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Telemachus hides a grimace into his cup of wine as he’s forced to sit through another meal in the company of his Mother’s suitors. In a way, though, it’s better that they are still suitors and none of them has reached the title of Mother’s new husband.
A similar thought, with rather different emotions involved, seems to surge elsewhere in the room as well.
Ctesippus, son of Polytherses, stands at once with broad gestures to show off his pompous clothes.
“My lady Penelope,” he starts with a cloying smile that he certainly believes is charming, “how long will your weaving still take? Do none of our gifts show you that one of us would be a suitable husband, that you need to mourn no longer?”
His Mother takes her time looking up from her meal, not giving the man attention the moment he tries to demand it, but she offers him a small, affectedly sad smile. “My lord Ctesippus, do you not remember? I have shown you, esteemed guests, my loom this morning, the shroud unfinished.”
“I…” Ctesippus flounders for a moment, clearly not having expected that kind of answer. Fool. “Of course I remember!”
Mother lets her eyes crinkle as she offers him a smile that makes the man almost melt where he stands. “Ah, good to know it is not memory problems affecting your mind.” Telemachus bites quickly into his food to hide his smirk: Mother’s veiled insult is way too hidden from someone she just implied is a dimwit.
Eurymachus, son of Polybus, doesn’t find it quite as funny.
“My lady, is that a note of derision that I hear in your words?”
Damn it, if only all these suitors were as ‘smart’ as Ctesippus, Telemachus has no doubt that they could get rid of them rather quickly. Maybe sending them out in a quest for the greatest, most glorious fish to present to Penelope, but on subtly holed boats that would drown them away from their shores.
Unfortunately, there are also men like Eurymachus here.
Mother blinks at him as if surprised. “Of course not, my lord Eurymachus, I was simply expressing my relief.”
Eurymachus inclines his head as if accepting that, but truly he doesn’t need to press the issue himself, when others have perked up and are ready to fall upon the chance like rabid dogs. Eurymachus has stirred the pot and can now sit back and pretend his hands are clean as hotheads like Antinous, son of Eupheithes, rise to their feet in indignation.
“You may not have meant it, but a slight must be repaid!” He approaches Mother’s table and plants his hands on it, the plates and bowls rattling. “That’s not the way you treat guests, my lady.”
Telemachus’ blood boils at the insinuation that they’re anything less than excellent hosts, when these leeches have been eating their food and camping in their house for years already. But it’s the way Antinous is leering way too close to his Mother's face that makes him stand at once.
The movement draws all eyes to him, Mother's widening the slightest bit with sincere worry.
Antinous moves away from her at least, to gesture grandly towards Telemachus.
“Oh? Is this the peace offering we’re receiving? Your son paying for your slight, lady Penelope?”
Mother's hands leave the top of the table to hide subtly in her lap. Telemachus swallows and says nothing, aware that his actions have already led to a trembling in his Mother's otherwise always perfectly sure hands. They both wish to protect each other, and they cannot make another faux-pas today.
“My lord Antinous,” her voice betrays nothing but authority, and Telemachus wants to let his chest swell with pride, “surely you must convene that my unfortunate wording of my worry and relief is something more in need of an apology, in words and deeds, not a crime that shall be paid in blood.”
“Admittedly,” Eurymachus cuts in, “it is not. A slight to a man’s honor should be paid by a man’s honor.”
Mother is clearly not completely satisfied with that, but Telemachus would rather be the one this scum humiliates, when she’s already dealing with so much.
“As long as the agreed upon request that no blood is drawn is met, which shall include the safety of my life as well, in broader terms,—” he’s certainly not leaving up to these people the chance to circumvent the blood point by strangling him, he knows he’s in the way of any potential heir of theirs and that they hold no sympathy for him, “—then I accept to pay the price for this slight in my Mother’s stead.”
Eurymachus inclines his head. That seals it. Telemachus avoids looking at his Mother, knowing that there’s no way this won’t pain her.
Antinous grins viciously as he gestures to the servants behind Telemachus. “Bring him forth, then!”
Rough hands close around Telemachus’ shoulders and arms, pulling him none too gently towards the center of the room. One of the servants belongs to one of the suitors, Amphimedon if memory serves him well, but the other is Melanthius, their own goatherd, and Telemachus takes note once more of the man’s disloyalty. It’s not enough that he serves these parasites his Father's best goats, he's clearly eager to see Telemachus hurt as well. And he can’t do anything to stop this now, but he can at least talk back to the backstabber.
“I can walk on my own, you know,” he hisses at Melanthius as he’s pushed down on his knees in the middle of the room.
Antinous is suddenly in his face, pulling his hair to command Telemachus to look at him and his hateful grin. “For now. We'll see if that will still be true after we're done with you, little princeling.”
He thrusts out a hand, and Melanthius places a blade on his palm with no hesitation.
“Wait—!”
His Mother’s voice rises in a panic, but Antinous doesn't stop as he slashes down. Telemachus flinches, preparing for pain, but the blade slices down across his front just barely grazing the skin. His clothes, though, fall open, ruined, only held up by his belt at this point.
