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Neoptolemus was the bane of Telemachus’ existence.
It was bad enough to be raised without a father, to spend your performative years uncertain if he was even dead or alive, while everyone around you either shaped you up to replace him or tried to replace both of you themselves. Finding out there was another boy who he had mentored in those long years away was enough to send him nearly off the deep end with rage.
What’s worse, Neoptolemus didn’t even like Odysseus. Had stewed in his attention and his teachings for all those years that Telemachus didn’t, and now he only glared at him, refusing to answer when spoken to. It drove Telemachus mad.
For what it was worth, Neoptolemus seemed to hate Telemachus just as much. This should have been fine. They should have existed quietly, orbiting their mutual hatred of one another with Odysseus turning somewhere in between them.
But Telemachus craved Neoptolemus’ hatred, and the rage that it gave him. He sought it out like a plant sought sunlight. And every corner he went looking, he found him, as if he’d been just as drawn to the fight.
Maybe it was also the fact that—cranky and spiteful and attention-thieving as he was—Neoptolemus was beautiful. His hair was the red that sunsets aspired to, his jawline sharp enough to cut through dreams, his green eyes piercing and hateful. The grating edge of his voice made Telemachus shiver, the lithe edges of his body steeped in violence and yet existing with enough grace to dispel the thought.
So maybe it wasn’t just a fight he was looking for. Maybe it wasn’t just rage that had him picturing his stupid face, committing every freckle and eyelash to memory.
Maybe that was how they ended up sparring.
Neoptolemus had challenged him first. He had been training in the courtyard when Telemachus wandered out of the palace, his hair badly tied up and slowly falling down in messy, coiled ribbons. He looked ridiculous, and Telemachus told him so.
Glowering, Neo straightened up, his chiton loose and lopsided over the gleam of his sweaty chest. “If you want to criticise my technique, prince, by all means, get in the ring yourself.”
Telemachus snorted. “Maybe I will. You wouldn’t be the first man to mistake me for just a noble child when I could put you on your ass.”
Neoptolemus bared his teeth, his fists clenching at his sides. He moved to the edge of the ring to grab the wooden staffs, tossing one of them to Telemachus with such force that it nearly hit him in the forehead. Telemachus caught it. “I’d like to see you try.”
So they fought. Neoptolemus was strong—how could he not be, honed by Telemachus’ own father in the fires of war—but Telemachus was strong, too. He might have been ten years late to the fight, but he had been at his father’s side for the slaughter of the suitors.
His kills had gone from zero to some lofty, unknown number in the span of hours. They might not have been soldiers, but they had still been men, and Telemachus had held his own. He could do the same against Neoptolemus, strong but short, wiry, thin.
Neoptolemus knew his weaknesses, though, and unlike the suitors, leaned into what they gave him instead of away. He ducked under Telemachus’ blows and darted from one side to another with speed and sureness, so much so that Telemachus nearly tripped over himself. He took Telemachus’ hits like they were air, even when they turned his skin pink and smarting, and only ever grunted or muttered obscenities in low tones.
He was beautiful even when they fought, Telemachus thought grudgingly. His hair slowly falling further into disarray, his face red and his body shining with sweat. His muscles stood out when he fought, given a definition that his build didn’t typically allow, and his scars cut solid lines through the most beautiful parts of him.
In the end, it wasn’t physical prowess that had Telemachus bested. It was distraction.
Neoptolemus kicked Telemachus’ feet out from under him with a sweep of his leg, and Telemachus cried out as he hit the ground, too quickly to try and catch himself. Before he could roll away or swipe at Neoptolemus with his staff, he had disarmed him with a foot to his wrist, his toes resting there over his pulsepoint while his other foot settled on Telemachus’ lower stomach.
“Match to me,” he said indifferently, as if his chest weren’t heaving for breath, droplets of sweat beading down his forehead.
Telemachus squirmed under him. He felt hot, like his blood was boiling under his skin, and it wasn’t all because of anger and exertion. “So we go again.”
Neoptolemus smirked at him, a cruel thing, and it shouldn’t have made Telemachus throb the way it did. “A sore loser, prince? Colour me surprised. I wouldn’t mind tossing you in the dirt a few more times.”
