it. Antinous froze, heart hammering, and pressed the stone to his ear.

“...Ow...”

His breath caught. His eyes burned. Clutching the little stone to his chest, he cried out with a breaking voice, “Telemachus!”

He heard a sharp gasp. “Antinous!?”

Despite himself, tears pricked his eyes, and he fought to hold them back. The past days had left him frayed, his emotions in turmoil; now, with that familiar voice in his hands, he could no longer contain himself. His heart had turned far too fragile, far too suddenly.

“I’m here… I’m here.” The words came out choked, tangled with the gulp in his throat. He tried to steady his breathing, until Telemachus’s voice broke through again.

“You… you’ve turned to rock!?”

“...”

“What nonsense are you spouting now!?” he snapped, too harsh, too quick. Silence fell, and guilt immediately washed over him.

“…Telemachus,” he called, gentler this time.

A low hum answered from the stone, hesitant but present. The sting on Antinous’s own skull made him realize, Telemachus must have been struck the same way.

“Are you hurt?” Telemachus asked first, as if reading his mind.

Antinous didn’t answer at once. His chest tightened; what he wanted, more than anything, was to be there—to hold him close, shield him, promise him… “I’ll get you out of this, no matter what stands in the way.”

Only when the words left his mouth did he realize he had spoken them aloud. He froze at the silence that followed, heat crawling up his neck.

Then, softly, a cheerful yet trembling voice, “I know.” And quieter still, “It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

Antinous pressed the stone to his forehead, at a loss. He didn’t know what else to say, or rather, how to say what was truly in his heart. And perhaps… this wasn’t the moment.

His heart cracked a little. Telemachus must be feeling so lonely and scared. And… he himself was afraid to ask and be met with a frightening answer, yet he still said, “Tell me you’re not harmed.”

“I’m not harmed.”

Antinous didn’t sense any hint of insincerity in his voice, and he finally began to feel more at ease.

Telemachus continued, “Apollo said he’s keeping me as bait, to draw my father out. Neither he nor Poseidon can sense where he is. They’re just waiting, assuming he’ll come once he hears of this.”

Antinous frowned. “Who knows how long it’ll take him to hear, if even the gods couldn’t track him down.”

Telemachus chuckled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Antinous could tell it was only a nervous laugh. He cautiously asked, “Apollo… he’s truly allied with Poseidon?”

Telemachus sounded distressed at the subject. “Not anymore. Some… things happened.”

Antinous pressed further. “What kind of things?”

There was a long pause before Telemachus answered, his voice choked with sobs he tried to hide. “I’d rather tell you when we’re face to face.”

Antinous’s stomach turned. This was absolutely no good news, but he forced himself to pretend not to notice. “All that matters is you’re safe. The rest, you can tell me later.”

Telemachus didn’t reply. Antinous assumed he was still trying to collect himself, so he filled the silence. “Well, let me tell you what’s happened, and what we’re planning next.”

And he did. He spoke without pause, sharing even the smallest, silliest details, just to keep talking, and to keep Telemachus entertained.

For Ctesippus, it was just another unsuccessful day at the temple. The god seemed determined not to grant him even the smallest crumb of attention. He returned more frustrated and disheartened than the day before, and with Aethon still absent from the inn, he had no distractions to dull his gloom.

Out of sheer boredom, he sprawled upside down across the bed, head and arms dangling toward the floor. The ache in his wrist pulsed steadily, a dull reminder of his own helplessness.

He tried—truly tried—to stop his thoughts from circling back to him. But the silence pressed down like a weight, dragging Lysandrious’s memory into the forefront of his mind. He hated it, the way the man had vanished so abruptly, leaving everything between them in ruins.

By now, he had come to terms with the fact that Lysandrious was no ordinary man. A magician, perhaps, or something close to it. He had also concluded that he was likely an idiot, given how thoroughly he managed to ruin everything. Oh, and the sex—abysmal. If they ever crossed paths again, he should teach him a thing or two. Maybe show him what he’d picked up from Aethon.

The idea jolted him so hard his eyes flew wide open. He sat upright on the bed, staring blankly for a long moment before slapping himself across the face.

“Ah, so that’s what happens when I’m not around, you start losing your wits.”

Ctesippus sent a pillow flying his way. Aethon didn’t even try to dodge, letting it hit him square in the face as he strolled inside and joined him on the bed.

As usual, unable to keep his hands to himself, he found Ctesippus’ soft thighs the perfect source of comfort, squeezing them shamelessly under the other’s disbelieving gaze. “Care to explain why you were slapping yourself, or should I guess?”

Ctesippus swatted at his shameless hands instead. “It’s none of your business.”

Unaffected by the cold reply—or the little slaps—Aethon squeezed his thighs again and tugged him onto his lap. Furious, Ctesippus didn’t hesitate to yank his hair back, forcing his head to tip behind. “Do you take me for your concubine, to bed me whenever you wish?!”

“Please. If you were my concubine, you’d be too exhausted to argue.”

Aethon realized the foolishness of his words too late, the moment Ctesippus tightened his grip hard enough to make him fear for his scalp.

His next strategy was to wrap his arms around Ctesippus’ waist, pulling him down against his crotch. The way Ctesippus’ grip slackened told him it worked.

Ctesippus was too flustered to think clearly. Aethon’s obvious erection pressed insistently through the fabric, and when a shallow thrust followed, his lips parted as if to say something only to close again.

Aethon whispered cautiously, “Yes?”

It was obvious what he was asking. Ctesippus seemed to weigh it for a while before sighing, then said firmly, “Leave my clothes on. One time will do—after that, I’m going to sleep.”

In hindsight, Ctesippus realized it hadn’t been very wise to keep his clothes on. Aethon had no hesitation in tearing them apart the moment he felt the urge to bite and suck at his neck and chest, lost in pleasure.

It was also foolish to assume Aethon could stop after just one time. Ctesippus learned that lesson the hard way.

The following day, he was forced to remain in the inn until Aethon returned with a new tunic for him, only then could he drag himself back to the temple.

He hadn’t really expected anything to happen today either, so he didn’t mind looking roughed up, purple marks blooming all over his body. Nor did he feel ashamed when he caught people’s stares, he told himself that none of them knew him, so it didn’t matter.

As if fate delighted in mocking him, it had to be today that the god of the temple chose to appear, granting him the dubious pleasure of his company.

Ctesippus remained kneeling, his forehead pressed to the floor, sweat soaking through his newly bought tunic in no time. He couldn’t tell whether his distress came from it being his first time standing before a god—or from how unpresentable he looked before such a figure.

He didn’t dare lift his gaze, confirming the god’s presence only through the overwhelming aura weighing on him, and the weakness in his legs that had nothing to do with the man he had spent the night with. So he stayed unmoved for a long while, even though he knew all too well the god was growing bored with his silence.

At last, a voice, smooth and charming, broke the heavy air. “Enough of that. I won’t speak to you through the top of your head. Raise it.”

Ctesippus obeyed, lifting his face, and froze at the sight.

The divine figure was not seated on a throne, nor standing in authority, but rather sitting idly upon the temple floor itself. His head rested lazily against his hand, cheek tilted, eyes scanning Ctesippus’ face with unhurried ease before the corners of his lips curved upward in a knowing smile.

Chapter Text

He rose leisurely and walked with lazy, unhurried steps toward the altar. "I was curious to see who dared disturb me with his ceaseless prayers. Bold, I’ll grant you, though perhaps foolish."

Ctesippus let his head hang low, bowing once more. When the god crouched down beside him, his body trembled, fear tearing at his heart. Foolish indeed, he knew well there was a great chance his life might end in this very moment.

"Have the tales of me grown so dark that you quake at my presence?"

He nodded before he could truly weigh his response. Realizing too late that it was the wrong answer, he raised his head in alarm and shook it fiercely, as though to deny what he had just confirmed.

The god chuckled at his pitiful state, then stood again. Afraid he was about to leave, Ctesippus clung desperately to his leg, eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for a blow.

The god sighed at the mortal trembling like a leaf, yet too stubborn to let go. "Surely you realize your efforts and prayers lead nowhere."

The suitor shook his head, unconvinced, and held tighter. “It’s not as though I beg you to hand him over without thought… only that you tell me what you desire in return. Surely there must be something... something more tempting. Please, grant me this, lord Apollo.”

He was yanked off the floor with a startled yelp, dragged to stand face to face with the Olympian. Ctesippus dropped his gaze, not daring to meet his eyes. Apollo seized his bandaged wrist, ignoring the little whimper that slipped from the suitor’s throat. “You speak of giving me what I want, but how can you, when you can scarcely care for yourself?”

Ashamed, Ctesippus said nothing, though his free hand still clutched at the god’s garment, as if he could somehow hold him there.

A sudden yank at his hair drew a faint cry. His hand flew up, clutching Apollo’s wrist, his neck straining painfully as his scalp burned. The god’s voice rang sharp in his ear, cruel and dangerous, nothing like the smooth gentleness from moments before. “Perhaps there is still an offering you can make to me.” His hand slid lower, groping the suitor’s bruised thighs, pulling a sharp gasp from his lips.

Ctesippus lifted his eyes, meeting the god’s menacing gaze. His shivering grew harder to control. But it wasn’t as though he had never endured such a thing before. What was it, after all, to endure again for Telemachus’s sake?

He lowered his gaze once more, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. He parted his lips, tried to speak, but shut them again and bowed his head slightly “After… after I do this… you’ll free him?”

Apollo studied him in silence before letting out a long sigh. Exasperated, he tore away the bandages. Ctesippus didn’t move, didn’t look, but soon the pain in his wrist began to fade, until it vanished entirely. Shocked, he flexed his fingers. No trace of the injury remained. It took him a moment to remember whose presence he stood in—the god of medicine and healing.

 Apollo wrapped his arms around him, pressing his chest to the mortal’s back. “Alas, bedding you is out of the question. Some ties are best left untested, and I’ve no desire to make an enemy of a certain… companion.”

Yet in contrast to his words, his hands never stopped roaming the suitor’s skin, mapping and feeling his body as though memorizing it. Ctesippus was so flustered he could barely register what was being said. “So, I’m giving you a chance,” Apollo murmured. “Fetch me what was once stolen, and your friend walks free.”

