Archive of Our Own ^beta

Telemachus’ knees ache. As if he’s been forced in a kneeling position for hours, a sort of throbbing sensation that not only extends up to his thighs, but to his stomach, his chest, his neck. He can’t feel anything below his knees, not even the tingling sensation of loss of blood flow. 

He’s blinking, or, at least trying to. But it’s as if heavy boulders weigh on his lashes, so that even lifting them a breath of a hair is an impossible feat. Still, he tries. Struggles with all his might to open his eyes, even if it’s just a crack. It’s instinct more than it is anything else, because not even his mind is working to the extent that it should be. 

There is a sort of pulsing sensation sounding in his mind. Reminding him of when a stone is dropped in the centre of a pond, causing ripples. And it’s not like it hurts, which is when the confusion starts to seep into him. His first thought had been that he had drunk too much. Not that it happens often, if ever. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t think there’s ever been a night where he has allowed the temptation of wine to render him senseless.

And now that he’s actually thinking about it, now that one thought enters, leaves, and gives the opportunity for more to come in, he can’t stop. Thought after thought starts to race in his mind, too quickly for him to fully grasp and it’s like he’s been given every thought that he could have when he has been so derived from it for… How long?

The thoughts come to a sudden stop, until all that remains is just one; where is he?

Because the last thing that he remembers is practically falling face first onto his bed after what could possibly be the worst and best day of his life. His body has been beyond exhausted, and even though his newly acquired goddess friend had healed him, he still felt so utterly drained. Excited, yet filled with dread. At being able to hold his own against a festering feline that had been eating more than his share of milk, yes. But, knowing that it will only be a matter of time before he has to face off against the lion, and the next time he might not have a goddess to back him up. 

Telemachus fully expected to sleep like a rock. To wake up to the sun, well into the sky and have to face and answer to his mother— perhaps the scariest thing of all.

Except—

Except he can’t fucking see his mother’s face faith in the afternoon sun because he can’t fucking see. And—

“Quiet.”

Telemachus hadn’t even been aware that he had been making a sound, so focussed on the fact that his eyes weren’t obeying his commands that he didn’t even stop to think that his other senses were working at all. Normally, he wouldn’t even think about adhering to anyone’s voice that wasn’t his mother’s, or Eurycleia on the off chance that she had caught him doing something that he wasn’t supposed to. Which was often. But this voice— deep. The first word that comes to his mind, deep and rumbling. Like rolling thunder, only worse. So much worse. An effect like none other falls upon him the moment his ears catch the word. Not even his mind, his ears. His body acting without his knowledge. The keen that had been vibrating his vocal cords, what he hadn’t even been aware of, immediately goes still.

Bonechilling, he feels what can only be described as akin to a spider crawling up the length of his spine. His heart slams against his ribcage once and then what feels like not at all as Telemachus goes as still and silent as the sand of the beaches. 

With his mind coming to a grinding vault, that leaves his senses to rush to fill the void. 

Too much all at once and he would wince if his body were able to move a muscle. That being said, little by little, Telemachus starts to pick up on everything around him.

Firstly, the cool marble beneath his knees. Supposedly against his entire legs as well, but he can’t feel his calves. Smoother than any marble he’s ever felt before. Secondly, there’s the lack of— noise in the air. No whistling birds, or the dancing of trees, or even the sounds of the townspeople calling out to one another. He can’t hear Argos walking up to greet him, nor the maids whispering gossip to one another, the guards slapping each other on the back, or even the suitors wrestling in the courtyard. And he smells— sweetness. Something so undeniably like honey, but sweeter. Oh so much sweeter.  

The fluttering of his eyes and he gets it; a flash of light. Much too fucking bright, and if he had the ability to, he would whimper. But his vocal cords remain steadfastly still. He can feel his heart pattering against his rib cage now, like a hummingbird’s wings. 

There’s an exhale now. The sound breaks through the silence so abruptly that Telemachus’ body gives a jolt. And it’s that final burst of energy that lets his eyes open, finally.

He really should’ve kept him closed. Because then, at least he could deny the situation becoming oh so apparent to him.

The light is too much, too bright, and too warm on his eyes. And he’s trying to scrunch them closed almost immediately. Except for whatever reason, his eyes now refused to stay shut for longer than a single blink, meaning that he’s forced to grow accustomed to the uncomfortability of the brightness around him.

He sees the marble flooring first, so white that he’s sure his teeth would look black in comparison. There’s the image of a youth staring back at him, nude, and while Telemachus is no stranger to the flesh, he’s still not entirely comfortable with it either. Choosing to avert his eyes, he sees the pillars next. Thick and sturdy and stretching so high into the heavens that it hurts to look up. So he lowers his eyes back down, now staring directly in front of him at—

It hasn’t even been a day, not even a few hours, but he knows divinity when he sees it. 

And even more so; he knows the King of Gods when he sees him. Sitting atop what can only be described as the throne of thrones in all his horrible and magnificent glory; is Lord Zeus. 

Telemachus has heard tales. He’s read poems. He’s seen mosaics. Hell, he’s heard from word of mouth of the great and terrible God King. 

He’s just always had the understanding that there are some gods one shouldn’t ever meet.

Athena is different. Athena is his friend, best friend now. She helped him fend off Antinous and give him hope when it was just starting to fade. She’s a goddess in the same way that she’s an owl, and she’s the coolest person he’s ever met. Any mortal would be thrilled to have her even look at them. 

And every mortal would count it as a blessing for Zeus to never even know they exist. 

Lounging atop his throne like he owns the very air that he breathes. And he does. His tunic slung over one shoulder and short at the thighs. Exposing his legs, torso, and arms and if he weren't a god, no mortal would yet to stand a chance against his physical might. But he is a god and that aura is filling the throne room so thickly that it's a struggle to breathe. 

Power. Power like Telemachus has never felt before. Antinous would sooner wet himself in front of the pack of suitors than have the power that is in Zeus’ pinky toe. 

Skin tanned and gleaming from the light of a sun that Telemachus yearns to feel upon his face. Hair thick and curling across his body. His chest, arms, and legs are covered in those thick black turning grey curls. The hair atop his head flows, rolls down his shoulders and seems to float on nothing. Turning such a light, fluffy cloud-like colour and texture that it would be cute if he wasn’t so horrifying. 

Gold jewelry adorns him though it’s not needed to uplift his status as king. Rings on his fingers, bracelets, pierced ears, nose, mouth, nipples— Telemachus is blinking as fast as he can and shooting his gaze upwards to go back to the god’s face so he doesn’t have to think about the thin garment leaving little to doubt the fact that the gods has pierced his c—

He should have kept his eyes down for when they rise to the god’s eyes, he finds nothing but anger. 

And to anger a god means a fate worse than death. 

His eyes are a dark gold, brighter still, and crackling with a dizzying and dangerous energy. Narrowed into slits and—

“Telemachus of Odysseus and Penelope,” Zeus rumbles. 

His body acts out for him, which is a blessing since his mind is frozen in fear, he’s not sure he would be able to communicate. Still on his knees, Telemachus’ body lurches forward and down, until his chest is pressing against that cool marble floor. His forehead meeting the floor as well, his palms sprayed out on either side of his head. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, but luckily, he’s not expected to.

“You have made a mockery of my good name.”

And Telemachus should be glad for the way that his body is frozen in fear that he doesn’t wet himself. His nerves are vibrating against each other, and he’s pretty sure that he’d be hyperventilating if he were allowed to move a muscle.

When had he used Zeus’s name in vain? Sure, he might not be as intelligent as some other worldly scholars are, but he’s not so stupid as to go and curse any god, let alone the King of Gods. 

Zeus doesn’t let his mind wander for longer than a second for, “Breaking Xenia is an offence that I cannot have overlooked.”

Telemachus shivers and then— then his brows meet each other. Broken Xenia? But he’s done nothing of the sort! He’s a good host, a damned good host. Even when it would suit his purposes better to throw the lot of the suitors out. It would suit his entire island better. But to do so would be breaking the very thing that Zeus is telling him that he has, so for the better part of what feels like an eternity, Telemachus has bit his tongue. Every time he’s been pushed a little too roughly, or called a name that he can’t even repeat in front of his mother, he’s stayed silent. That is until—

Oh. 

Oh. 

Oh fiuck. 

Telemachus somehow has the strength to lift his head, keeping the rest of his body entirely flattened to the floor. And if being on his knees was already enough of a terrifying sight when looking up at the King of Gods, being prone on his front is even worse.

Zeus glowers down on him, not a shred of mercy to be found in those bright, golden eyes. The god must sense that he’s about to speak, because he lets his rumble roll from his lips. “They are your guests, and yet you treat them like the common beggar.”

Indignation, perhaps incredulously so. And he’s not in his right mind, so overcome with a fear that he can taste on his tongue. He can blame his fear at least for, “It wasn’t my fault!”