Telemachus shoved him off and clambered to his feet, face burning at the tease in his voice. He should have argued, come up with some snotty comeback like he always did, but his tongue felt strangely limp and uncooperative in his mouth. He was too focused on keeping his blood in his brain.
They fought a second time, but now Telemachus was distracted from the beginning. He pushed harder, fought dirtier, but then his traitorous brain flashed back to images of Neoptolemus’ thighs, paler on the insides, peeking out from his chiton as he stood over him, and suddenly Neo’s staff was pressed to his throat, and he was being tripped and shoved face-first to the ground.
Neo laughed as he hit the dirt, and Telemachus moved fast, pushing back to his feet and preparing to take Neo on again, staff or no staff. Neo moved faster, tackling him before he could stand all the way up, and pinning him to the ground, chest to chest, hips to hips. Telemachus bit back the sound that rose in his throat, trying his hardest to save face.
“How’s that, prince?” Neoptolemus sneered, holding his wrists down above his head. Telemachus burned. “Would you say that’s enough to teach you your lesson? Do you know your place now, beneath me, in the dirt?”
Telemachus whimpered. Neoptolemus startled, caught off guard, and leaned back into the cradle of his hips, right where his half-hard cock was straining through the fabric against his ass. His eyes widened.
“Fuck,” Telemachus whispered, looking up at the sky above them, settling into the colours of dusk. He wished it would all fade to the blackness of night, let him shove Neo off and escape without him seeing the blush on his face, the shame in his eyes. He wished the world would end right there and he’d never have to find a way out of this.
Neoptolemus was still sitting on his cock, which was a shame, because it felt incredible and was not helping his situation any. Not even the shame that threatened to eat him alive could stop the rush of blood between his legs, pulsing and throbbing with stupid, stupid desire.
Telemachus closed his eyes, focusing hard on composing himself, trying to grab control of this situation that he feared was already lost. Above him, Neoptolemus was still silent, unmoving, his thighs tight around his hips and his ass firm against his cock.
Telemachus opened his eyes. Neoptolemus was staring at him.
“You like that?” he asked, and his voice had dropped an octave. Telemachus was mortified by how immediately it made his traitorous cock twitch.
Neoptolemus leaned forward, his ass still firmly on his cock, one hand pinning his wrists and the other pressing hard into his chest. Telemachus saw stars, certain he was dreaming now.
“Now I see what you wanted,” Neoptolemus murmured. “You knew you weren’t stronger than me. You knew you weren’t better than me. You didn’t want to be.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Telemachus breathed. Neo smirked down at him.
“No? You didn’t want this?”
He ground his ass back into Telemachus’ hips and Telemachus moaned, the pathetic sound escaping his lips before he had time to bite down on it. Neo laughed, the sound dark and mean, and Telemachus’ hips twitched up desperately as he did it again.
“Dumb slut,” he said, keeping him pinned. Telemachus risked a look down, desperate to know if Neo’s own cock was twitching and hardening under his clothes. He felt lightheaded at the thought. “You talk a big game, and for what? You know you’re nothing. You just want to be used.”
Telemachus grunted, pulling his wrists free from Neo’s grip. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself next, drunk on the feeling of Neo’s weight pressed to his hard cock and not entirely angry enough to push him off. He shoved his shoulders anyways, biting back a groan when Neo only ground more heavily against his hips.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he breathed. “You’re letting your fantasies bleed into reality. You’re crazy to think I want you.”
Neoptolemus’ eyes darkened.
“My fantasies?” he echoed. “You think this is my fantasy? To roll in the dirt with some hapless prince who can’t even hold his own in a fight?”
Telemachus pushed back against him, properly now, but Neo slammed him back into the dirt hard enough that he gasped for air. He held him down with a hand to his collarbone, close enough to his throat that his vision blurred with arousal while not being close enough to press against his windpipe.
Neo’s face was nothing but rage and hatred. Telemachus wasn’t entirely sure if he was afraid or desperately turned on.
“Is that why you’ve been following me around?” he sneered. “You think I fantasise about you? You think I want your attention?”
Telemachus struggled against him. “You’re the one who asked me to fight. You’re the one pinning me to the ground and sitting on my dick.”
Neoptolemus smirked at him. “You’re the one who’s hard for me.”