Ctesippus’ head jerked up at that, though his focus quickly shattered again when the wandering hand squeezed a sensitive spot. Torn between slipping away or enduring the god’s touch—fearing that rejection might cause Apollo to withdraw his offer—Ctesippus forced himself to steady his breathing. “What… what was stolen from you?”

Apollo frowned slightly, resting his chin atop the mortal’s head. “A gem.”

Unsatisfied, Ctesippus pressed on. “Would you describe it, so I’ll know what to look for?”

Seeing that he was giving the poor mortal an impossible task, Apollo deigned to elaborate. “A dark, gleaming stone. I lost it more than ten years past to an overproud warrior not half as clever as he believed himself to be.”

Ctesippus’ face fell. Ten years ago… how was he supposed to find such a thing?

Apollo finally withdrew his hands, a satisfied expression upon his lips. Only then did Ctesippus realize the constant pain that had plagued him for so long was gone. He felt like he was inhabiting a body freshly made, free of its old wounds. Ashamed for doubting the god's intentions, he turned and bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

Apollo’s lips curled into a smile. “Your body is simple to heal. What I cannot mend…” His hand gestured lazily at the marks and love bites scattered across Ctesippus’ skin. “…is the temper of the one who’ll see these.”

Ctesippus blinked, flustered. “Huh?”

“Ah… almost forgot. Best not mention that I laid hands on you in this way.” Apollo winked, and in the next instant, he was gone.

“Wait! Tell me more about the gem!” Ctesippus cried, but it was already too late.

After spending the rest of the day exploring the city and its bustling market, he returned to the room that had been sheltering him for several days already. He unrolled the scroll he had bought back in Vordonia, scanning the map in hopes of deciding where to begin his search. But there were no hints, no clear instructions—every corner of Greece seemed suspicious. And of course, he wasn’t granted the chance to think in peace before a hard spank jolted him from his thoughts.

After the initial shock, he resumed his inspection, determined not to acknowledge the newcomer who seemed to have no better pastime than toying with his nerves—or dragging him to bed. But Aethon, persistent as ever, delivered another spank, then another. With those harsh, strong hands, it became impossible for Ctesippus to ignore him any longer, especially given how much he despised pain of any sort.

He shot him a glare and dodged another slap. At last, Aethon ceased when he had his full attention. A quick glance at the table made him pause slightly. Ctesippus, noticing, couldn’t resist a smug remark. “Impressive, isn’t it? It shows all of Greece, in full detail.”

Aethon hummed but made no further comment. Ctesippus frowned “Didn’t find what you were looking for?”

Aethon shook his head, sticking out his bottom lip in exaggerated pout. Ctesippus rolled his eyes, he knew this act all too well, a ploy to look pitiful and worm his way closer. “What are you looking for anyway?”

Aethon only shrugged. “None of your business.”

“Don’t use my own lines against me!” Ctesippus snapped, pointing a finger.

Aethon laughed and moved closer, his intentions transparent. Ctesippus pushed against him with both palms, but Aethon simply seized his wrists and pulled him in. His hand cupped his cheek and he kissed the corner of his mouth. Ctesippus knew it would come to this—and, as usual, he was quickly swayed. Soon he found himself perched on the table with Aethon between his legs, the map sliding to the floor.

But before Aethon could strip him of his undergarments, a white blur struck him, making him stumble back with a curse. He slapped the attacker away, sending it crashing to the ground. Ctesippus panicked at once, leaping down to check on the small figure.

Aethon furrowed his brows. As he stepped closer, he finally caught sight of the culprit “A dove?”

Ctesippus gathered the bird into his arms, stroking its feathers with trembling hands, full of worry that it might be seriously hurt.

Aethon sighed. “Let me guess. You spotted it on your way back and thought, ‘why not bring it along?’”

Ctesippus gave no reply, but it was plain enough that this was the case. In truth, it had been the bird that clung to him, refusing to part ways, leaving Ctesippus no choice but to bring it along.

Aethon knew he’d hit a sore spot. Ctesippus had once cried while telling him about the horse that was killed before he could fulfill his promise to it. So of course the man would form another attachment to this bird. What Aethon hadn’t expected was that Ctesippus would sulk so seriously over the dove that he resisted him outright—truly rejecting him. Not feigned resistance, not embarrassed attempts to salvage his self-restraint. This time, he meant it.

Still, Aethon couldn’t resist trying to coax him “You know doves belong to Aphrodite, right? Don’t you think that’s a sign we should, ah… join forces in bed?”

Ctesippus ignored him completely, carrying the dove away and giving it his undivided care.

Assuming it was only a whim, Aethon shamelessly crawled into bed that night and wrapped his arms around the suitor, who—no longer as upset as earlier—let him be. His embrace was tight, almost as if he feared the one in his arms might escape, and though Ctesippus found the behavior strange, he kept his thoughts to himself.

A trail of kisses spread across the back of his neck, goosebumps rising over his skin as Aethon warmed him with his mouth. After a while, Ctesippus couldn’t contain his curiosity “Is everything alright?”

Aethon didn’t try to seduce him further, didn’t attempt to turn him on, he seemed satisfied simply to keep Ctesippus close, showering him with tender kisses. The suitor found it strange, even unsettling. Instead of answering, Aethon gave a playful bite to his earlobe, and Ctesippus knew better than to press again.

The silence was broken by the sudden flutter of wings, rushing toward him as if to defend its friend from imagined harm. Aethon cursed under his breath and buried his face beneath the blanket, knowing that if he so much as raised a hand against the dove, Ctesippus would throw him out of bed, perhaps even out of the room.

Ctesippus reached out to soothe the creature, stroking its feathers gently “Be nice,” he whispered, hugging the dove just firmly enough to keep it from harassing Aethon again.

With a relieved sigh, Aethon tightened his hold around Ctesippus and rested against him once more.

Despite the warm night, Ctesippus woke to a cold, empty side of the bed. No arms held him tight, no teasing words whispered against his ear, no lazy caresses to lure him into waking—so unlike every other morning. At first, he thought Aethon had simply risen earlier and stepped out of the inn, even though Ctesippus had told him they would be leaving together this morning. But as the haze of sleep lifted, he realized there were other things missing besides Aethon.

The first sign came when he tried once again to settle on a destination to begin his search—only to discover that the map was nowhere to be found. Not only that, but when he went to ask the innkeeper if he had seen Aethon, the man casually remarked that his companion had left early with the horse they had arrived on. Ctesippus was left speechless.

It so happened that the two men finally reached the shores of Ithaca. With heavy bags beneath his eyes, Diomedes waved the suitor off, unwilling to follow him to the palace. Instead, he went in search of a place to rest, exhausted after enduring the entire journey listening to the two “lovebirds” whispering to each other through a rock, their voices going back and forth all night without pause.

Antinous, in contrast, dragged his feet with the same restless energy as ever, waving as he made his way toward the palace. But all eyes turned on him, and whispers followed his every step, making it difficult to move freely. Time and again he was forced to stop, exchange words with his old companions, and weave lies about the reason for his disappearance.

It seemed that none of them had doubted Telemachus’ absence for long; Penelope had told her maidens that her son was staying in a nearby kingdom. Naturally, the rumor spread quickly, carried by the servants eager to curry favor with the suitors.

Antinous was quietly impressed. Penelope had not only kept her composure but had also invented such a clever tale to keep anyone from taking advantage of her son’s disappearance.

With a bold move, he sought the queen’s quarters, doing his best not to be spotted by the guards—lest he lose his head before he even reached her. Despite his careful steps, there was no avoiding the two who stood sentinel at her bedroom door. He turned on his heel to leave, only to freeze face to face with an older servant, her eyes wide with shock. He clamped a hand over her mouth, pressing his dagger to her throat, ready to strike at the faintest cry.

The woman understood at once and went still, knowing very well that she would be dead before she could make a sound loud enough to reach the guards.

Antinous cursed inwardly. Of all people, it had to be her. He knew that face well, the queen’s most trusted servant, the one who had raised Telemachus like her own. She was the last person who would ever willingly help him, a suspicious suitor. 

An idea sparked. He dragged her a few steps away, far enough that the guards would hear nothing. Lowering his voice, he hissed, “Telemachus—listen. I know I said no words from you, but now you must. Tell your nurse—ah, what’s her name... tell her it is you, and that she must do as I say!”

“Eurycleia?” came Telemachus’s surprised voice, making the old servant’s eyes widen in shock.

Carefully, Antinous lowered his hand from her mouth, leaving only the dagger in place—just in case.

Her eyes brimmed with tears, but instead of the cry for help Antinous feared, what left her lips was a faint whisper, calling out to the boy she had raised since infancy.

Antinous wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back, letting Telemachus speak for himself and explain.

Guided to Telemachus’s chamber—after he pretended ignorance of its location, earning a snort from the boy—it wasn’t long before the door opened and the queen swept inside. Eurycleia lingered behind, choosing not to follow, standing guard in the hall since no royal guards accompanied her.

Under that sharp maternal gaze, Antinous could only raise his hands in surrender, gesturing toward the stone with a tilt of his head. Then, with a shallow bow, he excused himself and stepped out, leaving mother and son to their secret reunion.

He then began his true mission—searching the palace for that specific person who could serve as their key to the temple at Bassae. Yet no matter how hard he tried, there wasn’t a single trace of them. As time passed, his temper only grew shorter, frustration mounting as every effort proved futile. Worse still, he had no idea what to tell the prince waiting to be rescued.

With the halls empty and everyone asleep, there were no more faces left for him to search. Restless and defeated, he finally returned to his chamber. The rock lay on his bed, placed there under his instructions to Eurycleia. Closing the door with a deliberate thud, he hoped the sound would carry through and prompt Telemachus to speak first, since he himself had no idea how to begin.

“Antinous?”

“Mhm, it’s me.”

A long silence followed, as if Telemachus could sense immediately that something was wrong. Antinous lay down on the bed, placing the stone on his pillow as though the boy were lying beside him. A soft sigh carried through before Telemachus’s tone softened, “I wish I were there. I’d do my best to chase your bad mood away.”

Antinous rolled onto his side, facing the stone. “If you were here, I wouldn’t be in a bad mood in the first place.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Besides, what would you even do?”

For a heartbeat Telemachus sounded delighted, before bristling with mock offense. “Are you saying you wouldn’t relax if I put my hands on you?”