His words don’t cut through the otherwise silent area around him like Zeus’ do, no, it cracks like a stone being thrown against a window pane, shattering the precious glass. He regrets it as soon as it falls from his lips, and although he gasps and his body jerks forward, as if to try to reach out, grab it, there’s no taking it back.

If he thought Zeus had been angry before, that’s nothing compared to— “Did I not tell you to be quiet, boy?” 

It’s like his body is suddenly deprived of his bones, his body going completely limp, and his face is all but melting into the marble floor. Even his heart refuses to beat, sagging low against the underside of his skin. 

There’s a rumble, that isn’t from Zeus, and the crackle of lightning. Too loud and much too raw in his ears, and Telemachus is embracing himself for a flinch that his body refuses to give him. Completely and utterly still.

“You have some nerve, Telemachus of Odysseus,” Zeus rumbles and Telemachus feels as if he is seconds away from his heart ceasing to exist. “I’ve invited you here, to Olympus,” Telemachus is going to faint and then choke on his own sickness. “To graciously right the wrongs that you have committed. I did not have to, I am not a merciful god.” Far from it, Telemachus knows the tales, at best the mortal is turned into an avian. At worst… “I was willing to extend the olive branch on behalf of my daughter.” Athena! She’ll help him, explain to Zeus that this is all just one big misunderstanding— “But it seems that a selfish, pampered, spoiled, mortal such as yourself is beyond such grace.” 

Fuck, fuck. If Telemachus had the ability to, he would be sobbing, whimpering, and screaming his forgiveness.

“That being said, I will not be as just as I would like to be,” Zeus continues, sounding disappointed. “For my daughter has softened my heart today and I don’t wish to have released one of her students just for her to lose the other.”

Confusion but he’s not even allowed to feel that when it’s as if an infinite weight is applied to his body, pressing him even further against the floor. Making it impossible for him to breathe. He wheezes, a broken sound that earns him no sympathy. 

“But I have every intention of delivering a lesson to the son of the man who will walk free.”

The confusion gets only worse, but so does his ability to breathe that Telemachus isn’t even fully comprehending what the god is saying to him. Just when it feels like he’s going to lose consciousness, the weight recedes. Enough for him to be able to lift his head, resting his chin against the floor as his eyes drag up to the gods’. The plea is on the tip of his tongue but Zeus doesn’t even let him have that. 

“You struck a man who you welcomed into your home,” he says quietly, but no less powerfully. Telemachus knows this type of tone, it’s the same one that his mother uses on him when she’s especially angry with him. Somehow, even though he didn’t think it was possible, he’s met someone who is scarier than his mother. “Doing something so incredibly disrespectful.” Telemachus knows better than to open his big, fat mouth and list all of the atrocities that the god has committed himself. “And not only that, but disrespecting myself in my own palace.” 

And if that doesn’t get Telemachus killed, he doesn’t know what will. He wishes that this was a dream, a nightmare. And he’s not entirely convinced that it isn’t. He’s had lucid, horrifying dreams before. Most of the time it’s of the suitors breaking into his room and holding him down as Antinous—

“Your punishment won’t be as just as it should be, but it will be enough to serve as a reminder. Understood?”

Telemachus realizes a little too late that he’s supposed to respond, for the weight returns upon his body much heavier and much more forcefully. He can practically hear his bones starting to crack under the pressure, and against all odds, a low groan is wrenched from his lips. It’s not so much the pain that is affecting him, although it is an ache that he’s never quite experienced before, it’s the fact that the god isn’t even laying a finger on him. Zeus is still seated on his throne. Meaning that there is anything, absolutely anything that this god can and will do to him. And the unknown, endless possibilities are driving a stake through his heart.

“Y-yeh—s…” It’s almost impossible to get even that out. 

Zeus neither confirms or denies his response so Telemachus has to go off of his facial features. And the flicker in his eyes only makes the dread in his gut rise.  “We’ll start light.” Telemachus doesn’t want to know what that means in his eyes. Zeus shifts in his seat, cocking his head to the side. “Sit up, on your knees, you’re not a pleasure slave. Not yet.”

That threat has Telemachus complying as quickly as possible. The weight on his back is lessened, yes, but not entirely. Meaning that he’s not just sitting up from being pressed against the floor, but he is still, in fact, being pressed against the floor. 

For a moment, he thinks that Zeus has just merely forgotten. A powerful deity, such as himself, must not always be aware of the power that they are yielding. Perhaps they just forget. 

But when he opens his mouth to tell the god, his eyes catch on before he makes a greater fool of himself. There’s a curve to Zeus’ mouth, nearly imperceptible, but there. And Telemachus has spent a better part of his youth learning to read behind the mask of cruelty. And sometimes the mask of cruelty is just that; cruelty. He gets a rush of déjà vu, forcing himself not to dwell on the memory of a different man, giving him the same exact look back in Ithaca. 

Of course his punishment wouldn’t start lightly. And perhaps he thinks that being able to endure it will lessen it.

Or perhaps, he thinks, childishly, that his newly acquired goddess friend will come rushing to his aid once she realizes what is happening.

So he grits his teeth and puts his all in sitting up. 

The weight on his back seems to increase with every muscle that he pushes to his limit. Going so far as to use his arms to give him that extra bit of strength. The marble is too smooth, however, and his palms slip on it. Arms shoving out from under him, and it’s only the fact that he hasn’t even moved an inch that saves his face from being cracked against the floor. Even still, pain erupts across the bridge of his nose and his forehead. He lets out a squeak of pain, one that doesn’t go unnoticed from the god. 

A rumbling laugh and it ignites an anger inside of him that fizzles out as soon as it sparks. Because as much as he’d like to be angry at Zeus, he’s more terrified. Terrified beyond belief that the god is simply playing with him, and this will be his last night. 

He exhales, inhales, and tries again. This time, he doesn’t allow his body to fail, forces himself to keep going even though it’s impossible. To tell himself that he can do this because he will do this. Pushing against an invisible, impossible force. Pushing and pushing, straining every muscle in his back, his lower back, his shoulders, his arms, even down to his thighs. He can feel his pulse throbbing against his temples. Sweat drips down the back of his neck and his hair clings to his skin. He’s grunting, a pathetic sound that only serves to prove to the god watching him that he isn’t worth the grace he's being granted. Not if he can’t do the simplest of tasks and sit up. 

But—

Either he’s stronger than the force holding him down, or Zeus has decided to lessen the weight on him. It’s most assuredly the latter. And of course the god doesn’t let it happen slowly, to let his body grow accustomed to the lack of weight. Oh no, Zeus removes the pressure on his back almost immediately. But since Telemachus is already using his entire might to get even an inch off of the ground, removing the weight entirely means that he’s pressing up against nothing with his full might. 

So Telemachus goes from on his front, to arching through the air and landing on his back. It must look utterly ridiculous, but he can’t even find the ability to feel embarrassment because all the wind is knocked out of him as he slams his back against the marble floor. 

His head isn’t spared from the pain either, hearing the thud and feeling the pain as it makes contact with the floor. Jars him so bad that he can’t think nor can he breathe as he just lies there. On his back and completely dumb as he gasps for the air that eluded him and grasps for the thoughts that evade him. 

It must be several se nods but it feels like forever before he hears the booming voice.

“Did I not tell you to sit up? And yet you mock me by lying down the other way?”

There’s not a bone in his body that has the ability to move, the pain, all encompassing and rendering him utterly limp. But at the rumbling of the King of Gods and that fear of losing the life he is just barely clinging to, Telemachus is scrambling up. 

His vision wanes and his body teeters on the edges of unconsciousness, but he doesn’t let it win. He’s practically throwing himself back on his knees, hands clutching his thighs, like a lifeline and bowing his head. He keeps his eyes open, too afraid of even blinking for too long and his eyelids refusing to open. Perhaps a mistake because his eyes make contact with the nude image on the marble. 

And it’s then that he realizes that there have been no designs on the marble flooring whatsoever. And there still is none. The marble is so pristine and pure that the light bouncing off of an unknown source is making it impossible to look without squinting his eyes.

Telemachus blinks. So does the image of the nude youth. 

His lips parts as he gasps for breath. So does the youth. 

He draws his shoulders up to his chin and so does—

He’s jerking his head down and staring at his nude form. 

In his haste to be frightened, he had forgotten to take stock of himself and— he doesn’t even question the fact that the god has stripped him. Or someone has. That’s not an entirely new concept for a god. And it’s surely nothing that Zeus hasn’t seen before. And it’s fine because Telemachus has been nude in front of men before and—

But it is merely the fact that he’s naked in front of another man, it’s the fact that he’s vulnerable in front of a god who wants nothing more than to see him suffer. 

It’s— humiliating. He’s a prince! Granted not as powerful, or witty, or strong as those other princes’, but he is still a prince. And he has a privilege that not many do. To be subjugated like this— it’s unheard of. He is far past the age for an erenomos and he isn’t a prisoner of war or a kidnappee held ransom or—

But he is a mortal in the presence of a god. A very angry and powerful god. 