Telemachus’ face burned. Neo pressed a little harder against his sternum, and Telemachus gave him a half-hearted shove to keep up the illusion that he was fighting back. He could hardly even pretend he didn’t want this.
Who was he kidding? Neoptolemus was sitting on his cock. He knew he was hard for him. There was no backing out of this now.
He gave Neoptolemus his smuggest stare, doing his best to attempt to look down on him despite being the one pinned beneath him in the dirt.
“You’re the one too coward to do anything about it,” he whispered. Neo’s eyes flickered.
“Watch who you call a coward,” he said, his teeth gritted.
Telemachus wanted those teeth in his throat. “Who’s going to make me?”
Neoptolemus moved like lightning. His hand gripped Telemachus’ cock with a pressure far closer to pain than it was pleasure, warning and torment all at once. Telemachus arched up into him with a broken sound, clenching his teeth to keep from properly crying out. He knew it was exactly the reaction Neo had wanted from him; but who was he to begrudge him that, when he was getting exactly what he wanted, too?
“Desperate, whining bitch,” Neoptolemus breathed, adjusting his grip on him through the fabric. “I could do terrible things to you. I could make you weep just telling you about it.”
Telemachus didn’t care if it was meant to be a threat. Arousal was thrumming through him like summer heat in his blood, and he was pulsing against Neo’s harsh fingers. He moaned, and Neoptolemus appeared to startle above him.
“If you don’t know how to handle me, just say so,” he breathed tauntingly. “I don’t need your help to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it every damn night since you got here.”
Neoptolemus pressed down into him, and Telemachus was dizzy to feel that he was hard too, grinding involuntarily against his stomach. He must have seen the recognition in Telemachus’ eyes because he broke out blushing all over again, red blooming from one ear to the other.
Telemachus grinned at him. “So? Are you going to be a coward?”
Neoptolemus kissed him like his only practice had come from tearing carcasses apart with his teeth. It was sharp and brutal and biting, but that was okay—Telemachus could bite too.
Telemachus fought to catch his bottom lip in his teeth, clamping down until Neo groaned and he tasted the metallic tang of his blood. He licked the wound generously, just as fierce with his tongue as he was with lips and teeth, and moved his mouth down his jaw, running his hands up his thighs to his ass.
Neo shoved his hands away, but Telemachus fought him and brought them back, nipping between his jaw and throat until he tensed up and surrendered. Telemachus ground up into him, hoping that he knew how easy it would have been to flip him over and win their sparring match once and for all, if he’d wanted to.
“You’re filthy,” Neoptolemus sighed. Telemachus was pretty sure he was moving his hips against him, just the slightest bit, falling into a rhythm. “A filthy, spoiled brat with a dirty mouth and unscarred hands.”
Telemachus licked a line up the column of his throat, savouring the taste of his sweat and hoping to remember it for later. “You daydreaming about the smoothness of my hands, now? Want to feel them on your cock?”
Neoptolemus growled, trying again to push Telemachus off him and pin him back in the dirt. Telemachus let him have it this time, rolling his hips up while he leaned over to secure his wrists above his head, moaning shamelessly.
“The only daydream I have of you is you shutting your damn mouth,” he snapped. “The only fantasy I have is of the day you finally drop dead.”
“Oh yeah?” Telemachus challenged him, thrusting up just enough to keep himself from going crazy. “Because anybody could see us out here. And all they’d see is you holding me down and rutting against me like a dog. Sure doesn’t look like you don’t want it.”
Neoptolemus was breathing heavily. Telemachus noticed the way he tried to stop the movement of his hips, and he suppressed a smile.
“Don’t think that me using you while you’re under me means I want you any other time.”
Telemachus laughed harshly. “And why am I under you, again? Why didn’t you get off me as soon as you won, or as soon as you felt how hard I was for you?”
Neo glared at him. “You should watch your mouth before I choke you out.”
“You should get on with it before I come from the thought.”
Again, Neoptolemus twitched against him like he was surprised. He put his hand back on his collarbone, not quite high up enough to choke but close enough to have a similar effect. Telemachus preened under the attention, throbbing where he rubbed against Neo’s ass.
“Fine,” he gritted out, his voice coming out strained. “But no more talking. You shut your damn mouth and we never talk about this again.”