Antinous arched a brow and sneered, “I’m fairly sure my reaction would be the exact opposite of relaxed.”

“Bullshit. One kiss from me and poof—mood gone.”

Since Telemachus was clearly pretending not to catch his hint, Antinous’s urge to tease him flared. He was not a man who liked confusion, and he preferred to make himself perfectly clear. “Yeah, then I’d have you stuffed full of me all night long.”

“Antinous!” Telemachus’s scandalized cry made Antinous laugh so hard his chest ached. Forget kisses, just talking to him was enough to lift his mood. Yet the mere thought of 'stuffing Telemachus' had him worked up already, his breathing shifting in a way that made the boy on the other side flush scarlet.

Antinous couldn’t keep his hands off himself any longer. With Telemachus nowhere near, his attention shifted lower. “Lie back,” he whispered.

Telemachus blinked, startled. “What?”

“I want you to lie back… and spread your thighs.”

The boy’s heart nearly stopped at the command. “I’m not doing this! Besides, you can’t even see me, so what’s the point?”

But Antinous was already stroking himself, voice steady and domineering. “Even if I’m not there, you’ll do as I say. I don’t need to see you. I already know exactly what you look like with your legs spread.”

“…This is ridiculous,” Telemachus muttered, though the heat in his body betrayed him. Antinous’s filthy words and the faint, unmistakable sounds of his movements dragged him under. Resistance melted; his body obeyed before his pride could stop it.

He didn’t wait for more instructions, one hand wrapped around himself while the other slipped lower, fingers teasing his entrance, pretending it was Antinous touching him. Soft whimpers spilled from his lips, turning Antinous’s arousal solid as stone.

Though he already knew the truth, Antinous asked anyway, “Thinking of me?”

Telemachus wanted to glare, but pleasure was faster. His reply broke out in a trembling moan of Antinous’s name. 

When the door crashed open without warning, Antinous reacted on instinct. In a heartbeat, he shoved the rock under the pillow to muffle Telemachus’s voice and sprang to his feet, letting his tunic fall over his bare body. But he’d forgotten one very important detail.

The intruder’s gaze dropped instantly, locking onto the blatant bulge straining against the fabric. A silent beat passed, then the newcomer simply turned and walked out without a word.

“Fuck you!” Antinous barked after him, loud enough to make sure he heard it. Then, gritting his teeth, he returned to deal with his—not-so-little—problem, finishing quickly before his unwelcome guest returned.

As expected, when he opened the door again, Eurymachus was waiting with a blank expression. Antinous cleared his throat to break the silence, but the man spun around and lunged at him without hesitation.

The first punch was wild, easy to dodge. Antinous caught his fist and didn’t let go. The second strike came harder, but Antinous blocked it too, twisting his grip until Eurymachus had no leverage left. The man tried to kick, but Antinous slammed him down, sending him face-first to the floor before he could do any real damage.

“You slipped away together, didn’t you? The three of you! Not once did you think of me!” Eurymachus spat, breath ragged, fury trembling in his voice.

Antinous just stared at him. For a moment he didn’t know what to do, but the answer came easily enough. He beat him down until every ounce of Eurymachus’s anger was burned out, leaving the man bruised, exhausted, and too weak to stand. Only then did Antinous exhale and remember an important thing. “Right. You have to help me find someone.”

Eurymachus groaned, rubbing his cheek with a wince. “Do I know them?”

Antinous nodded firmly. “You know her.”

After cursing Aethon for several hours along the road, Ctesippus finally stopped to catch his breath. He had nothing of value to trade for a horse, nor did he even know where he was going, just asking strangers here and there for directions. He could understand why Aethon might have needed a map to reach his destination, perhaps that’s what he was after all along, but did he have to steal his horse as well?

Ctesippus sat cross-legged on the empty road, panting in the heat. At least he wasn’t completely alone. The dove kept him company the whole time, sometimes circling in the air, sometimes perched on his shoulder. Occasionally it tugged at his tunic, trying to steer him in another direction, and Ctesippus humored it, half-believing the bird was leading him away from danger.

He shut his eyes to rest, but the sound of approaching footsteps made his dove erupt into furious flapping, wings beating like war drums. Stroking it gently, Ctesippus calmed the bird, scolding it softly until it stilled, though its feathers still bristled with anger. Then the footsteps stopped right beside him, and a shadow fell across his face. Opening one eye, he forced a smile and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Not one stranger, but two.

“Well, what a coincidence! We never thought we’d bump into you here,” Peisistratus greeted him with his usual warm courtesy. But Ctesippus hadn’t forgotten how this man almost ruined his favorite couple’s relationship, and he still nursed that grudge.

His gaze slid to the other figure. Aretus was giving him a long, obvious once-over, not even pretending to be subtle. He smiled faintly and murmured, “Must be fate.”

Ctesippus offered a curt greeting and closed his eyes again, but the shadows didn’t retreat. They were still standing over him, still watching. He sighed inwardly, resigned to his fate.

The silver lining was that he wouldn’t have to keep walking on sore feet, that was an advantage, and probably the only one. On the other hand, Peisistratus had an endless list of questions about Telemachus, forcing Ctesippus to spin a lie that the prince had already returned to his own kingdom and that they’d simply parted ways.

Since he’d had no destination in mind anyway, he didn’t object to traveling with them, and after they settled in a noble’s house, he decided he might as well use the opportunity to search the area for clues.

When night fell and he was preparing to slip out, there came a knock at his door, followed immediately by the door opening. Ctesippus arched an eyebrow when Aretus stepped in without waiting for an invitation. Walking toward him with unhurried steps, he smiled warmly. “How about a walk? I’d like your company.”

The dove launched itself at him instantly, pecking at his head. From Aretus’s grimace, it was clearly painful, yet he endured it without raising a hand against the bird. Guilt pricked Ctesippus, and he hurried outside with him, shutting the door quickly to trap the little creature inside.

Aretus wasted no time slinging an arm around his shoulders, dragging him along as though they were old friends. Then again, even the first time they met, he’d never been the type to respect personal space.

Conversation with him flowed far more easily than with his brother. With Peisistratus, Ctesippus was always biting back the urge to strangle him whenever he opened his mouth. With Aretus, words simply passed back and forth, and before he realized it, the hours had slipped by.

When Ctesippus finally came to his senses, he noticed how far they’d wandered from their lodgings. The night had grown deep, the paths unlit and unfamiliar, and unease crept into his chest. What if they couldn’t find their way back?

He tugged at Aretus’ tunic, hinting they should head back. But the man only caught his wrist and kept walking as if nothing were amiss. “What’s the matter? Already tired of me?”

Ctesippus shook his head and gestured toward the path they came from. “I can’t shake this feeling… something’s wrong. I think we’d be safer if we returned.”

Aretus blinked, as though startled. “Alright then, let’s head back.”

They hadn’t taken more than a few steps before dizziness overtook him. His balance wavered, forcing him to lean against Aretus, who welcomed the weight with a gentle stroke of his hair. But the flower the man raised to his face only worsened the nausea, until the world slipped away.

When he opened his eyes again, a warm hand was caressing his cheek. Aretus gazed at him with something close to reverence. Confusion clouded Ctesippus, he was sprawled on the ground, wrists bound above his head, legs tied at the knees. He assumed the man’s intent immediately. “Was all this necessary? A kind word would’ve done better than these twisted games.”

Aretus smiled softly, lowering a kiss to his forehead “This isn’t twisted, Ctesippus. It’s sacred. You were given to me, bound by destiny through me. Tell me, how could I let the prophecy wither?”

A chill crawled down his spine. He didn’t care for whatever madness the man was spouting. He only wanted it over with so he could drag himself back to bed, patch up whatever tearing he’d suffer, and sleep. “Right. Prophecy, destiny, whatever. Just get on with it so I can limp back to bed.”

Aretus moved indeed, but instead of undressing, he unsheathed a blade. Unless he planned to shove that hilt inside him, this clearly wasn’t about sex anymore. Cold steel pressed to his throat. He didn’t dare breathe wrong, much less plead. His eyes locked on the man above him, waiting for an explanation, but Aretus’s silence was heavier than any threat. His heart thundered, and he braced himself. But before Aretus could press the blade to slit his throat, a wild rush of wings shattered the silence.

The dove hurled itself at Aretus’s face, pecking and clawing with a fury unnatural for such a fragile creature. The man flinched, his grip on the weapon faltering, though he hardly cared—Ctesippus was bound, helpless, with no chance of escape. The suitor knew that too. Fear twisted in him that the bird would be struck down, yet gratitude flickered that it was at least trying to save him. 

But then something changed. Each frantic beat of those wings grew heavier and louder, no longer the soft flutter of feathers. Light bled from its small body. Its plumage shed and dissolved into mist. The helpless bird unraveled before his eyes—white wings stretching into arms, talons reshaping into fingers. Ctesippus' breath caught and his vision swam, as though reality itself was bending, until a figure stood where the dove had been.

He barely glimpsed a face before the newcomer wrenched Aretus away. Ctesippus didn’t dare watch, but the sounds—struggling, a choked cry, the wet tang of blood—told him enough.

“I should’ve gotten rid of you the last time.”

The words weren’t for him. The stranger was addressing Nestor’s son. But Ctesippus froze all the same, because that voice wasn't strange.

The figure knelt beside him, hands working at the ropes. And Ctesippus blurted out, half-pleading, half-certain “Lysandrious?”

The other stilled, his movements froze for a while and then the knots loosened as he resumed. He helped Ctesippus sit, massaging his raw wrists, when the suitor called again, firmer this time “Lysandrious.”

“How do you know it’s me?” He wasn’t hiding now. The disguise was gone, the mortal mask of Lysandrious shed and his face unmistakably divine, of Dionysus himself. Yet somehow, this boy had seen through him.

Ctesippus looked up. The figure before him was broader, bloodied, different in form—yet the voice was the same, and those deep violet eyes were undeniable. With no hesitation, he threw himself into the god’s arms.

Dionysus stiffened at first, unprepared for such a welcome. But the smaller body clung to him, trembling, dizzy from either the drug Aretus forced on him or the shock of it all. Slowly, the god embraced him back. He could feel the suitor fading into slumber against his chest. Without another word, Dionysus lifted him easily and carried him away.