A god that will go to great lengths not only to hurt him, but to humiliate him. 

His hands move in a desperate attempt to shield himself, from his thighs to his crotch, already shaking so hard. But there’s a tsking coming from above, and his body stops without his permission. “There is no hiding from me, boy you will lay yourself bare unto myself. The very skin you adorn your flesh is mine to decide.”

Telemachus feels as if he’s going to cry. Childish and utterly mortified, to feel scared to the degree of being told “no”. It elicits a sharp twang in his heart, one that he can’t ignore, and he’s sinking his teeth between his bottom lip, giving his head a single bob.

“Have you gone dumb suddenly?” Zeus rumbles. “When I tell you to do something, I expect an answer when you obey.”

He’s toying with him, Telemachus is fully aware. This God King could just as easily strike him with lightning and call it a day. But he’s not, he’s taking great lengths to ensure that this draws out for as long as possible. To cement in his mind that there is nothing, absolutely nothing that he can do to stop this. To not only leave him, battered and bruised, but humiliated beyond belief. 

If Telemachus plays the game to the degree that the god wants him to, it will not lessen his punishment. But if he so much as breathes a hair out of place, he knows that whatever punishment that would have already befallen him, will increase tenfold. So, “Y-yes, my Lord.” His nails are sinking into his skin, leaving crescent indents in their wake.

“You are a pitiful thing for a prince,” Zeus says. 

Telemachus tries not to take the words to heart, but it’s impossible not to. Especially since it’s something he’s heard before, time and time again. He knows this, even if he didn’t have a hundred and eight men to remind him every damned day. He’s shorter than most men his age, even the smallest suitor standing a good couple of inches on him. His muscles, or lack thereof, are ironic at best and an embarrassment at worst. 

He knows that he shouldn’t blame his mother, but in the back of his mind, he can’t help, but. For he’s begged and begged her, constantly pestering her to be able to have tutors to not only teach his mind, but to train his body. But Penelope refuses to, bans him from even going close to the armory. He hasn’t even been taught self-defense, which might have proven itself to be useful in his scuffle with Antinous. Those brief moments with his goddess friend, with Athena, guiding his strikes, or perhaps one of the best moments of his life. Not only did he have someone to stand by his side as he fought against an impossible giant, but he could feel it. The power. The strength. The ability to think on his feet and to use his body for something other than taking his head from one room to the next.

And he is— weak. Pathetic. His heart is too soft, and he doesn’t need anyone but himself to tell him that. Perhaps if he had had a father to raise him, he wouldn’t cry himself to sleep most nights wishing for one. Perhaps if he had a mother who didn’t block herself away in her room he wouldn’t wander the halls with an emptiness that could never be filled. And perhaps if he had someone other than just an aging dog as a companion, he wouldn’t ache with loneliness.

Telemachus is…he’s heavy. He doesn’t fully have the proper wording for it, but he’s just— heavy. It is something that’s akin to grief, although he knows he hasn’t lost anything worth being upset over. And anger, too, to be sure. He’s just so— he feels so lost. Lost and alone even though he shouldn’t complain. He’s a prince, well protected, well read, with a mother who does truly love him— even if she has difficulty showing it— and a father who gave up everything to ensure that he’d stay far from war.

He should be grateful for the life that he’s been granted. And instead he just feels miserable.

“Tell me,” Zeus’ voice demands an audience over his self pity party. “Is it your mothers’ absence when her presence is so near? Or your fathers’ weight on your shoulders despite his disappearance that fuels your hatred?”

Telemachus is snapping his head up, an anger burning inside of him. “I do not hate my parents!” And shouting at the King of Gods is only going to get him killed. Or worse.

Zeus’ lips curve even sharper, and that glint in his eyes only shines darker. “What an interesting mortal you are. So much different from your father.” His greatest fear— “Do you not fear my wrath that you would risk your hide in favour of your pride?” An impossible question and at the reminder of what is at stake, his very life, Telemachus loses half of the wind in his lungs. His mouth goes dry, and although his lips are parted, no sound comes out. Zeus shakes his head. “A peculiar thing, you are. No wonder you thought yourself above something as vital as my Xenia. Sorrelly lacking of a strong hand, I see. Stand up.”

He could deny, although he’s not sure if it would be for himself or the god. And he’s not so sure which one he would be lying to. Telemachus knows there is no point in disobeying, and he has no intention of angering the god any more than he has. A foreboding dread is rising, getting lodged in his throat and making it impossible to breathe.

Luckily, this time, Zeus keeps the weight from his shoulders, so it’s easy to stand. Easy in the sense that he’s not fighting against an impossible weight. But impossible when his legs shake so badly. And since they’ve been numb for the better part of— however long he’s been on his knees— Telemachus wavers before his legs have fully straightened. 

His hands dramatically slap against his knees, his back arching, and panting heavily as he tries to keep his balance. He’s making a fool of himself, he knows, but he’d rather look like a fool, then fall back on his face. Because he’s not so sure if he’d be able to get up if he falls so low again.

The blood rushes suddenly down to his feet, sending pins and needles stabbing into his blood. It hurts, and although it’s a minuscule amount of pain, he can’t help but whimper at it. He knows that Zeus hears it, the rest of the throne room is utterly silent save for the two of them. And to be struggling with something as simple as standing when he knows that whatever will follow is going to be much much worse, makes the pricking sensation so much hotter in his eyes. 

He musters up enough strength to ignore it, to push past that uncomfortable pain, and to straighten himself out. And although the urge to cover himself surges high, he forces himself to keep his arms limp at his side. Staring at the god’s sandals, unable to bring his eyes any higher.

He’s expecting Zeus to command him to do something, he’s not expecting the pain. 

It’s as if his muscles suddenly are on fire, his very nerves spasming uncontrollably. He gasps, unable to make even a sound as his jaw locks up. And down he goes, colliding with the marble flooring, his needs aching, but unable to feel even that pain as the seemingly never ending agony flows throughout his very veins. 

He can taste it, on the tip of his tongue. And he’s vaguely aware of what’s happening. The ozone in his mouth and the cackle in the air. This is what he'd been expecting of the god. Not the aching conversation, this. 

The hairs on his neck and arms and his entire body are standing on edge, he could practically hear it sizzling. His skin feels electric, no, it is electric. Coursing not only through his veins, but on the underside of his skin, and over it as well. Even his bones are quaking under the sparks. 

He would have thought that he’d be able to hear himself, screaming, with his mouth open, and his throat quivering. But he can’t, the only sound is the slight sizzling and the breathing coming from the throne. Not even himself, because he can’t get one single breath in. And even though his mouth is open, not a single sound comes out. His body is seizing up so thoroughly that he can’t even get a grunt out.

It comes in waves, striking through him like a spear at one point and then daggers the next, and needles after. But just when he thinks that it’s over, it happens again.

He’s pressing his body against the cool marble flooring as much as he can, wishing for the impossible weight instead of—

Instead of being struck with lightning. 

Overdramatic, to be sure. Because if he were to actually be struck by lightning, he wouldn’t be lucid enough to feel the pain. And he would be waking up to a figure reaching out for a golden drachma. 

The pain, lightning, whatever he wants to call it, settles now. Enough for him to be able to let out one grown after the next, sucking in short gaps that reached nowhere near his lungs. 

“I thought I told you to stand.”

Telemachus whimpers, curling in on himself as much as he can, despite his body being rigidly stiff. Pressing his face against the floor and trying to hide.

“Stand, boy.”

He can’t, there’s no fucking way that he’ll be able to stand after that. But there’s that fear now, greater than his grief or his anger, starting to rise with him. The fear of being struck again, and even though it’s still coursing through his veins, it’s manageable. A lie, he’s so good at doing that to himself, but he’s pushing himself up, only to fall back down and his face making contact with the floor. Harshly. He can hear the crack and there’s a warmth blossoming from his nose. The pain isn’t anywhere near as bad as the lightning, it doesn’t even hold a candle to it, so he doesn’t give it any attention.

Trying again, Telemachus gets as far out as his knees underneath him, the palms of his hands slipping against the crimson flowing from his nose. He hopes it’s not broken, then a hysterical bark of laughter at the notion of hoping his nose isn’t broken when a god literally just struck him with lightning. His mind must be fried. 

Back in that familiar position with his hands on his knees as he sits on his calves. Shaking so badly and panting hard. He’s somehow able to raise his chin, and although his eyes want to do anything but, he’s meeting Zeus’ gaze. The god almost looks bored at first glance, but the longer Telemachus stares, the worse the unease in his gut bubbles. 

“I thought I told you to stand.”

“I can’t,” Telemachus whimpers. 

“I don’t care what you can or can’t do, you will stand. Unless of course,” and a snide grin manages to stretch over his otherwise stoic face. It’s unnerving how even though his mouth is granted, his eyes have never looked more flat. “You beg me.”