He tries not to be obvious about his breath of relief, but if all they want is to have him kneel and shred his clothes, Telemachus doesn’t mind too much.
Of course it’s not that simple.
Antinous laughs at him and steps to the side, showing off his handiwork to everyone in the room.
“Who would have thought? The prince of Ithaca is as pale and fair as a maiden!” Because Telemachus is not dumb enough to train in the courtyard under the watchful eye of their ‘guests’ (enemies), instead exercising in his room and taking his bow and sword into the forest, where he runs and grows stronger in the shade of trees.
But the blade in Antinous’ hand comes up to caress his throat, while Telemachus’ head is wrenched back by his hair. Antinous leers down at him. “Let’s see what else he can do as a maiden, shall we?”
Mother's voice cuts frigidly through the room, freezing people in their steps where they’ve started approaching the scene that holds their attention. “Put the knife away or consider this slight paid, lord Antinous.”
The blade leaves Telemachus’ throat and his neck can stop straining back as Antinous lifts both hands to appease Mother. “But of course, my lady, I was simply speeding things along.” The knife is passed back to Melanthius, who takes a step back to place it back in his belt, but the hands on Telemachus’ arms get replaced quickly as Antinous gestures to another servant who scuttles forward with fear in his eyes.
“Hold his shoulders to the floor, boys,” Antinous commands, while also calling for one of the maids in waiting. “You, bring that oil here.” Telemachus is held face down, but it’s not difficult to understand what is going to happen as his ass is manhandled off the floor, his tunic flipped over his back and his undergarments ripped to shreds. There’s the movement of more cloth behind him, but Telemachus can barely hear it over his own shortened breath and frantic heartbeat.
He feels the drip of oil down his crack, though, and Antinous whispered laughter in his ear. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love to take you dry and bloody, but I don’t want the fun to stop any time soon.”
Then hands grab Telemachus’ hips, spreading his cheeks, and his world explodes into pain.
Of course Antinous is none too gentle and starts a punishing pace as soon as he gets his dick inside Telemachus. The oil helps ease the way, but with no prep the sudden stretch is too much and hurts, and Telemachus can’t find it in himself to attempt to convince his body to relax. He’s too angry and in pain, the only saving grace in the whole situation is the fact that Antinous’ harsh thrusts leave him so breathless he can’t manage to make a noise. He doesn’t want to give them any more satisfaction.
Feet step into his line of sight, close to his face.
“Why is it, Antinous, that while I’m the wronged one, you’re the one who gets to have the apology gift first?” Ah, of course.
“Ctesippus,” the brute behind Telemachus doesn’t even stop to answer, “a slight against you is a slight against all of us, as a group of guests. We should all enjoy the apology gift.”
Bile rises in Telemachus’ throat. He can’t mean that literally, right? His eyes dart around what he can see of the room, not that he can take in much with one cheek pressed into the floor, his shoulders straining where the servants push down on them while keeping his arms in a firm grip. What little he can see isn’t reassuring, men closing in, their tunics becoming tented. His Mother has over a hundred suitors, and most of them were in the room when the meal began.
They can’t.
But the bickering above him seems unconcerned with human limits, only with the patience they aren’t inclined to exercise.
Eurymachus puts an end to the arguments in a rather simple way. “Ctesippus, since you were wronged by words, why don’t you take your apology from the prince's mouth and let Antinous finish where he started?”
There’s no relief then in being allowed up from the floor: Telemachus would take the ache in his joints a hundred times over the feeling of having Ctesippus’ dick slapped on his face, his jaw grabbed to wrench his mouth open, then the disgusting taste smeared upon his tongue. Telemachus wants to gag, to bite down, but he forces himself to do neither, just to hang in there and endure.
Ctesippus is a mercifully quick shot, even pulling out to paint Telemachus’ face white.
Not that it helps Telemachus much when the next man is already there ready to take Ctesippus’ place, shoving roughly into his mouth and jerking his head brutally up and down his cock. Telemachus can’t see who it is, not with his lashes weighed down by spent, and everyone above him is talking and laughing and commenting on the situation, and he can’t keep track of things when his head pulses with the lack of air and the rough movements.
Antinous has finished at some point behind him, filling Telemachus with repulsive, sticky warmth, then immediately someone else took his place, joking about Telemachus now being really as soft and wet as a maid.
They don’t even care that they’re making such comments in front of the woman they’re supposed to court.
Oh Gods, Telemachus would like to pray that his Mother has been allowed to leave, but at the same time he can feel tears spill down his cheeks at the idea of being alone in this sea of men, this sea of beasts.
He’s flipped around at some point, lifted off the floor and thrown upon a table, plates crashing to the floor as they’re pushed aside and a basket of bread ending up squished against his side. No one cares, they just laugh at his tears, at his come-covered face, at his dripping, abused hole.
And they go back to it, rough and everywhere, someone grabbing Telemachus’ hands and using them to jerk off as they wait for their turn to use his ass or mouth.