Chapter Text

Despite the comfortable, cozy surface, every few hours he would shift in his sleep, his body tensing, his hand searching the sheets, his eyes fluttering though never fully opening, caught between dream and waking. His arm instinctively reached out, seeking the warmth of the body beside him, and only when his fingers brushed against skin did the tension ease, allowing him to sink back into peaceful slumber. 

Dionysus would reach for him, take his hand, and let him know he was still there. Near dawn, he made sure to whisper that he’d be gone only for a short while and that he would definitely return. Ctesippus, heavy with sleep, barely caught the words, so when he opened his eyes moments later and didn’t find Lysandrious beside him, he frowned.

He glanced at the nest of flowers and leaves beneath him. It was plain the one who made it had been in a rush, but he had never felt more at ease than lying there. Looking around, he realized he was in a cave. He jumped to his feet, eager to explore.

There wasn’t much to see; clearly, Lysandrious had only found this place the night before and taken it as a temporary shelter. Crossing his arms, Ctesippus stepped back to take in the whole space. When his back pressed into a warm chest and arms wrapped around him, he leaned into the embrace without hesitation, placing his hands over those arms.

When he looked up, it was still that strange face—the tall, unfamiliar figure he had first seen. But the longer he stared, the more recognition stirred in him, and he sucked in a sharp breath “Who would have guessed… you were the wine-drenched god all along.”

Dionysus arched a brow “You still spit your little insults?”

Ctesippus tilted his head “Well? What will you do about it?”

He yelped when the god pushed him back onto the nest and crawled over him. He knew very well what Dionysus could do, but still clung to the promise Lysandrious had once made in Sparta, that he would never hurt him again. And indeed, the god made no further move, as if all he had wanted was to give the boy a little scare. 

But what Dionysus did not expect was for Ctesippus to lift himself and close the distance between them, sealing their lips together. For a heartbeat, he was too stunned to react, letting the mortal guide the kiss as he pleased. Then, once the shock ebbed, his hands slid to the boy’s waist, drawing him closer before pressing him down, indulging the heat of his own desire as he finally claimed the sweetness he had long been denied.

When Dionysus pulled away and studied the flushed, sweating figure beneath him, he couldn’t resist pressing more kisses to that pale neck, still marked with the love bites another man had left. But he fought the urge to replace them with his own, fearing Ctesippus would get hurt and choose to run.

He forced himself to stop when he felt his arousal slipping out of his control and created some distance, allowing the suitor to sit up and catch his breath. Remembering why he had left the cave that morning, he brought over the fruits he had already washed and offered them to him.

He watched as the boy ate. But Ctesippus was never one to keep his mouth shut for long, even mid-bite “Could you be a dove again? I liked that.”

The god shook his head, and the boy pursed his lips at the rejection.

Stuffing a strawberry into his mouth, Ctesippus muttered, “Just so we’re clear, I’m not taking your cock again.” Now that Dionysus was no longer in a mortal form, his body was larger, meaning certain other parts surely were as well. He already felt like he had nearly died before, and he had no curiosity to have a worse experience.

Dionysus hummed, unsurprised. He patted him like one would a stubborn child and encouraged him to eat more, but Ctesippus had more questions ready “That asshole from yesterday! What was wrong with him? What prophecy?” 

The god’s irritation showed instantly at the mention “There was no prophecy. That madman was fixated on you, twisted the sick dreams he had into some destiny he thought he had to fulfill.”

“So that time in Pylos, when he told me to meet him in the forest… he was planning to—”

“Don’t dwell on it,” he cut him off, barely hiding his terror, for if Ctesippus thought too much about it, he would remember what Dionysus had done back then; dragging him from one danger only to become his next nightmare.

Ctesippus had more questions, things he craved to understand, but the words wouldn’t come. Then it struck him; he was sitting in the presence of an Olympian god, just like Apollo. Should he kneel? Was it too late for such reverence, considering they’d just been devouring each other’s mouths moments ago? 

Before he could find his resolve, Dionysus moved first. He bent to the earth, knees sinking into dust, head bowed in silence. Ctesippus could only stare, bewildered, as the world tilted in unbearable strangeness—for it was the god, not the mortal, who had fallen to his knees.

Dionysus had prepared speeches, apologies, and pleas for forgiveness. Yet now that he faced him, all words scattered. He could only do the one thing he knew, the act countless worshippers had done to prove devotion. He cast aside the thought of how unsightly it was for a god to kneel to a fragile human, or how the other gods would mock him for it. None of it mattered. All he wanted was to show Ctesippus the depth of his regret, and beg for forgiveness.

The man in question squirmed under the weight of it, awkwardly blurting, “What are you doing?”

 ***

When Dionysus left Menelaus’ palace and returned to Olympus, he thought he knew what he needed: guidance. Who better to ask than the goddess of love herself? But the moment he stepped into Aphrodite’s presence, he realized he had miscalculated.

The goddess’ fury struck him. She descended on him with the mercilessness of Hera punishing her faithless husband, and Dionysus quickly concluded that angry women were far more terrifying than he thought. Still, with no one else who understood the labyrinth of mortal love as she did, he endured the blows in silence, ignoring Hermes’ mocking laughter from the side. Ares, showing rare wisdom, needed only a single glance before retreating.

Aphrodite’s rage only deepened when he stammered his excuse, that what he had done to the boy was love. “Love?” she spat, her voice venom “You dare soil that word?” She wanted nothing more than to tear him apart on the spot. His defense only worsened things. “Hades won Persephone’s heart that way,” he muttered.

The goddess’ eyes blazed. She explained—no, lectured—that Hades had not forced himself upon his queen at all, but had waited until Persephone loved him freely. Dionysus, stubborn as ever, argued back that he wanted to be Ctesippus’ first, no matter what. The declaration made her so furious she seized Hephaestus’ axe and hurled it at him, cursing aloud when it missed.

“You deserve to feel unworthy every time he flinches from your touch!” she snarled. The words struck deeper than expected, leaving Dionysus wide-eyed, clinging to her skirts in desperation. This was why he had come—to beg her for help, to learn how to mend what he had broken, to make sure Ctesippus would never cry the way he had. Why, then, was she turning him away?

“Love is not granted by force!” Aphrodite’s voice shook the hall. “It does not bloom from terror. It does not rise from broken consent. You already shattered him, and you dare to demand another chance?” 

Dionysus could not answer. He bowed his head, hopeless. It was Hermes who eased the silence “Aphrodite,” he said, voice deceptively light, “if you won’t help him… do you know who's left to claim the boy for himself?”

Her eyes flicked up warily.

“Diomedes,” Hermes purred “The great Diomedes of Argos.”

The name alone made her blood run hot. She remembered the Trojan War, the warrior who had dared stab both her and her beloved Ares. The thought of him laying claim to the boy made her seethe. And so she looked at Dionysus not as a fool, but as a weapon. A weapon for her revenge.

The days that followed were torment for the wine-god. Aphrodite drilled into him every bitter truth of mortal love, each word stripping the color from his face, each lesson forcing him to confront the weight of his mistakes. It was satisfying for her to watch him writhe under the realization. He stayed in her quarters, learning, rehearsing apologies, feeding her doves, even crafting plans for how he would do better when he next saw the boy. He might have stayed there for weeks had Apollo not come.

“Guess who I met today~,” the sun-god sang as he strolled in. Dionysus ignored him, but Apollo continued, “Your darling mortal. Charming, far more than I expected.” At the glare Dionysus gave him, he added quickly, “Relax. I didn’t touch him. In fact, you should thank me. I kept him safe while I seized that boy of Odysseus.”

Dionysus’ voice was impatient. “What do you want, Apollo? If this is about Odysseus’ son, do what you like. But leave the other boy out of it.”

Apollo leaned against a pillar, feigning boredom “I came for your little love-trouble, nothing more. Tell me, while you waste time here, do you think the boy is waiting untouched? He’s already found someone else to warm his bed. Do you truly believe his heart will not wander while you dawdle?”

The words were a bucket of ice water. Dionysus shot to his feet, ready to leave that instant. Apollo’s parting shot rang in his ears as he stormed away “Oh, and Dionysus? Be gentler with him next time. I don’t know how his body survived your hands at all.” 

That same day, Dionysus took the form of the dove he had grown to adore while under Aphrodite’s tutelage, and flew in search of his mortal. He found him sooner than expected, staying with a dangerous man, oblivious to the threat. Dionysus saw to it that Aethon never touched him, and when worse came in the form of Nestor’s son, he ended it for good this time.

***

As the suitor stared at him with a puzzled expression, Dionysus leaned forward until his brow rested against Ctesippus’ lap. “I don’t know what to say.” He didn’t even know how to begin.

Tentatively, the boy cupped his cheeks, thumbs stroking across his skin. Somewhere along the way, his fear of the god’s touch had ebbed into something gentler, something almost affectionate. He had come to realize that while Lysandrious had been harsh, even cruel at times, it was not born of malice. Rather, it was ignorance and clumsy passion, the blunders of someone who never meant true harm. So when Dionysus faltered, words failing him, Ctesippus thought he understood anyway.

Dionysus regained some of his composure at the warmth of that touch, no longer a pitiful creature groveling at his beloved’s feet. When at last they rose, they left the cave together, wandering into the dappled shade of the woods. Ctesippus still insisted on combing through the area, though Dionysus asked no questions. It was enough to walk at his side, permitted—for now at least—to remain close.

He tried to make himself as useful as possible, so when Ctesippus lingered over a peculiar plant, Dionysus started to explain “Catches the eye, doesn’t it? When vaporized and inhaled, it’s supposed to help with a man’s… performance issues. But if you make the mistake of consuming it—”

His words caught in his throat. The boy was already chewing.

“You gluttonous little thing!” Dionysus blanched, rushing to his side “Didn’t I just feed you? Why in all the realms would you shove that into your mouth?!”

Ctesippus blinked, wide-eyed, as if baffled by the outrage “Didn’t you say it was good for… bedroom troubles?”

Dionysus dragged a hand down his face “The steam, yes! Eating it turns it into an aphrodisiac, you reckless fool.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The boy never failed to land himself in disaster. And what kind of bedroom troubles was he trying to fix, anyway?

Ctesippus muttered, “Well, I don’t feel anything, so maybe I’m immune to it.”