Telemachus is struggling to even breathe, but he manages, “Wh-what…sir?” Tacked on at the end but better than nothing. 

His grin neither lessens or widens, just, “Beg me to let you stay on your knees.”

Humiliating. Utterly humiliating and Telemachus nearly weeps and rocks back and forth. But he’s not so sure he can trust his body for that either. It’s just— not fair. He’s a prince, a prince! He does not beg! 

But he is a mortal in the presence of a god, and little matters to them like status. 

Or—

Status is the only thing that matters to them. 

He can see it in the stretching of those lips across Zeus’ face. He’s— enjoying this. As much as he’s feigning boredom; he’s taking great pleasure in watching Telemachus’ sanity and body be broken further and further. 

Like a wolf nipping at the heels of a lamb. 

Perhaps gods aren’t so different then mortals. 

Antinous hides behind the claim of teaching him what it means to be a man, Zeus is using a broken code as an excuse to extend his power. 

Not so different at all. 

Telemachus swallows. There’s no winning for him. Either he forces his body to stand, doing irrevocable damage to it, or he wounds his pride by begging to stay in such a submissive position. 

He should be grateful for the lack of an audience. Which in of itself is odd. The gods are known for their perverted love of showcasing their power, perhaps one of their greatest weaknesses. Not that Telemachus would ever voice it.  

What he does voice is— “P-please, Sir.” His mouth is far too dry and his tongue too thick. His face warms with embarrassment but he can’t very well give up now. He can’t force himself to keep eye contact and hangs his head. “Please… let me stay.”

He’s a prince, the son of greatness twice over, divinity runs in his veins! And yet he’s begging like a street urchin for coin. Pathetic and—

“Tsk, tsk. You call that begging?” Zeus croons, condescending and cruel. “My, my, you can’t even be pathetic enough to do even the simplest of asks.”

Telemachus’ shoulders rise, his heart pattering faster against his chest. He just— but how is that not good enough? Will anything be for this God King?

“I’m feeling patient today, and I would hate to see the fresh pupil of my daughters fail at something so easy when she herself has chosen you for something as grand as training under her,” Zeus continues. 

A sharp, wicked knife straight in his heart. Telemachus is aware that he doesn’t deserve Athena’s friendship, he’s lucked out. But he has it now and he’s going to prove himself to her that he can be a great warrior, and mind and body and spirit. But he has to live to the next day to prove himself. So he has to… “Please, Sir, I—”

“Not like that,” interrupted, Telemachus’ mouth snaps shut with an audible clack. “Begging is nothing unless you actually mean it. So— mean it.” The god’s voice drops even lower. “Because if you don’t satisfy me, I will make you do so much worse than standing on shaky legs. And you won’t be able to beg me to stop for your throat will be raw with your screams.” A full body shiver runs down Telemachus’ spine and he fights the nausea rolling in his gut. “So, Telemachus of Odysseus, beg me. Like you mean it.”

He tries to swallow again, but it gets lodged in his throat, and he ends up with the saliva collecting back in his mouth. He’s still breathing rather heavily, and since his mouth is open, that saliva starts to drip down his chin. He doesn’t have the energy to wipe it with the back of his hand. 

Fuck. He— he can’t do this… But he has to. Because if he doesn’t, then he might not be able to leave the throne room alive. And he can’t do that to his mother, he can’t.

And also— selfishly, he doesn’t… he doesn’t want to be in pain. He really isn’t a man if he can’t handle a little stinging. But it— it hurts and he doesn’t want this, he wants to go home—

Telemachus forces his shoulders to drop, even though they want nothing more than to rise back up to his chin in a protective manner. Shaking hands clutching his still shaking thighs. A shallow breath, one that doesn’t calm his nerves in the slightest. And he’s raising his chin, slowly. Painstakingly slowly, as if it’s his head being weighed down now. 

It’s the last thing he wants to do, but he forces his eyes to lift as well. Going from the King of Gods calves to his generous thighs, to the crotch with what he can only assume is— it’s soft, and he can’t quite imagine how it must look when he’s aroused, his poor wife— enough of that kind of thinking as he flicks his eyes up to the god’s stomach and pecs. Powerful, so powerful and his skin glistens, as if oiled, he probably is. And finally to the god’s face. Lips still curved in that damned smile. Nostrils flaring and eyes—

He would hate to have those eyes be the last thing he sees. A dark, deep gold that makes him want to squint, to blink away until the harshness fades. But he knows it won’t so he keeps his eyes wide open, even though he’s fairly certain he’s burning his retinas. He won’t have this face be the last thing he sees. He promises to himself. “Pl—” A failed attempt before he even starts, but there’s a second between his stutter and Zeus’ response so he chooses to use that as his second, second chance. “Please, please, Lord Zeus. I can’t— I can’t get up. I can’t— it’s too much. Please,” his voice won’t stop cracking. “Please don’t make me get up, I can’t. Let me stay on my kn-knees.” He wants to sink his teeth into his bottom lip but he somehow finds the strength not to. His face is getting warmer and warmer and the utter humiliation feels like it’s enough to boil him alive. “I’m—” And he loathes to say this, “not strong enough. I’m— I’m weak, I can’t stand on my own, please.”

Zeus’ grin settles comfortably on his face as Telemachus makes a fool of himself. His eyes never break in contact with the mortal kneeling before him. And his eyes only grow darker and darker, making it impossible to look him in the eyes. And yet, Telemachus has no choice but to.

There’s a long, drawn out moment after Telemachus speaks—begs. He doesn’t dare to move a muscle, though, fearing that one wrong will ultimately be his last. 

After what feels like an eternity, Zeus straightens his sitting position, reclining more comfortably on his throne. And in doing so, spreads his legs. Out of the corner of his eyes, Telemachus catches the movement. And if his face wasn’t already burning red, it would be when he realizes that the god has certainly gotten bigger. 

Dread, he’s familiar with a specific type of dread. Antinous—And a new fear courses through him. Perhaps death isn’t the worst thing waiting for him.

“Good,” Zeus says and Telemachus’ breath hitches. “Now… stand.”

What?

“What?” he can’t help but croak out. 

Zeus raises an eyebrow, “Stand.”

“B-but… I just…” Telemachus gapes at him, his mind refusing to comprehend what he’s hearing. He just— begged. He just begged the god to let him stay on his knees— an utterly humiliating position so he wouldn’t have to stand. Because he knows that he can’t. Not after the lightning, not with how his legs shake, caught his breath’s come in pants, and his vision blurs. “You said…”

“I told you to beg,” Zeus nods. “And you did. Now stand.”

Realization douses Telemachus and he fights every instinct inside of him that wants to curl up in a ball and cry. 

All for nothing, played for a fool. He can see it now. Zeus is just toying with him. A cat and mouse game until the god grows bored and… and..

“Stand, boy, or you won’t ever be able to.”

A threat and an order, one to which Telemachus has no choice but to obey. He knows that he shouldn’t feel betrayed, a god owes a mortal no honestly, while a mortal owes them their entire life. It’s not fair, but when have things ever been fair in the face of divinity? Not his father— a thought that Telemachus quickly banishes. Should not compare himself to his father. Not to the great and powerful Odysseus. He’s nowhere close to being the man that he is. Odysseus would have been able to get himself out of the situation, no, he wouldn’t have even found himself in this situation to begin with.

Telemachus has no one to blame but himself. He’s the one who threw the first punch. Even though he knows that Antinous had been goading him on. Had been whittling away at his patience for the better part of years. And this was just an unlucky situation when Telemachus snapped. 

His body is moving on its own accord, straining against the weak limbs and shaking nerves. He whines, doesn’t bother to hide behind a masculinity that he doesn’t deserve. And anyway, Zeus seems to like it when he’s struggling— as evident by the growing tent under his chiton. Telemachus prays he’s misinterpreting. 

He has absolutely no strength to do so, there isn’t a single bit of energy in his body. And he has no choice. He pushes himself. Forces his limbs to move when they feel leaden. Forces his nerves to be quiet when they’ve never felt more on a fire. And he forces his mind to shut the fuck up and just fucking obey.

His body protests because of course it does. Even if he hadn’t been coursed with lightning, the fear running through body is enough to render him too weak. Weak, he is, and yet he has to push past it. Lest he be done worse than just smiting. 

Somehow, somehow, Telemachus stands. Poorly. He’s hunched over, leaning a bit to one side. His thighs and calves are shaking tremendously and he can’t stop panting heavily. It seems that he’s unable to catch his breath. Sweat drips down his body in waves and his hair is plastered to his skin. 

But he—

He did it. He fucking did it. 

It’s foolish to have a feeling of accomplishment over something else fucking stupid and standing. But he does, he is.

The moment doesn’t last long before—

“Augh!” Telemachus barely gets a shout of pain and surprise out before he’s collapsing back onto the ground. His knees slam hard against the marble floor and his hands aren’t able to break his fall, falling on his elbows. Landing on the points of his elbow sends a jolt of pain up into his neck.