He doesn’t know how many he’s taken, unable to keep track, he doesn’t even know whose cock is touching him where at any given time. Telemachus only knows pain and rage and disgust, and the silent cry for vengeance that echoes in his mind, a prayer to Athena that he’ll get to come up with a plan to make all these people suffer and pay, and feel just as trapped and unable to change things as he does now.
Another cock enters his ass, the pace not outright animalistic for once, and a second later Telemachus curses whoever it is, as a hand wraps around his own soft dick and strokes him to hardness against his will.
When the hand falls away, the man keeps hitting a spot inside that sends sparks of unwanted pleasure up his spine alongside the pain, and everyone around Telemachus starts jeering and cackling even harder, calling him a slut, a whore, and anything else they can come up with.
The man that was using Telemachus’ mouth spills down his throat, but when there’s no other cock immediately taking its place, Telemachus hacks and spits the come and saliva pooled in his mouth, finally taking a slightly deeper breath after he doesn’t know how long.
The reason for the break becomes apparent when the man fucking him leans over Telemachus to grind his cock in deeper and whisper sadistically in his ear.
“You cry way too prettily for someone who’s such a thorn in my side, little prince.” It’s Eurymachus, one of his hands smearing the mess of tears and come on Telemachus’ face and rubbing the disgusting mix into his skin. He doesn’t stop there, though, even as his hips pick up their pace smacking against Telemachus’s ass. “I think your mother will cry even more prettily when I’ll bed her on our wedding night. Just a matter of time before I breed her just like this, and you will be no more than something else to be discarded, a little nobody to throw away as I take what’s rightfully mine.”
He comes deep inside of Telemachus’ ass, and all he wishes is that his legs could actually move and he could kick the man in the crotch for ever daring to speak about Mother like that.
Unfortunately, his legs cannot move, not on their own, they’re simply pushed apart, one lifted over a shoulder as someone else lines up with Telemachus’ abused hole. A new panic surges through him when he realizes there’s two people there, two cockheads poking at his ass.
“Finally!”
“I’m tired of waiting.”
They push in, bullying their way inside, tearing the first gurgled shout out of Telemachus. It hurts, it burns, so bad.
People laugh, people crowd closer to watch, people hold him down as he tries to squirm away from the pain pain painpain—
“Enough.”
The word barely filters through the cacophony to his ears, but the jeering quiets down around him, and the next time the word comes it stops people in their tracks.
“Enough.”
It’s Mother's voice, close by, and Telemachus wants to weep both in relief that she stayed and in despair that she did.
“Leiocritus, Peisander, step back,” she orders firmly.
The cocks half stuffed up Telemachus’ ass retreat. He tries not to move, not to hope too much either.
There’s a moment of pause, then Mother's voice rings out clear and hard as steel once more.
“Our slight has been more than paid. You broke the terms, you drew blood.” Mother's voice trembles slightly, but it is with barely repressed rage. Despite all the pain and humiliation, Telemachus feels his lips attempting to twitch up. “Because you broke the terms, you will leave us alone for the rest of today and for tonight. Bring gifts when you enter my house again. Now leave.” His Mother might be a woman and a believed widow, but she’s held command of Ithaca through the war and the following years, raising Telemachus, taking care of their people and their land. She’s still the authority, even if she cannot make her suitors outright leave without good reason. If they went against her word now, after hurting him, they would give her a reason.
But they have to know that, Eurymachus at least would. And he proves it as he speaks.
“Of course, Lady Penelope. Sorry for getting carried away, we shall bring… apology gifts.”
There are poorly disguised snickers all around, but the following sounds are those of shuffling around, servants gathering things, and footsteps leaving. Telemachus breathes heavily through it all, wanting to move and cover up, but aching and blinded and unwilling to stumble around and humiliate himself with his own hands on top of everything else.
“Close the doors,” Mother orders next, then her hands gently touch him, making him flinch before he can relax, turning his head in her direction.
A soft, wet cloth moves gently over his eyes, until the spent caking them closed is finally gone, and Telemachus can see again.
The first thing his gaze lands on is his Mother, tender and on the verge of tears as she finishes cleaning his face, anger and vengeance clear to him in the set of her jaw and the twist of her lips. He smiles up at her, a small, weak thing.
She bites her lip, cradling his head in her hands, swallowing hard.
“Don’t you ever take the fall for me again, Telemachus.”
He smiles a little more, even as energies seem to leave his body now that the attackers are no longer around. “I love you too, Mother.”
Mother blinks back tears and gestures for someone to come closer, snapping orders at the maids to draw him a bath and prepare salves and new clothes for him. Telemachus is lifted in Eumaeus’ arms, feeling safe in the hold of the loyal swineherd that he’s know since he was a child, finally allowing his eyes to close again as exhaustion pulls him towards sleep.
Before they leave the room, though, Mother's fingers card once more through his hair, the way they always did when he was younger, the way she’s always offered him comfort in every upsetting moment.
“I love you too, my sweet child.”
Telemachus smiles tiredly and lets the servants and sleep carry him away.