Immune, my ass! Dionysus thought bitterly. He’d already worked the boy over with his hand three times, yet nothing eased the fever burning under his skin. Ctesippus only whimpered and clung weakly, his arousal stubborn and insistent, refusing to fade. It was obvious what he needed, but Dionysus bit back the urge to give it to him. If he did, it would seem nothing but selfishness, as though he were taking advantage of the boy’s desperation instead of easing it.

“Ctesippus, if you let me…” he began, but the suitor’s head was already shaking in frantic refusal. Panic flickered in his eyes.

Exasperation slipped through his restraint, and before he could stop himself, his hand came down sharply against that vulnerable curve “You might’ve considered that before shoving every damn thing you see down your throat!”

The crack of it echoed, followed by silence. The look on Ctesippus’ face—hurt, dispirited—made Dionysus' heart sink. His anger dissolved at once. His hand hovered uncertainly before settling back, this time gentle, smoothing over the reddened skin as though he could undo the sting.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he murmured, guilt thick in his throat. He bent and pressed a kiss to the tip of Ctesippus’ nose, hesitant, testing. “But if you let me—”

Ctesippus turned his face away, shutting him out. Even so, Dionysus went on softly, knowing he was listening “But if you let me… I’ll prove myself different. I will not hurt you again. I will be as gentle as you need me to be. And I will make love to you slowly, tenderly.”

As fragile silence bloomed between them, Dionysus waited, patient and still, letting the suitor come to his own decision. Ctesippus lowered his eyes to the ground “I don’t know if I can…”

Dionysus clasped his hands, firm yet gentle, aching to prove that this was not for his own hunger but for Ctesippus’ sake.

“If it hurts… you’ll stop?” the boy asked timidly, his voice carrying all the nerves tangled in his chest.

“You have my word,” Dionysus answered without hesitation.

Another silence stretched. Ctesippus’ lashes trembled as if he were wrestling with himself, and finally he forced out the words with all the courage he could muster “Alright… I’m letting you.”

Dionysus exhaled slowly, a vow settling in his chest. He shifted back, giving the boy space to undress and settle on the ground. The sight of Ctesippus’ legs trembling as he tried to part them carved deep wounds into his conscience. Every flicker of fear was a blade reminding him of his own past cruelty.

He had no need to ready himself, his arousal had been straining since the moment the boy’s cheeks flushed with the faintest pink. When Dionysus stripped away his garments, Ctesippus’ gaze flickered down. He didn’t speak, but the tremor in his pupils, the slight parting of his lips, and the draining color of his face told everything. A god’s body was not meant to be compared to a mortal’s.

Dionysus leaned down and pressed his mouth to his, offering the one solace he knew the boy truly loved. As their mouths lingered, Dionysus’ hands began to move, tracing over his chest, gliding down his hips, roaming skin he had never taken the time to explore with such patience. This time, there was no claiming, only the desperate hope that every touch would soothe instead of frighten.

With his hands at the boy’s waist and his lips nipping at the pale column of his neck, Dionysus was ready—more than ready—to take him. But then he felt a faint, uncontrollable tremble. Not the kind that came from want or thrill, but from fear. Dionysus paused and pulled back just enough to look at him. Ctesippus’s eyes were shut; his body lay rigid beneath him.

He had said yes. Dionysus tried to press down the unease in his chest, he tried to believe it was real consent, but he could no longer fool himself. Without the circumstances that had driven the boy to agree, Ctesippus would never have chosen this. How could he truly call it consent? He wanted him, yes, but he wanted Ctesippus to feel safe far more than he wanted to fuck him.

He exhaled shakily and looked away, ashamed of the hunger that still burned beneath his ribs. He shifted back; Ctesippus followed his movement with unfocused eyes, confused and unsure. When their gazes met, Dionysus offered a tentative smile. “Perhaps this time,” he said, “I should be the one beneath you.”

The words hung between them. Ctesippus froze, brows knitting as if to say he wasn’t in the mood for jokes. But the sincerity in the god’s face made the boy inhale sharply. “It feels… wrong.”

It was wrong in every obvious way; a mortal and an Olympian, the natural order insisting who should be above and who below. Even with other men, Ctesippus had never imagined being on top; he felt too young, too inexperienced. “I don’t want you to lower yourself for me,” he whispered. He didn’t want Dionysus to humiliate himself on his account or to give himself out of pity or guilt.

“This isn’t me lowering myself,” Dionysus answered quietly. “I’m giving myself.” He leaned closer again, “And no, not because I owe you, not to balance the scales. It’s because I love you, no matter how impossible that may sound after what I’ve done. I want to be near you. I want your skin under my hands, and I don’t care who’s in control if I may simply be with you. I want to learn you, how to please you. I want to feel your touch when it’s given freely.”

Silence settled again, and Dionysus felt his own shame flare; he had not planned on making such a messy confession, not before he had properly apologized and tried to make amends. Still, he needed to prove it in action, not just words. He sighed in frustration and made his choice. “I will lie back,” he said. “If you want me, take me. If not… we’ll find another way together.”

Ctesippus reached out before Dionysus could lower himself, and when he pushed the god down, Dionysus went willingly. The memory of being powerless, the helpless dread of the past, faded from Ctesippus’s mind. All that remained was this god, offering himself.

He kissed him. At first it tasted no different, not until Dionysus opened to him, arms looping loosely around his shoulders, allowing Ctesippus to press him into the earth.

Then Ctesippus entered him, and Dionysus gasped—a sound of raw surprise. The mortal moved carefully, watching the god’s lips part, his fingers curl, his body quiver beneath him. He had only ever seen Lysandrious wild and merciless, but this… this was something new. His own arousal wasn’t even foremost in his mind anymore; what thrilled him was the sensation of power, freely given, and the knowledge that it was born of love.

His trembling hands roamed over thighs, chest, abdomen, gentle but uncertain. He was flustered the entire time, timid and inexperienced, but Dionysus adored it. The boy was nervous, yes, but also curious. Bold, beautiful, and impossibly in control. And it wrecked Dionysus—the sweetness of it, the way Ctesippus whispered, “Is this okay?” with every touch. His own answers were steady, aching with truth “More than okay.”

Every instinct in his divine body screamed to take over—to seize him, to pin him down, to claim and mark him as he had once done. But he knew what that would bring; the boy crying out in surprise, then in fear, then in pain. And Dionysus would never forgive himself for it.

His breath stuttered when Ctesippus leaned close, moaning softly into his mouth, the mortal’s face lit with a pure, unguarded pleasure. 

Dionysus couldn’t look away. Every sound Ctesippus made, every hesitant thrust that grew bolder, every tremble slowly ripening into courage—the sight of him above, flushed and gasping—made Dionysus’s heart thunder with a wild, unfamiliar happiness. It was not conquest that thrilled him now, but surrender. His own arousal burned sharp and sweet, but it felt secondary, a distant ache compared to the swell rising in his chest. This was joy—to see the boy who had once feared him now finding delight in his touch.

When the storm of it passed, Ctesippus lay sprawled over him, chest to chest, their hearts still racing in uneven rhythm. Dionysus stroked his back with the lightest touch, fingertips tracing idle patterns along his spine. The god smiled faintly at the mess of their bodies, at the warmth pressed against him, then curled his arms around the boy and held him close.

Ctesippus panted softly, something complicated unfurling inside him—a feeling of newness, of fragile trust, of a connection he had not expected. He hugged him tighter. “Lysandrious…” he murmured, then realized his mistake, the name no longer his to use. But the other only hummed, waiting, patient, as if to say he would take whatever name the boy gave him.

“I think…” Ctesippus’s voice trembled, softer than breath. “…I think I could love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Several days were wasted in vain because of the sudden storm that swept over Ithaca’s shores, preventing any mortal from leaving. When it finally subsided and their boat crossed the sea, there was no more time left to lose. Antinous was more than glad that the priests in the temple were ensuring the prince was well-fed and safe; he even made a mental note to make their deaths as neat as possible — out of gratitude.

This time, there was no god to intervene and make their journey smooth as before. Nearly a week had passed before they were at last climbing through the rocky mountain paths. Diomedes kept the girl close, determined that their efforts not be wasted. She was fragile, already in poor health, and they had only Eurymachus to blame for that.

After the blow his dignity had taken from Antinous, the suitor had gone searching for new soft flesh to indulge himself with and silence his thoughts. But when he turned his sick interest toward the unfortunate servant, he hadn’t expected Melantho to take it personally — to trap the girl in a stable, leaving her in the dirt, unattended and barely fed.

By the time the four of them stood before the temple, the girl was already shaking like a leaf. Had she not owed the suitor, she would never have returned.

Chloris was a young priestess in the temple of Epicurius. After a childhood marked by poverty and violence, worshipping the god of light in Bassae was her only solace. Little did she know that one day Apollo himself would set his eyes upon her.

But the stories of the god’s ruthlessness — the punishments he bestowed upon those who dared to turn him down — filled her with terror. She fled in fright and eventually found herself in Ithaca, where she became a servant in the palace.

To her misfortune, the palace was already crowded with suitors vying for the queen’s hand. From her first week of work, trouble clung to her in the form of beasts wearing men’s faces. It was no surprise — if even Apollo had found her beauty astonishing, what chance did mortal men have to resist? It wasn’t long before her belly began to swell with a child whose father she could not name. She would have been cast out once she could no longer perform her duties, had fate not shown her a rare mercy, and sent Antinous her way.

Antinous was the most terrifying of all the suitors, the one everyone warned her about. Yet, by some strange twist of fate, he despised those who used their strength to force delicate creatures for pleasure. He believed a man should prove himself only against other men — and that belief had earned him the respect and fear that made him their leader.

Under Antinous’s protection, Chloris no longer suffered. At last she could breathe, and think, and turn her thoughts to how she might rid herself of the child she never wanted. So when Antinous came to her that day, asking for help, she could not bring herself to refuse him.

The rock Hermes had gifted them stopped working a few days later, and so Telemachus had no idea they were coming. Antinous had no way to reach him either. All connection between them was lost, leaving both anxious and aching with restless longing.

At the temple gates, Chloris led the way. The heavy bronze doors opened of their own accord, stirred by her presence. Inside, the temple was vast and ancient, echoing with silence. The scent of burnt offerings still clung to the air.