But he doesn’t even get to feel that pain when it’s—

It’s happening again. His body hasn’t forgotten it, how could he? Not when the lightning singes his very nerves. On fire is too lax of a word and—

“F-fu—plea—sto-ah!” He can’t get a single word out, and even though he’s vaguely aware that it’s not at the harshest it was, it’s still so fucking painful and he— it really fucking hurts. 

He’s writhing on the floor, unsure if his nose is still bleeding or if that’s just from before. Pressing his face against the floor and screaming into the marble. His body seizing up and then rolling. Going back and forth from too still than slamming against the floor. 

And over his ragged screams, he can hear it. The laughter. Zeus chuckling softly. Not cackling like a maniac, but the tickled kind of laughter when seeing a puppy rolling around in the mud. 

Condescending. Telemachus is too busy crying out to feel anything but pain. 

“Pl-please!” he barely manages. “M so-rry… hm.. pl-ease! It—hurts!” He can’t stop screaming through his words. His breathing sounding and feeling like a nail scraping against chipped stone. He somehow manages to raise his head and reach out his hand, knowing that he looks so fucking pathetic but he can’t think of anything else. “Please!”

Something flashes behind Zeus’ eyes. Or Telemachus is just hallucinating. It’s hard to see properly past the pain and tears. 

He can’t keep his head or hand up for more than that single second and they drop back down. Zeus either heard him or didn’t, but either way the lightning increases, and Telelachus is in so much pain that he can’t even scream— before it stops. Suddenly. And it’s actually worse than if it were to slowly go down in intensity. Just to cut off it’s—

It’s not good. Like coming to a screeching halt after running for so long and so fast. It sends Telemachus reeling and he croaks out pitifully, body still shuddering with the aftershocks. 

He can hear a rumbling but he’s so out of it that he can’t understand it. He tries, he really does. But he just can’t. 

A short pause and then the actual rumbling of thunder. Whether it be the fear or some divine intervention, a surge of energy and consciousness floods through Telemachus and he gasps. The spurt of adrenaline courses through his veins about as violently as the lightning, leaving him breathless and wrought. 

Telemachus is able to come back to himself, too quickly. The energy is too much and he squirms on the floor, body still exhausted enough to not want to move while his veins beg him to run a marathon. He manages to come to an agreement and sits up. He's somewhat back on his knees. Hunched over with one hand between his thighs and the other one behind him for stability. Shaking and shuddering, he feels the weight of Zeus’ eyes on him and without prompting, slowly raises his own. He can’t find the energy to lift his chin so he’s peering up through his lashes, blinking away the fat tears that cling to them. 

“Wh-why?” he croaks, his voice like broken glass. 

Zeus merely shrugs, “You have a bite to your pride.” As if that explains anything beyond the fact that Zeus is hust—cruel. Perhaps more cruel than Antinous who for all his hits and curses, only does so to whittle Telemachus down to convince his mother to wed one of them. Zeus, even though he’s punishing him for breaking Xenia, is just cruel. “Now, for your final punishment.”

There’s more? How could there possibly be more? Telemachus cannot bear it, he can’t even bear sitting here, his body begging to succumb. He whimpers and hangs his head further, fingers curling into his palms. But he doesn’t voice the no that stands on the tip of his tongue. He knows better. And if… if this is his last punishement… he can do it. Just one more. And Zeus… well, even though he is a god, he must understand that mortals have limits. Right? He wouldn't push Telemachus to do something that would kill him. 

Zeus intends to break his pride, not take his life. And yes, Telemachus will barely be able to live with the memories of this, but at least he will be alive. So he just has to man up and take it. It’s just one more. 

So he stays silent and holds his breath. Waiting. 

He blinks away another onslaught of tears and when he opens them again, he sees a small jar. His eyebrows meet and he blinks again. The jar doesn't disappear so he’s not hallucinating. Probably. Although he wouldn’t put it past his hysteria. 

“Be grateful for this, you have your father to thank,” Zeus rumbles and Telemachus finds himself glancing back up at the god. “I like Odysseus.” Is all he says. Telemachus fends off the childish sting of Zeus not voicing his like for him. He doesn’t want Zeus to like him. He just wants the god to leave him alone. “Now, prepare yourself.”

And then— nothing. 

“Wh—?” Telemachus… he doesn’t understand? Zeus grunts and the clouds around them seem to darken so Telemachus is quick to try and reexplain. “M… s’rry.” His voice is just raw and maybe it’s even bleeding at this point. But he has to press on. “I don’… nder’stan’? I…” And he has to pause to hack, but that just hurts and he whimpers instead. “Wh…wha?”

Even that takes so much out of him, leaving him breathless and panting again. He has the energy to keep his head up at this time though. Peering into  Zeus’ eyes with confusion and fear. 

Zeus crooks an eyebrow, glances to the side at nothing, shakes his head and gives a little chuckle. As if disbelieving that someone could be so fucking stupid. And it just makes him feel even more fucking stupid. Or so that he already does on a daily basis. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to use oil?”

“F-for…wha?” Telemachus is so lost.

And something different passes over Zeus’ face. Something predatory. “Oh, you’ve…” And a few chuckles fall from his mouth. Telemachus swears that he sees the bulge twitch. “You can’t possibly be naive. Surely you’ve touched yourself.”

Telemachus blames his state of exhaustion. Both mental and physical for not coming to the realization soon enough. For it having taken him this gods damned long. 

Oh. Oh, no. No, he can’t… he has touched himself and he— he’s had one or two (or over a dozen) nights where he used two fingers inside and he swore to never let that come to life and—

Zeus can’t mean to… to…

The gods’ cock is twitching and—

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Zeus interrupts his spiraling. “I have no intention of defiling you. Odysseus’ anger is bothersome enough as it is. I do not need his little feet stomping in my palace and mucking up my marble. And I also see no use in punishing you just for my wife to take your sight or have you kidnapped by some other kingdom. One war is well enough.” Zeus chuckles to himself like he’s making a lighthearted joke and not playing with Telemachus’ livelihood. “No, I’m sure you can watch your pride fall on your own. You’ll prepare yourself— I’d say four fingers— and then,” and Telemachus is blinking again, mouth going dry at what he sees. How the fuck is he going to even fit that inside— “You’ll debase yourself.”

His guts drops. What. What?  

He stares and stares at— that thing. He… he knows what it is. He’s… he’s nearly stolen one from an unsuspecting maid in a crisis of his own sexual frustration. Of course, he didn't. Because that would not only be disgusting; to use another person's… device. And perhaps he stole away to the market cloaked in what he hoped was a disguise to purchase his own. But he’s a prince and… he’s not in need of an erastes, he is not so lowly that he needs to stoop to the level of an eromenos! He will find a wife when he’s… when he’s of age. Ignoring that he’s well past the age for sending out suits of his own. 

He can use the excuse of his mother far too overwhelmed with her own unwanted suits. He’s just— keeping her safe until his father comes home and makes everything right. 

He hasn’t— thought about… he has no time for pleasures of his skin—

It’s not like he’s spent nights locked in his room while he touched himself until the sun came up, imagining all the hands on him that he has no intention of ever accepting if they were to offer him a suit. He is a pious prince. He does not give in to— to whorish behaviour!

“I—”

“You are not owed a choice. I am not giving you one, boy,” Zeus says. His voice is booming in Telemachus’ ears despite how quietly and casually he says them. “Do not make me wait.”

Telemachus just— stares. He knows he shouldn’t. He should just— what? Debase himself in front of a god and… and..

But he can’t! He just— he’s a prince, a fucking prince! He is above this. 

“Please, I… I can’t do this—”

He should have known than to challenge the King of Gods. Zeus’ hand snaps out, curves up, and raises. Up into the air like he’s holding an invisible stone in his grasp. 

Except—

Telemachus gasps as his body jerks on its own accord. Feeling a pressure so tight in his chest that it gives him another dizzy spell. And it’s pulling at him and— his body rises, not on it down. His legs are jelly and limp under him. And yet his body is going up and up. Like he’s being pulled by his chest. 

“Ah, f-wha…?”  Telemachus gasps as he’s lifted off of the floor and up into the air. His legs scramble beneath him but it’s no use and soon his toes aren’t even scraping the marble. They kick out against empty air and his hands are too busy swiping at his chest. 

It’s inside of him, something firm gripping his rib or heart or something inside of him and forcing him up. His nails scrape at his skin, digging in so deep that he’s actively leaving gashes across himself.  

“Ple—wai—stah—help…” feebly and so pathetically that even he couldn't help himself. His legs are swaying back and forth and he can’t break eye contact with the god, not matter how terrifying it is and—

The warmth is humiliating. And his face pinches with mortification as it runs down his thighs, his legs, his ankles, and drips onto the floor. The sound can barely be heard above his own pleas and ragged breathing, but he can still hear it. The sound of a soft trickle and the drips on the once pristine marble floor. 