Telemachus laughed, pleasantly surprised to have him actually give in. Neo gave him a look, and he surrendered, spreading his hands as much as he could with them both still pinned above his head. Neo was still glaring at him when he readjusted his hips to thrust against him properly.
It was a good thing that Neo’s rule was no talking and not be quiet, because Telemachus couldn’t help the moans spilling wantonly from his mouth as Neo’s clothed cock rubbed right against his own, hard and warm through the layers of fabric separating them. Neo made gritted-teeth and choked-back sounds like he thought he wasn’t allowed to, but Telemachus didn’t bother pretending to be restrained. They were on the far side of the palace, and it was going on evening; he was confident nobody would be out here.
The steady drag of Neo’s hips against his was stoking a fire low in his gut, sending shocks of pleasure from his hips all the way to his toes and up his spine. He felt big, or bigger than Telemachus; he imagined what he might look like, not for the first time, flushed and red and weeping at the tip. He imagined him slicked with oil, sliding roughly inside him, and the thought alone made him cry out.
“Shut up,” Neoptolemus muttered, head hung as he focused on the rhythm of his thrusts.
Telemachus imagined how beautiful he might be without the cover of his chiton, glistening with sweat all the way down to the V of his abdomen, where his hips would be hidden by Telemachus’ thighs thrown over his waist. He wondered if there would be a trail of hair visible behind the frenzied bobbing of his own cock, sparse ginger curls gathered below his stomach.
Neo’s hands were harsher against him now, leaning more of his weight as the jerking of his hips grew faster and more frantic. It half felt as though his collarbone and wrists might crack under the pressure, and yet it wasn’t quite far enough into pain to be unpleasant. Telemachus moaned for every touch of Neo on his body.
“Neo,” he gasped, writhing under him. Neo moved erratically, momentarily thrown off his rhythm before he found his way back. “Ungh, close—fuck—”
“I don’t care,” he snarled, though he didn’t make any effort to stop rubbing against him. Telemachus could tell he was close, too, his shoulders shaking where he held himself up against him. “Augh—”
Telemachus snapped, crying out as it hit him with a tremble in his thighs, a spasm in his spine, a curling of his toes. He arched up into Neoptolemus like a desperate whore, whimpering when Neo only pushed against him harder, driving him into oversensitivity until he was twitching and whining in the dirt.
Neo was grunting with effort, and again it seemed like he was holding back for some unknown reason. Telemachus imagined if they had a little more time with this, that he might have fought enough to flip him over and force him to take it, nothing but pleasure and no way of denying it.
For today, he remained pinned and whimpering in the dirt until Neo got there himself, shuddering and driving himself against Telemachus’ abdomen as he came apart. They both breathed heavily after, unmoving for a minute as they caught themselves.
Neoptolemus came back to himself first, climbing back to his feet and brushing dust off himself as though he had simply tripped for a moment. Telemachus thought he might offer a hand to help him up, but he glared down as if he had violated him and adjusted his clothes at the waist.
“Pleased with yourself now?” he growled.
Telemachus adjusted his own clothes, sitting up and grimacing at the dirt stuck to the sweat of his back. He was going to have to go to the baths before he could face his parents at dinner. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Neoptolemus rolled his shoulders, scanning around the courtyard. Telemachus wasn’t sure if he was checking they weren’t caught or looking for someone to save him. “Don’t let this get to your head, princeling. I still don’t like you.”
Telemachus laughed dryly, pushing up to his own feet just to stand unnervingly close to him. He was taller than Neo, just a little bit; he used that to his advantage now.
“I’m glad,” he said. “I wouldn’t know what to do if you suddenly started kissing my feet and begging for more of my cock. Though I’m sure you won’t be able to stay away any more than before.”
Neo’s face contorted like he’d spat on him. The thought wasn’t entirely unappealing.
“You wish,” he muttered.
Telemachus grinned. “You will.”
Neoptolemus broke their standdown first, stepping away like he had to tear himself out of their staring match with physical force. Telemachus watched him back away, still glaring, all flushed and sweaty and dirty and beautiful. A part of him wanted to pounce on him, drag him back down into the dirt.
He sneered at him a little as he walked away. “Keep dreaming, prince.”
“I’ll see you there,” Telemachus purred after him. He brushed a little of the dirt off of his shoulders, and resolved to make his way straight to the baths.