Diomedes couldn’t shake the unease coiling in his chest — a tight, whispering thought that they were walking straight into a trap. But that feeling began to fade as they ventured deeper and saw the priests and acolytes within, startled figures frozen mid-ritual at the sight of strangers.

Their gazes swept over the intruders one by one until they found Chloris. The young woman shrank instinctively behind the three towering men who accompanied her, her hands twisting in her robes. Recognition struck the priests, and their confusion gave way first to horror, then to fury.

A priestess stepped forward, “You dare show your face here?” she hissed. “After defiling yourself and fleeing the god’s light? You bring your blasphemy to his doorstep?”

Another priest joined her, his voice trembling with righteous wrath. “You’ve brought ruin! But Apollo’s temple shall not be disgraced!”

The others began whispering to one another, their murmurs swelling into a low, rhythmic chant. Antinous took a cautious step forward, his hand already on his sword’s hilt, but Chloris clutched his arm, trembling. “No…”

One by one, the defenseless priests fell to their knees, hands clasped before them, heads bowed low. Chloris went pale. Eurymachus blinked at her, then at the others, searching their faces for an explanation. “They’re praying,” Diomedes muttered, his expression twisting.

“Oh,” Eurymachus said slowly, then the realization hit him, draining the color from his face. “They’re summoning the god.” He clapped a hand on Antinous’s shoulder in panic, urging him back before spinning toward the exit, but the great bronze doors had already slammed shut. “Chloris!” he called, voice cracking with fear. But she didn’t move. As long as Antinous didn’t order her to go, she wouldn’t. Even as her whole body shook, she stayed rooted beside him.

Antinous unsheathed his sword and rushed forward. If he killed them now, they wouldn’t be able to summon Apollo. His blade came down toward one of the kneeling men — eyes closed, lips moving in prayer — but it never reached flesh, and steel met steel. Antinous’s eyes snapped up, fury hardening his face. “Diomedes!”

The two men clashed again, the impact of their swords growing fiercer with every strike. Antinous fought to kill; Diomedes fought to hold him back. Antinous didn't care why his comrade had turned against him, didn’t stop to think or question. All that filled his mind was the need to reach the boy, to find him, before Apollo himself descended upon them.

No matter how hard he tried, Antinous couldn’t break past the warrior. His strikes turned wilder, more desperate, if he had to kill Diomedes first, so be it.

Then the torches scattered along the temple walls erupted, their flames soaring high with blinding light. The brilliance seared through the air, forcing everyone to shield their eyes or risk losing their sight. The chanting broke off all at once. The worshipers dropped to their knees, foreheads pressed to the ground, bowing before the god who had answered their call.

Antinous blinked rapidly, vision swimming in gold and white. He hadn’t yet adjusted when Diomedes suddenly drove his sword hilt toward him. Antinous clenched his jaw, bracing for the blow, but it never came. A sharp clang rang out, followed by a metallic hiss. Antinous glanced down. The hilt of Diomedes’s sword had intercepted a chain, a gleaming that had already coiled around his throat, tightening with deadly intent. He hadn’t even felt it slip into place.

Diomedes gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he held the chain back with all his strength. Any movement from Antinous, even a breath too sudden, might drive the chain deeper and finish him on the spot. Then, from within the heart of the temple, a tall figure emerged. His golden hair caught the dying firelight; his eyes were sharp and merciless.

“They’re unharmed,” Diomedes managed to rasp, his arms trembling from the force of holding the chain. Apollo’s gaze swept over them, cold and assessing. He hummed, satisfied. Only then did Antinous realize the full weight of his mistake. Had he struck down even one of those priests, none of them would have left this temple alive. Diomedes, at least, had seen what he hadn’t and managed to stop him.

Sweat trickled down Antinous’s neck, tracing the curve of his spine before disappearing beneath his drenched tunic. He watched as the god smirked, then lifted his fingers. The chains uncoiled and clattered to the ground. Diomedes dropped to his knees, muscles trembling, breath ragged from resisting divine strength. Antinous reached for him, pulling him upright, but his eyes never left Apollo. Something about the god was… wrong. 

With a lazy flick of his hand, Apollo dismissed the priests. They obeyed instantly, vanishing to the sides like shadows. Then he began to approach, each step measured as if he were teasing them. But his presence was anything but teasing. It pressed down on the air, heavy and suffocating. Antinous felt his body tense with every step that brought the god closer.

“Seeing that you could so easily find your way here,” Apollo said, his voice smooth but edged, “you must have had some help.” His gaze slid past the men and landed on Chloris, who was already kneeling, her forehead pressed to the floor. “You look familiar,” he murmured, then his gaze shifted again.

It was then that Chloris realized that even though Apollo had once lusted for her, he had forgotten her the moment she escaped, as though she’d been nothing more than a passing amusement. She sobbed in silence.

Apollo turned, indifferent to how he bared himself for the mortals. “A bit late for the rescue, don’t you think?”

Diomedes whipped his head around in dread, while Antinous furrowed his brow, still trying to parse the meaning behind the god’s words. His feet moved of their own accord, following the god toward the temple’s inner sanctum. Diomedes did not dare follow; he froze where he stood, sweat beading on his face.

There, on the altar inside the temple, lay a body. Antinous barely had time to register the altar’s uncommon placement before his eyes locked onto the bloody figure upon it. The face was turned away, so identity wasn’t immediately certain, but a single, devastating glance told him who that body belonged to.

“No…” His throat went dry; his limbs lost their strength. He wanted to move closer, but his legs would not obey. Apollo smiled, cruel and small, and gave the altar a kick as if taunting the man who knelt before it.

Antinous reached out with shaking hands and cupped Telemachus’s pale face. He forced himself not to stare at the wound where the throat had been cut open. Tears gathered and spilled, wetting the colorless skin of the prince. Antinous was no child; he could not pretend this was some trick, that Telemachus was only feigning sleep until he was ready to face the truth. He knew the shape of loss, and never had it hit him so heavy. He had never felt such pain. He had never felt so helpless.

His breaths grew shallow and ragged; the air itself seemed to pierce his lungs. Only days before, the boy had been alive and vibrant. Now… his light was gone—Antinous's light was gone.. gone before Antinous could set things right, before he could hold him and confess what he had been too proud or ashamed to say: how much he wanted him, how much he loved him, how unbearable life felt without him.

Unbearable to live… why go on at all? His eyes slid toward the god who still smiled from across the temple. He could not kill a god, but he would die trying. He would make Apollo feel the pain of this loss before he perished. Antinous reached for his sword.

Apollo flicked a finger, and flame-tipped arrows materialized. Antinous launched forward, no longer afraid of death. He would do what he could, and then go join Telemachus in the underworld.

His advance was halted when vines burst from the earth, coiling around his limbs and forcing him to stop in place. Apollo raised an eyebrow, then turned toward the entrance where someone’s head was peeking in. His eyes lit up, and he walked past the suitor until he reached the figure who thought himself well hidden. “You came.”

Ctesippus froze, realizing he’d been discovered, then bowed quickly before the god. But his breath caught when his gaze shifted to the altar and the horrifying scene displayed upon it. His eyes filled with tears as he turned back to Apollo. “You killed him? My lord, didn’t we… didn’t we make a deal?”

He looked utterly helpless—pitiful, even—and Apollo, unable to bear the look of despair and betrayal in his face, sighed softly. With a small shake of his head, he clicked his fingers. The altar shimmered, and the body changed—revealing only a deer in place of what had been. Antinous fell to his knees with a strangled, relieved sob. The illusion broke revealed that it had been a mirage all along.

Apollo reached out, brushing away the tears from Ctesippus’s cheeks. “I didn’t. I’m just messing around.” Before he could move again, he was yanked back harshly. He turned, face cold, meeting Dionysus’s equally icy gaze. “Possessiveness is a mortal thing, don’t you think?” Apollo murmured.

“I don’t care.” Dionysus stepped forward, circling his arms around Ctesippus as if to claim him. His voice snapped through the air, sharp and edged with fury. “You sure had a lot of fun lately.”

From within the god’s embrace, Ctesippus managed to push his face out just enough to speak, his words trembling but desperate. “I have what you want, lord Apollo!"

Dionysus frowned, lips curving into a small pout. “You never call me lord.”

Ctesippus blinked at him. “Do you want me to?”

Dionysus thought for a moment. “No.”

Antinous finally managed to gather himself, snapping, “Can you two focus!?”

Diomedes had to agree, he’d followed them inside when he saw Dionysus and Ctesippus enter, only to witness the way the tension in the room shifted absurdly into something comical.

Ctesippus nodded several times, then lifted his tunic, revealing a leather sash with a dagger carefully tucked into it.

“Nice moles,” Apollo commented, catching him off guard.

“T–thanks?”

Dionysus’s patience was thinning fast. He moved his hand, snatched the dagger, and tossed it toward Apollo. “Here’s your fucking gem. In the hilt.”

Apollo caught the blade, turning it over. Sure enough, the same gem he’d lost years ago glimmered in the hilt. “Oh.”

Ctesippus turned to Diomedes, guilt plain on his face. “I’m so sorry… I know you gave it to me, but I have to save Telemachus.”

Apollo scoffed. “No need to apologize to him. He shouldn’t have stolen it from me in the first place.”

Diomedes stared, incredulous. “Stolen it? You lost it to me fair and square after you lost a challenge.”

Apollo rolled his eyes. “Bullshit.”

His gaze slid back to Ctesippus. He hadn’t expected the mortal to actually find the gem — the task was meant to distract him for years. Who would’ve guessed Dionysus had known all along that the suitor already possessed it? Now, Apollo couldn’t backtrack on his word.

He sighed, then turned to Antinous, whose heart was strung tight like a bowstring. “I guess you win then.”

Chapter Text

“That moron! He thinks Telemachus belongs only to him! Well, yes, they’re lovers, but that doesn’t mean mmmh—! And did you see how he wouldn’t even let me hug him in peace!? I miss the prince too! Mm-hmm!? He gets him for the whole night and still he—mmf! Ahh…! Dionysus!!”

“Hmm? I’m listening… you were saying something about the prince?”

“Listening, my ass!”

“Not my fault your lips beg for a kiss every time they move.”