 And he still can’t really focus on that embarrassment when his chest feels like it’s being ripped out from his ribs. Scratching at himself is doing him no good but in his panicked state of mind, he can’t think of anything else to do. 

“You dare to refuse me? A god, the King? When I’ve been nothing but patient to you?” Zeus bellows, actually shouts this time, and it shatters his eardrums. Piercing through his entire core and Telemachus goes limp at the sound. His arms falling to his side and his legs going still. Whatever he had managed to keep in his bladder is released and he whimpers pitifully as his legs become even more soaked with his fear. “You insolent wrench! I was willing to show grace to you for your bloodline, but you are throwing it all to the wind? You do not defy me—me, this is not a game, little mortal. This is your punishment. And you will take it. Lest you wish to never see your precious island and all that reside in it again!”

His hand jerks and Telemachus’ body does as well. Suddenly back and forth and without moving from one end to the other, more like a child shaking a doll. Telemachus cries out, his body still completely lax from fear and exhaustion. He can hear himself blubbering, an attempt at pleas and apologies— but unintelligible. 

Zeus stills his hand and curls, bringing Telemachus closer to him. A few feet away from him and Telemachus wants nothing more than to get as far away from him as possible. It’s very bones or vibrating with terror.

“You are going to open yourself up. Four fingers. And then, then—” he sneers, such a familiar facial expression. “You’re going to fuck yourself on that until your pride has nothing left to bounce on. Understood?”

Leaves no room for argument and Telemachus is far too terrified of saying anything other than— “Y-yes… Lord Zeus.”

The god doesn't nod his head or say good, simply raises his chin and then—

Telemachus lands. Hard. The wind knocked out of him once more. Back where he belongs; his knees. 

He doesn’t want to look down, doesn't want to see the crimson or yellow that’s now on the pristine white marble. But he has to search for the jar of oil. It’s just out of his reach, and he whimpers when he has to brace himself on one hand to lean over. 

Putting too much pressure, unbalanced, on said hand and he slips. Crashing even lower to the floor, his chest landing and forced to exhale whatever oxygen he managed to suck in as well as the wet sound when he lands on his own urine. Or blood. And honestly, he’s not sure which one he would prefer. 

He grabs it though, forces his fingers to curl around the jar even as they shake profusely. It’s warm against his skin and he almost drops it when he picks it up. Either he’s getting weaker or the jar is heavier than it looks. Telemachus somehow manages to set up again, hunched over and looking glumly at the jar in his hand. There’s nothing special or ornate about it. It’s just that, a jar. A jar of oil. He’s not even sure if it’s enough— no, that’s not right. He knows that it’s enough. Just enough. The perfect amount that he needs to for opening himself up, and then coating the cock in front of him and fucking himself with him.

Hysteria crawls up his throat, but he forces it back down.

Telemachus cradles that jar of oil close to his chest, breathing in and out slowly as he calms himself back down. Or, as calm as he can be when he’s about to…

“Ah, ah,” Zeus interrupts when Telemachus is about to open the jar. He flinches, hunching in on himself even more and daring to look up at the god. He’s not sure if Zeus has lost his anger or he’s just channeling that into his perverse cruelty. “Turn around. You’ll show me how well you can open yourself up.”

He would rather gnaw off his own hand, but he’s already starting to turn around. Perhaps it’s worth better, at least this way he doesn’t have to look the god in his eyes. Telemachus is almost certain that if he were to stare even longer at those eyes, he would burn to ash. And furthermore, this way, he doesn’t have to look at the gods forsaken dildo. At least he can pretend that it’s not going to happen… That way. Even though in the back of his mind, he knows that it will.

He exhales shakily out of his mouth as he completely turns around. His back now at the god. He can feel those terrible and awful eyes staring at him. Making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was wrong, this is worse. This is so much worse.

He needs to distract himself, so, with nothing else to do, Telemachus is uncorking the jar and dipping a finger inside. Perhaps he should just get it over with and shove his whole fist up his ass, but he doesn’t want to tear himself. And he’s… Nervous. Well, he’s fucking terrified. But he also knows that he has to go slow, to open himself up to take… That size. He tries to exhale again before, realizing that he didn’t even inhale for more oxygen. He chokes a little, before he remembers how to breathe. 

“On your knees, and arch your back,” comes the voice behind him.

He flinches, which means that he ends up doing exactly that. Jolting onto his hands and knees and arching his back, trying to press his face into the floor, as if that will solve any of this. He hears a chuckle and a sigh and refuses to start crying again. Instead, Telemachus takes a deep breath, and drags his hand, the one coated with oil, behind him.

He’s— done this before. Numerous times, not that he’d ever admit it. But he knows how to. It’s just that he’s never had an audience before.

Another shaky breath, and he’s finding the curve of his backside. The suitors have taken great pride in reminding him that he takes after his mother, down to the swell of her ass. And it’s disgusted him, of course it has but—

His mind always chooses to come back to those types of comments when he’s alone in his bed at night. He braces himself on his other hand as he lowered himself down more, spreading his legs to give himself better access.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he parts his other ones. It’s slippery, the oil on his unblemished skin, making it easy to go between. He remembers the first time he did this, when he had to use the full length mirror in his bedroom to make sure he could see what he was doing. He had thought that had been one of the most mortifying times of his life. But this is worse. So much worse. If he could, he would go back to that same day and use his fist, dry, if it meant, he didn’t have to be in this position.

“Don’t be shy.”

He’s not shy, he’s terrified. And disgusted. And he wants to fucking cry— Telemachus finds his hole, easily. And he would laugh if he wasn’t about to break into a hysterical fit. His breathing comes in gasps as he traces his rim, coaxing his body to calm down so it will all be easier for him. Just— put his mind somewhere else. Imagine that this is any other situation. Back in his bed or— a wedding bed. And the eyes on him aren’t the malice and golden ones of a god, but his darling wife. 

He can feel the tension start to abate, a little. Just a little bit. 

He breathes out and pushes in. His entire finger was coated with oil so it shouldn’t come as a surprise at how easily it goes in. He’s already at the second knuckle before he even realizes. And, it must help that he had touched himself last night. And he— he had every intention of it again. Especially after the scuffle that he just had with—

No, not that. Telemachus forcibly pushes the rest of his finger inside, grunting a little at the stretch. A woman, a beautiful, elegant, and kind woman. The kind of woman that his mother could approve of, had picked out specifically for him.

She’d be patient with him, give him the time he needed to warm up to her. And she’d be the perfect match, Telemachus has no doubt in his mind that Penelope would be able to find his perfect half. Both parts feisty and calming, a pillar to lean against and someone to remind him of his place. Strong, and witty. To keep him on his toes but able to sweep him off of them if he ever stepped out of line. 

And she’d bite him if he barked too loudly—

Telemachus tries not to outwardly groan— despair or something else? He needs to redirect his mind. This isn’t helping. His finger has stilled inside of him and he’s too busy conjuring up an image in his mind that is too close to a memory. The ache is gone so he’s pulling his finger out, pushing the jar of oil behind him, and dipping two inside this time. Definitely coating his fingers too much and he hurries to catch whatever drips. He knows he won’t be given another jar and he still has to ensure the dildo is properly…

Telemachus holds his breath so he doesn’t make any noise, two fingers going in with more difficulty. 

“How many times have you done this?”

The voice shocks him, he had almost convinced himself that he was alone. So when he does hear it, he jolts. His hand jerks forward, and he’s plunging both fingers to the last knuckle in one swoop. Too fast and too much at once, Telemachus isn’t able to bite back the huffed groan at the stretching. He nearly lands on his chest, his hand slipping from the sweat that’s dripping on the floor, but he manages to stay separate.

“I asked you a question, boy,” Zeus growls. 

“I— a few—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Many,” Telemachus gasps out. His hands want to clench into fists but he keeps them still, not wanting to risk the ones inside of him. “I—many times.”

“And you have no erastes?” Even though he already knows the answer full well.

“No,” he croaks. 

“So what reason would there be to open yourself like this?”

“I don’t know…” His face is so warm that it may as well melt off of him.

“Boy…” A warning. 

“Because I want it…”

“And what do you want…”

“I… I…”

“Add another finger.”

He hasn’t even started to stretch himself out properly on two fingers. But he’s arching his back and pulling them out, sucking in a sharp breath when they inevitably catch on his rim. He doesn’t say anything else as he reaches down and tips three of his fingers into the jar, making sure that he doesn’t overcoat his fingers.

His entrance doesn’t want to give, already starting to tense despite having started being stretched out. But Telemachus just grits his teeth and pushes. And too quickly, his body begging him to slow down at the very least. But he can’t, and the burning ache is almost a good distraction from the humiliation. Two knuckles and—three. He pushes it to three knuckles and he definitely is getting too close to slipping onto his chest, or face. 

“How many fingers have you gone up to?”

“Th-three.”

“Add another."

“But—!”

“Add. Another. No oil.”

And he’s already starting to cry, fucking terrific. But there’s nothing he can do, no fucking thing and it’s not like he can deny the god. So before his body is even remotely ready for the three fingers that he has inside of his ass, Telemachus is pulling them out, cupping his fingers in what he can only hope is bunched up enough, and attempting to push all four of them in.

He’s never gone up to four fingers, he’s thought about it a few times. And maybe even once tried, but he quickly gave up on the notion. Four fingers just— requires a lot of patience. Patience that he never has.

“F—” He cuts himself off before he makes more than that initial squeak of a noise. He’s not even sure if he’s made it to the first knuckle, the stretch is overwhelming, burning and he feels like he’s torn something even though he knows he hasn’t.

“More.”

He knows his body can’t possibly, but he’s doing it anyway because fuck him. Fucking literally. 

Telemachus does his best to leave the lower part of his body. Forcing himself not to focus on the burning sensation in his ass, but the feeling of tightness around his fingers. Putting all his sensations in his hand rather than his entrance. And it’s starting to work, or at least somewhat. Because at least he’s not hyperventilating and crying out for his mama. He keeps his teeth, clamped up from a lean together, and even though his lips are bared to expose them, he refuses to beg. He won’t do any good anyway.

And the body is resilient. He’s found that out from his scuffle with Antinous. It should have knocked on his ass a dozen times over, even before Athena came through his aid. But he had managed to hold his own, for quite longer than he thought he would. So he has to give himself credit where it’s due and—

All the way inside and he allows himself time to breathe. Tries to calm himself down, the breathing exercises that his mom taught him when he was young, when he suffered from attacks. 

At least the god grants him a few seconds. Perhaps even in a minute. Before, “You have ten minutes to open yourself up. Do with it what you will.”

Ah, so it’s up to him. Which is almost worse than if the god had directed him. He would prefer not to move it at all, even though twitches of his fingers are giving way to that aching pain.

He knows that logically he could pull them out now, perhaps risk the chance to put oil on his fingers. But he’s afraid that he won’t be able to push them back in. Not mentally anyway. So he takes a deep breath, then another, until he has ten shaking gasps under his belt.

He keeps saying that every breath he’ll start to move, and then the next breath he’ll do it. Actually, maybe the next and then… Who is he getting? He just… Fuck it.

And before he’s even quite ready himself, Telemachus is grinding his fingers. More of a testing motion than anything. But it’s already too much for him. He gasps, choking on his tongue and nearly swallowing it. There’s none of the pleasure that’s there. Not even the satisfaction of having something. It’s just… Too much. His heart rattles against his rib cage.

He tries spreading his fingers, to part them like he would if he had two fingers inside of him. And they don’t even fucking budge. It’s like trying to move them inside a glass jar. 

How many minutes has passed, has it been ten? He doesn’t know and he’s too afraid to ask. Another bout of hysteria builds up in his throat and he’s not strong enough to ward it away. Droplets of high-pitched giggles come out of his throat before he firmly presses his lips together.

His chest contracts with an annoyance, oddly enough. At himself, for being unable to do even just this one thing. Pathetic, he can’t even follow when it’s the most basic human nature.

He exhales out his nose, opening his eyes— have they been closed this whole time?— and stares  straight ahead. Nothing in particular, or the vague outline of his own reflection. Luckily it’s too far away and too blurry for him to properly make out. He knows that he wouldn’t like what he sees. He takes a deep breath, and then another, a long exhale, and then he’s slowly starting to pull his fingers back.

“That’s it,” Zeus coos. Condescendingly. He’s never kind, Telemachus should stop diluting himself in the hope that he might be. 

Telemachus doesn’t let himself rise to the challenge, he knows it will only bite him in the ass. So he focusses on that feeling of his fingers, and even though he wants to be sick, he doesn’t. He keeps his mouth firmly pressed in a line.

Once his fingers are halfway out, he lets himself take a pause, trying to catch his shaking breath. He can feel his asshole clench around his fingers, and—

No. He can feel his fingers and how his ass tightened around them. He can’t feel his ass. Not the pain or the humiliation or whatever is trying to convince him to cry. He needs a distraction. 

Perhaps his body had mint, pulling them completely out, but he does the opposite. At least he doesn’t slowly, pushing his fingers back in as far as they will go. Perhaps it’s just his imagination, but it feels like they’re pushing it in further.

What isn’t his imagination is the fact that his ass is definitely clenching around his fingers. And there’s not really any distracting he could do when the only thing he can feel is the burn. He can’t even feel his fingers, and he hysterically wonders if his ass is so tight that it’s cutting off the circulation. And the image of his fingers getting stuck in his ass, causes him to yank them out. Too fast and too harshly and his nails scratch on his insides.

He definitely doesn’t imagine the wet pop when his fingers come flying out of his ass. Nor the shriek that comes from his mouth. He can’t help it and he sounds— he sounds so pathetic. 

Zeus is right and—

“Seems you’ve gotten yourself prepared enough.”

No, no! Telemachus feels his heart drop to his gut for what feels like the hundredth time. He is not. He’s not even close. He barely got four fingers inside. Let alone started to actually stretch himself open. He scrambles to shove his fingers back inside but—

“Ack—!” His wrist slams against the ground from an unseen force, although it’s not unfamiliar. 

His heart starts to race up again, although it never really simmered down. He tries his best, but the pressure is unrelenting, and he can’t take his wrist from where it’s been pressed against the marble floor. He’s still on his hands and knees with his chest, also pressed against the floor, meaning that he’s in one of the most awkward and vulnerable positions he’s ever been in.

“Your time is up,” Zeus rumbles. Telemachus doesn’t actually know if he’s telling the truth or not, or if the god just wants him to be as uncomfortable as possible when he… when he he… oh gods… oh gods, oh gods. He can’t do this, he— “Turn around and grab your oil. You’ll want to use the remainder on the phallus.”

“Please, I—” He has to cut himself off when he can feel his bones grinding against each other as the pressure intensifies, whining and pressing the side of his cheek into the floor. It lets up after a few seconds, entirely and he has no choice. He never has a fucking choice. So he steels himself and straightens, glaring at his own reflection before turning around.

He tries to convince himself that this will be better, at least he doesn’t have to feel his own hand inside of him, it’s just… just a phallus. He’s… he can do it. 

He knows better than to look the god in the eyes so he keeps them firmly on the ground. Which might be a mistake since his case has nothing else to lock onto rather than—

It’s big. Of course it is, he wouldn’t expect anything less. The phallus is standing upright, though he doesn’t see anything attached to it. Looking squishy enough not to hurt him but firmer than a regular cock. Cock, because it’s shaped like one. Like a very familiar one, that Telemachus has only seen glimpses of but his memory has kept well enough—

He can’t help but gasp, his body tensing. Which means that his hole clenches and it’s almost worse than when he had his fingers inside him, because now he’s clutching around nothing and feeling the emptiness that ironically fills him up.

“Familiar enough to you?” Taunting, always so taunting. 

“You— I— why,” Telemachus chokes, gripping the jar of oil tightly in his hands. He’s hunching his shoulders and trying to curl in on himself to the best of his ability. 

He can practically feel Zeus’ smirk widening. “Your pride tastes better when it’s falling, wouldn’t you say…” The phallus seems to laugh at him. “Champ?”

This is utter humiliation, a punishment that Telemachus knows he deserves. He’s the one who broke Xenia. He threw the first punch. Antinous was just defending himself, and he finished what he started. It’s funny, in a way, either way Telemachus knows that he would have Antinous’ cock in his mind tonight. One way or another. He just thought it would be of his own guilty pleasures. 

Telemachus is moving forward, toward the phallus that taunts him. He’s only seen Antinous’ cock twice. And both times he had wished he hadn’t— even though it’s cemented in his mind so thoroughly that he knows he won’t ever forget. Once when he made the mistake of entering the bathhouse when it wasn’t in the middle of the night. He had thought that he should let the suitors know that they couldn’t dictate when he would bathe. He could do so under their wandering eyes and jeers. It took Antinous pushing him into the shallow pool and standing over him— stark naked and not bearing a lick of shame— with the other suitors taunting him to chase Telemachus out. The second time was when he watched the men wrestle. He knows that he’d never be allowed to partake, but he figured he should study to learn a thing or two. The fact that they were naked and covered in a layer of oil had nothing to do with it. And perhaps he watched one specific suitor more closely than the rest. 

“I don’t—”

“You’re a smart lad,” Zeus says, Telemachus could swear that he could feel his breath from here. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Telemachus is scooting forward, and already his body is growing stiff from the four fingers in his ass. Good gods, how is it going to feel when he’s finished with— that thing? And how long until Zeus declares him finished? He can only hope the god loses interest quickly. And he must, he’s probably seen countless mortals debase themselves in front of him. He’ll grow bored soon enough. 

He gets to the phallus, dithering in place for too long because the god says, “You can use as much or as little oil as you want, though I suggest you use it all.”