Dionysus managed to sneak his hands under Ctesippus’s rear, lifting him with ease. He raised a brow when the mortal didn’t even flinch or hold on, completely assured that the god wouldn’t drop him. He carried him to the bed in one of the rooms the priests had offered after the earlier misunderstanding was cleared up, and dropped him gently onto the covers.

He was in a good mood. At first, he’d been afraid Ctesippus might prefer to share a room with Diomedes but instead, Ctesippus had run straight into his arms to vent about Antinous. And that, for Dionysus, was enough. He was happy. This little mortal was making him happy.

Ctesippus tightened his legs around him, his expression turning coy, and reached for his lips, determined to leave Dionysus breathless. That had been their nightly ritual for the past few days together, and he’d grown accustomed to the warmth of Dionysus’s mouth on his neck and the sweet whispers that followed. Dionysus always had to force himself to stop before Ctesippus’s soft moans got the better of him, leaving the suitor pouting, frustrated, and unsatisfied.

They lay facing each other, hands brushing lazily over whatever skin they could reach, movements fading only when sleep began to win.

“Where to next, then?” Dionysus asked. He’d follow wherever Ctesippus led; choice didn’t matter to him.

Ctesippus yawned. “Ithaca. What? Why do you look upset all of a sudden?”

Dionysus hid his face in the mortal’s hair, his voice muffled. “I thought you said you’d come with me.”

Ctesippus smiled, hugging him tighter. “I will.”

Dionysus was still unconvinced. “Then why Ithaca?”

“Because I don’t trust those idiots to make it home on their own.” He suddenly sat upright, startling Dionysus, who watched him warily. Ctesippus’s tone turned solemn, dramatic. “They can’t do anything without me! Apparently, I’m the hero now, the one who does all the tough work! Hey! Why are you laughing!?”

Dionysus struggled to contain his laughter as he pulled Ctesippus back into his arms and patted his head. The mortal huffed and nuzzled into his neck. He chose peace this time, deciding not to argue with the god, arguments rarely ended in his favor anyway.

Antinous was enjoying his victory, burying his face in the crook of the prince’s neck, breathing in the scent he’d missed and nearly suffocating the one in his arms. Telemachus didn’t mind. Despite having his bones nearly crushed by the suitor’s strength, he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. He had missed him too much.

Seeing how Antinous wouldn’t stop sniffing him, he couldn’t resist teasing. “Did you turn into a dog?”

Antinous’s reply was a playful bite that made him shiver. Telemachus exhaled a warm puff of air, a little dizzy in the cozy atmosphere, when a slap landed on his hip—followed by Antinous’s comment, “You’ve put on a little weight. Looks like they’ve been taking good care of you, keeping you well-fed.”

Telemachus glanced down, noticing how certain parts of his body were fuller than before. “Or maybe it’s because someone wasn’t around, and I finally had some peace of mind.”

Antinous clicked his tongue. “Shame he’s back, then. I was growing fond of this little bit of flesh.” His hands moved over him, as if already missing it.

They both had a lot to say—a lot to mend—but fear lingered. Both were afraid they might ruin everything if they spoke too soon. Even their desire felt heavy with tension; their bodies sought comfort more than pleasure. The weight of everything—love, anger, confusion—was too much. Telemachus broke too soon, gasping as though every breath carried an eternity of ache.

Antinous brushed the prince’s hair from his forehead and stopped moving. “You couldn’t even wait for me?”

Telemachus covered his face with his arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“How about we sit and talk? Just a short break.” He pulled away, helping Telemachus up from the edge of the bed. Antinous had been preparing for this conversation for many sleepless nights.

“I know,” Telemachus said first, unable to bear it any longer. “I know it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have hoped so much—shouldn’t have been foolish enough to think I mattered. I don’t even know when it started, when I began thinking that way, but I…” He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed anywhere but on Antinous. “I promise I won’t ask for much. I won’t ask for anything else, just... don’t leave me.”

The silence that followed was crushing. Telemachus wondered what Antinous was thinking but didn’t dare look, afraid of what he might see. He heard the faint rustle of cloth, then felt something hit his face. His tunic.

“Dress up,” Antinous said, then walked out. Telemachus obeyed without a word and followed him outside. Near the fountain on the temple’s eastern side, Antinous sat on the ledge.

“It shows, you know,” Telemachus said, pointing toward his erection. The cool air had done little to help. Antinous barely shrugged, so Telemachus sat beside him—only to be shoved into the fountain, Antinous diving in after to dunk his head underwater.

When his lungs began to burn, Antinous yanked him up. Telemachus gasped for air, trembling. “Has that cleared your head—and restored a shred of your dignity?” Antinous’s tone was cold, humorless.

Telemachus swung a punch, which Antinous caught easily, smirking at the boy’s fury. Water splashed everywhere as they struggled, limbs tangling—not in desire, but in frustration. Finally, breathless, they stopped.

Telemachus turned to climb out, but Antinous caught him again, pulling him close. He kicked and splashed, still annoyed, but Antinous only laughed and held him tighter. “Yeah, that’s more like it. So the little wolf remembers how to snarl.”

“Get out of my sight, damn you!”

“When hatred burned in me, still I couldn’t turn from you,” Antinous murmured. “Why would I now, when I am bound to your breath?”

He let go, watching Telemachus freeze at his words. With a sigh, he turned the prince’s face toward him. “But it brings me no pride to see you undone by my hand. If I am your torment, if I’ve stripped you of your dignity, that’s not something I can endure.” He leaned in, brushed a kiss on the tip of his nose. “If my love has broken you, then it shames me more than any defeat.”

“I thought you said you didn’t feel that way about me,” Telemachus whispered, confused.

“I wanted to believe that,” Antinous admitted. “I thought I could silence my heart by denying it. But in doing so, I only hurt us both. I’m sorry, Telemachus.”

Telemachus was quiet. “I will give it thought,” he said finally.

“Hm?”

Telemachus waved him off, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see if I shall forgive you. I’ll decide later.”

Antinous hadn’t expected that and laughed again. He gave a mock bow. “Then I’m at your mercy.”

The next morning, Ctesippus was fanning himself, his face flushed for many reasons. His jaw dropped several times as he listened to the story he’d missed. “He really said that!?”

Telemachus nodded, watching as Ctesippus hummed in satisfaction.

“Yes, yes, that’s what he deserves! Great job, Tele! Next time, toss him outside, not just on the floor. Or—ooh, better yet, you could’ve called me to keep you compa—ngh!”

Telemachus blinked. “Are you alright?”

Ctesippus waved him off, then turned his head to shoot Dionysus—who stood not far away—a deadly glare. Dionysus raised an eyebrow, daring him to finish that sentence. Thin, mean vines crawled beneath Ctesippus’s tunic, already giving him a hard time, and as the god grew more annoyed, the vines turned cruel—teasing him further, circling his nipples in a mocking pinch.

Ctesippus exhaled sharply, then turned back to Telemachus as if nothing had happened. “Anyway, how long are you gonna keep torturing him?”

Telemachus thought for a second. “I don’t know… I guess I never really had something in mind.”

Ctesippus lit up, all excitement. “Oh, I have an idea!” He leaned in and whispered his wicked thoughts. Chills ran through both listeners. Telemachus refused immediately, firm and terrified, while Dionysus retracted his vines and vanished.

The priests had prepared a luxurious banquet. Chloris was welcomed back into the temple by Apollo himself, and so no one dared hold anything against her. On the contrary, they all congratulated her, as if she’d just received a divine blessing.

Telemachus leaned in toward Antinous. “I remember her.” He caught the suitor by the wrist before he could slip away. “So it was you who sent her that time? Tell me, what exactly would you have gained if she’d managed to seduce me?”

“To humiliate you. That’s all it ever was.” He breathed out through his nose, a humorless sound. “Or… what I thought I wanted.” Damn his luck. Telemachus was finding new reasons to quarrel with him by the minute. He needed to distract him—fast.

Their conversation was cut short by sudden commotion behind them. Ctesippus stood frozen, Apollo’s hands roaming boldly over him. The boy could barely speak. “W-what are you doing?”

Apollo blinked innocently. “Merely ensuring you haven’t gone and broken anything again.”

“You don’t need to feel him up to figure that out,” Diomedes said flatly as he stepped into the courtyard, greeted by that absurd sight.

Apollo scoffed, “Mind your damn business.” But his hands fell away the moment he felt Dionysus approaching.

Ctesippus ran straight toward his god and clung to him. Dionysus had no idea what had just happened, but as long as the outcome was his mortal glued to him, he was content. He leaned down to whisper something in Ctesippus’s ear, and the boy immediately brightened, tugging at his sleeve and trying to convince him to leave. Dionysus only chuckled and brushed him off. “It’d be rude not to attend the feast.”

That was when they both noticed the countless eyes watching them. Awkward silence fell. Neither dared to move nor speak.

Telemachus, watching from his seat, suddenly realized he’d spent the whole time talking about himself and hadn’t once asked Ctesippus about his relationship with Dionysus. He’d had his doubts, of course. The only one who didn’t was Antinous — who now looked as if someone had stolen his younger sister. He wasn’t prepared to see them so close together.

Wasn’t Diomedes supposed to be the one courting that fool? Antinous thought bitterly. What in the world happened for him to end up with that vile creature instead?

Throughout the feast, he was torn... part of him wanted to drown Telemachus in affection, while the other half couldn’t stop shooting venomous glares at Dionysus, who was busy doing the same with Ctesippus — only his version involved far more touching. His glares occasionally drifted toward Diomedes too, full of silent disappointment the warrior chose to ignore. He didn’t need anyone rubbing salt into the wound.

Diomedes also had the matter of Antinous being a suitor to think of, but he decided not to get involved any further and let Odysseus deal with that himself when he found out.

His heart jumped again at the sight of Ctesippus excusing himself to leave. Apollo wrapped an arm around Diomedes’ shoulders. “Poor you. Losing to a drunkard. Maybe you weren’t enough to keep him satisfied.” He leaned in, lips brushing Diomedes’ ear. “I could teach you.”

A faint smile curved Diomedes’ lips. “If you think that’s what love’s about, no wonder no one stays by your side.” He watched as the god’s expression stiffened, then turned away and left.

At the other end of the table, Antinous was feeding his dear prince when he suddenly remembered something and turned to Chloris. “Where’s Eurymachus?”

Chapter Text

Ctesippus was having the time of his life, hiding in his shared room with Dionysus and devouring the honeyed quince the god had brought him. If not for Dionysus insisting they attend the feast first, he would have come for them much earlier. Still, he had to listen to his… lover. The thought made him pause and blush, but he resumed eating not long after.

After a while, the door opened and Dionysus stepped in. He hadn’t followed immediately, wanting to let Ctesippus eat in peace, because he knew too well he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself, nor resist kissing him when his lips were coated in syrup.

His arms circled the suitor from behind, and Ctesippus—who’d nearly finished the plate—remembered to leave him a few pieces. He fed Dionysus with his own hands, then moved to lick his fingers clean.

“Do you hate me, Ctesippus?” Dionysus blurted suddenly.

Ctesippus turned to face him, startled and a little hurt to hear such a question. Dionysus leaned in, resting his head against the mortal’s shoulder, chuckling softly before brushing his lips over his. But Ctesippus was still pained, he couldn’t bring himself to reciprocate the kiss right away. He wanted to protest, to ask what brought that question, but Dionysus was already pushing him gently onto the bed, hovering over him, their breaths mingling.

It always worked. Kissing was their magic—shattering every thought, leaving only heat and need, their bodies clinging as if trying to merge. Ctesippus, long since accustomed to the god’s touch, began guiding Dionysus’s hands across his body, showing him where and how he wanted to be touched.

It drove Dionysus nearly mad, struggling to control his strength and his desire—the urge to crush the mortal in his arms was almost unbearable. He stopped when he felt his restraint slipping, but Ctesippus held him close, refusing to let him go.

“Don’t you dare stop now,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare leave me wanting.”

Dionysus melted at the mortal’s possessive tone, his heart drunk on it. “Whatever you want,” he whispered, voice trembling with devotion. “Just say it. I’ll give you anything you want… I’ll lay myself at your feet.”

Ctesippus’s eyes reddened; the emotion in Dionysus’s words and expression was overwhelming. His chest heaved, stealing his breath and leaving him panting. The god’s hands found him again, wandering across his skin, and he let them—just for a moment—before murmuring, “We don’t have anything to use as lube…”

“I can get some if you insist,” Dionysus said softly, “but it’s not needed. I don’t break easily—and what does break heals fast.” He tried to sound reassuring, though deep down he thought he deserved pain in every form it might come. Still, he knew Ctesippus wouldn’t bear to see him hurt. Leaning back, he made space for the mortal to move as he wished.

“It’s not you who’ll need it. It’s me.” Ctesippus reached to remove his clothes, pausing only when he realized Dionysus was still staring at him blankly, frozen in disbelief. The god’s silence stretched until Ctesippus tilted his head, waiting. Dionysus finally blinked, his voice quiet, uncertain. “Are you sure about this?”

Ctesippus pushed himself up, wrapping his arms around him, nodding again and again. But Dionysus still hesitated, his gaze flickering restlessly around the room as if seeking an escape.

“Dio…” Ctesippus whispered, “I really want this. I’m done being scared. I’ve wanted you, long before tonight.” His fingers clutched at Dionysus’s tunic, his breath shaky. “I really want you, okay?”

Dionysus couldn’t bear the sound of that voice—so raw, so vulnerable. He pulled Ctesippus into a crushing embrace, holding him as though he could protect him from everything, even from himself. The mortal melted against him, exhaling a soft, trusting sigh. 

The bed dipped under their joined weight. Their movements were clumsy, uncertain, yet filled with an inexplicable bliss. Dionysus eased into him, their bodies searching for the same rhythm. A slow, careful rhythm. He moved with deliberate gentleness, eyes fixed on the mortal’s face, reading every flicker of expression as he sank deeper inside. He found him again and again, until the pain faded from Ctesippus’s features, replaced by half-lidded eyes that shimmered with growing pleasure.

Ctesippus wasn’t loud. His sounds came out soft and uneven — quiet pants, restrained moans that trembled like whispers. It made Dionysus wonder just how much pain this man had once known, how much he’d endured to scream so desperately before. His heart tightened painfully. How could he ever have been so cruel to him and still claimed it was love?

The longer he watched him, the more unease crept in. Ctesippus was watching him too now, brows furrowed, lips parting as if to speak but hesitating. Finally, he whispered, “You don’t hate this, do you? Is it… the way we’re doing this? Should I move? I can lie on my stomach, or turn on my knees—just… tell me what feels right.”

Dionysus’s movements slowed further, until they were barely moving at all. But the confusion on Ctesippus’s face only deepened. “Or you can… go harder,” he offered, his eyes glistened. “Do it however you want. I was just… being selfish.”

Dionysus’s heart ached unbearably. Words failed him. He reached out and brushed away the tears threatening to fall, his voice rough when it finally came. “Why would you say that? What makes you think I’m not in bliss right now? I couldn’t be happier, not even in the Elysian Fields themselves.”

Ctesippus cupped his face, thumbs grazing his wet lashes. “Then why are you crying?”

Dionysus reached unconsciously to touch his face, finding his own cheeks damp with tears. He hadn’t even realized he was crying — nor did he quite understand why — but the tears kept falling anyway, spilling onto the mortal beneath him.

Ctesippus struggled to move, so Dionysus helped his little human sit upright, wiping his own eyes whenever his vision blurred. Ctesippus rested his head against his chest, his voice small and lost. “Dionysus...? Dio... what’s wrong?”

Dionysus gasped for breath, his chest heaving as if the air refused to fill his lungs. His body trembled; the crying only worsened, despite Ctesippus clinging to him tighter and tighter, desperate to soothe him. It tore at Ctesippus’s heart to see the one he loved unravel like this.

“I’m sorry… you didn’t deserve it, you didn’t—” Dionysus’s words broke apart into sobs.

Ctesippus pressed a small kiss to his lips. He already understood what was haunting the god.

“It’s all in the past,” he whispered. “I’m alright now, see?”

But Dionysus shook his head. “It doesn’t change what I did.” His voice cracked, raw and pained. “I hurt you… I forced you. There’s no forgiveness for that.”

Ctesippus knew. He hated it. Hated Dionysus for it before — and hated himself for not being able to fully hate him as well. Maybe it was because, from the beginning, he’d sensed that Lysandrious was no ordinary man. Maybe because he’d always felt that his actions weren’t born purely of hate or lust. It didn’t justify anything, but still. His heart had always clung to the good in people. He remembered kindness more vividly than cruelty.

So when he thought of Dionysus — of Lysandrious — what came first wasn’t pain, but the taste of their kisses, the memory of how he’d always been there for him. And Ctesippus chose him. He chose to forgive. To believe that he deserved a fair chance.

And Dionysus hadn’t disappointed. He was learning, trying, humbling himself — and Ctesippus couldn’t help falling for him all over again. It hurt more than he could admit, seeing Dionysus crushed beneath his own guilt.

“I crossed a line I can’t ever undo,” Dionysus said, his voice a trembling whisper. “I can’t forgive myself… I can’t even think of asking you to. It hurts... every time I remember, it hurts. And when I touch you, it’s worse, because I know I don’t deserve to. But I’m selfish… I’m still so damn selfish. I can’t walk away. I can’t watch someone else have your heart. It would kill me. Maybe it should — but I can’t. I can’t, Ctesippus… I just—can’t.”

Ctesippus couldn’t bear to hear him fall apart any longer. He reached out, fresh tears streaming down his own face. “Stop. Please…”

He ignored the wetness on his cheeks and held Dionysus’s hands, intertwining their fingers. “It hurts to see you like this... tearing yourself apart. I’m here because I want to be. You know that, right? I just want you… the one standing in front of me right now. We can’t change what happened, breaking over it won’t fix anything. But we can build what’s ahead. Our future. Because a future with you… that’s what I want. That’s what makes me happy.” He swallowed, eyes soft. “Don’t you want to make me happy?”

Dionysus nodded instantly — he’d do anything to make Ctesippus happy. Anything. He’d let himself be ridiculed, humbled, undone, if it meant earning his smile.

Ctesippus smiled through his tears and reached to trace his skin. “This... it feels good. When you touch me, I feel happy. Because I know you want me,  just like I want you.”

Dionysus drew a shaky breath, his hands roaming over the mortal’s body again. He wasn’t focused anymore — all he heard was I feel happy — and he wanted nothing more than to keep doing whatever made Ctesippus feel that way.

They held each other as if tomorrow would come to tear them apart, nuzzling and caressing until the trembling eased and they brushed away each other’s last tears.

Their foreheads met, tempting them to share the same breath, and they did. Ctesippus was laid back against the sheets, Dionysus rocking into him with the same tenderness the suitor had whispered into his ear with little encouragements. Despite the gentle rhythm, Ctesippus trembled with every movement, his toes curling, his legs tightening around the god’s back.

His moans grew louder as he reached his climax, Dionysus kept caressing his insides, chasing his own release. The warmth that lingered between them felt sacred, as if something long broken had quietly healed. Their limbs remained tangled, neither willing to let go, swaying together in the quiet aftermath.

Their lips were swollen from endless kisses, until Dionysus forced himself to stop so the mortal wouldn’t ache any more, and received a few breathless curses for it. Ctesippus finally rested his head on Dionysus’s chest, ready to let the god adore him, worship him, until sleep carried them both away.

Telemachus was enjoying the space on the bed, leaving only a pillow on the floor for Antinous to use when he returned. Antinous had said he needed to talk to Ctesippus, and Telemachus assumed it would take a while—but it hadn’t been long before Antinous came back, his face flushed deep red. Telemachus could already guess what had happened, but he kept his words to himself.

Antinous had gone for one reason: to apologize to Ctesippus for how he’d acted that day in the forest, when he’d pushed him against the tree. He’d also thought it was a good chance to warn him about Dionysus. What he hadn’t expected was what he heard when he reached their door.

Ctesippus’ moans slipped through the wood—soft, needful sounds that froze Antinous in place. He’d known the man for years, ever since he’d come to the palace and joined the suitors, and Ctesippus had always been the ridiculous, lighthearted one. He never imagined such sounds could come from him, nor that side of him even existed.

A heavy blush spread through Antinous’ body before he finally turned away, leaving quickly—grateful that Telemachus spared him the questioning.