He flinches and bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from whimpering too loudly. He watches as if being puppeteered by an unseen force as his hands reach out. 

He jolts the moment he feels his hand wrap around the phallus. It’s— squishy. Definitely not made from clay or wood. And not even leather. It doesn’t feel like flesh either and it’s unnerving. He’s not sure if he wants to know what it is though. He also wishes the phallus didn’t have a pair of balls. It’s not like they have any purpose and it only serves to make it feel more real. 

That he’s about to lose his virginity to an inanimate object in front of the King of Gods. 

Absolutely hilarious, and his body gives out several squeaks of laughter, sounding like someone is wrapping a hand around his throat and squeezing them out of him. Telemachus finds the strength to reach out his other hand and tilt the jar upside down. Watching as the oil drips from the jar and onto the phallus. Spilling over the head and letting gravity drench the rest. Since his hand is already holding it, it gets on his palm and between his fingers.

Wet, obviously, he doesn’t know what else he expected. And he’s been overdramatic, there’s no reason for him to start to breathe even faster. He hasn’t even done anything. Not yet.

His body surges with unused adrenaline, so he puts that into his hand, starting to stroke it up and down. He’s only ever touched his own cock, so this is an entirely thing for him. It’s so… Weird. And— no, he’s not going there. And he tries to convince himself it’s because of the odd texture, not the fact that it looks exactly like it should be attached to a certain suitor. 

He loses himself to it, unable to do anything but essentially jerk the cock off. Because the moment he stops, he knows that he’ll have to—Better to make sure that it’s thoroughly coated in oil. At least it’s a generous amount, he won’t have to worry about it being too dry. All he has to worry about is somehow fitting that size inside of him. Antinous can not be this big. And that that only spiral sent into dangerous thinking, trying to specifically recall if it was. And if so, how did anyone ever— Nope. No. Telemachus squeezes his hand and digs his nails into it as retaliation. 

“Boy.” Zeus doesn’t have to say anything else, he already understands. And his shoulders start to shake, clenching his hand as tightly around as he can.

Telemachus moves before the god can speak to him again. The last thing he wants is to be pressed down by that invisible weight. Anything, but that. Or, almost anything. Because the other option is…

He swallows as he crawls over the phallus. Positioning himself in what he hopes is— correct. He wouldn't know. There’s only so much fantasizing he can do. 

He knows that he really shouldn’t but Telemachus raises his head. A mistake, a huge mistake because once his eyes latch Zeus’, he can’t look away. Something in those gold irises have him completely powerless to do anything but look. He finds no kindness in them, not that he ever thought that he would, only cruelty. Gleeful cruelty at being able to make a mortal succumb to one of the most humiliating vulnerable acts. If Telemachus had any courage, he would feel angry. But instead, he just feels afraid. So afraid.

The exchange feels like it lasts an eternity, but it can’t be more than a few seconds before he is able to avert his eyes and look down. He’s not sure which one is worse; the god staring at him or the phallus just inches away from his entrance. He feels himself clench around nothing again and he lets out a huff. 

He just— has to do this. It’s fine, it’s fine. He’ll just— do it. And then it’ll all be over. 

Telemachus wishes that he could stop the tears from streaking down his face, but he can’t. With an aching heart and shaking body, he lowers himself. 

Almost immediately, once his rim touches the tip of the phallus, it’s clear just how impossible it will be. Hysterically so, it’s like he’s trying to sit on a small fist. If he doesn’t cry harder, he knows that he’ll start to laugh. And once he starts to laugh, he’s not going to be able to stop, so he just cries. 

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up now,” Zeus—

“I’m— trying,” Telemachus interrupts, his voice thinner than paper. “Just—”

It must be the final straw for the god, Telemachus has worn his patience thin enough. There’s a millisecond of nothing, like the moment before lightning strikes the ground. The hair is on the back of his neck, on his arms, on his whole body rise. And his instincts screamed at him to run, as far away as possible. But his body walks into place and he’s prone to do nothing but—

The weight is back, the pressure that forces his body to stay flat on the ground. Telemachus’ mine isn’t even able to comprehend what’s happening, unable to give him even the spark of fear as—

As the pressure forces his body to sink down.

Meaning—

Telemachus’ mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing like he’s being strangled, and his entire body goes rigid 

His body is forced to drop down, immediately impaling himself by the cock. It’s not slow, and it’s not soft. It’s hard, and fast. And it’s way too much all at once. He had thought that his fingers going into his body were a lot, that’s nothing compared to this.

The phallus it’s so much bigger, so much longer and wider than his fingers could ever hope to be. Spearing him so thoroughly that it’s like he can feel it in his throat. He can definitely feel it in his stomach, feeling him all of the way to what he can only imagine are his guts.

He can’t even hunch over, his back arching and his chest, throwing into the air. His arms and legs are so tense that he can’t even scramble to get away. All he can feel is the pain. It consumes him, spreading from his ass all the way up his body, like a spiderweb shattering across glass.

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe!

Telemachus’ whole body is a light with pain, and humiliation. And just utter torment.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He can’t even croak out a response, his entire body consumed with that humiliating pain. It must be minutes, maybe even hours before he’s able to do anything but rise in that torture. And it’s not like the pain stops, oh no, he’s not getting used to it. His body is just forced to come back to himself, and to feel all that pain while realizing that he does in fact, need to breathe.

But he can’t, it’s an impossible feat. Every time he even wants to think about sucking in a mouthful of oxygen, his body seizes again and he’s back to freezing up.

His limbs flail this time, arms flinging and legs scrambling for stability that he is not afforded. His chest is rising and falling much too fast, despite the fact that he hasn’t been able to get a breath of air and what feels like forever. He’s getting dizzy, lightheaded in a dangerous way. He needs to breathe but he can’t and—

A shock, a spark of painful energy and he— gasps. His body is forced to and it’s not nearly enough. But it’s something, and once he starts, he can’t stop it. Gasping again, and again, getting mouthful after mouthful of air. It barely goes into his lungs, mostly just sits in the back of his throat. But it’s something.

“Must I do everything for you? You’re really more useless than I thought.”

It stings, of course it does. That was the point, Telemachus heaves himself through another gasp before air. At least this time you can feel his lungs expand, alleviating the tension just slightly.

He doesn’t know if the pressure is on his shoulders still, it’s hard to feel anything but the pain. And he’s sure that he wouldn’t be able to lift himself up even if he tried. His legs are shaking so badly, but it’s a wonder he can even move them at all.

“Pleah-pl—” he hears himself try to plead and it’s so pathetic that he nearly laughs at himself. The god doesn’t even laugh at him. Doesn’t sneer or scoff. It’s nothing. And Telemachus finds that so much worse. 

It’s not curiosity that brings his eyes to the gods’. They had been open this whole time, but unseeing. And now they can’t even bring themselves up to Zeus’ eyes, stopping at his mouth. Curved in a cruel smile. He’s enjoying this. Enjoying Telemachus’ misery. 

It hurts, maybe even more than the physical pain. Because Zeus isn’t ambivalent about his pain, no. He’s enjoying it. And it reminds him too much of somebody else. 

“Please, I— did what you asked," he chokes out. “Let me… go, please. Let me go.”

Zeus stands with a sudden jolt, too fast for Telemachus to accurately track. One moment he’s sitting on his throne and the next he’s looming over him. Seething, mucus flying as he breathes out heavily through his nose like a bull.  There’s the loud clap of thunder and flashing or lightning and although it blinds his eyes and deafens his ears, Telemachus cannot move his hands or eyes to shield himself. He can’t because his body is once again being pulled down by an invisible weight. Forcing his ass to nearly year from how much deeper the phallus sheaths itself inside of him. 

He screams, feeling oddly dizzy when his eardrums quake at the vibrations from himself and the thunder. And the—

“You dare to defy me? Even now!” Zeus is bellowing at him. And Telemachus had thought that his normal speaking voice was loud and commanding. This is nothing compared to that and this is horrifying. Absolutely horrible. Not only loud but powerful. Telemachus had not felt the terror of true power before this. Zeus is much, much bigger than anyone else he's ever had to face, doesn't even hold a candle to Antinous. “After everything I have let slide? I see why she’s so fond of you,” he scoffs but there’s nothing light about it. “You’re as insolent as she is. Brash and while I can excuse her, you are not to be excused for any of these actions of yours for you have no right.” 

He’s stomping forward until he is right in front of Telemachus. The weight on Telemachus yields before crashing down on him once more. Telemachus can’t stop screaming but it doesn’t drown out the voice. Not the crash of thunder or lightning strikes either. Each strike is dangerously close. His hairs are getting singed even from where he is. And if he were to guess, he’d say that Zeus is doing it on purpose to intimidate him. Not like he isn’t already. 

“No right to your pride. None. And yet you hold onto it. That’s why you were so callous with Xenia? You thought your status washed away whatever responsibility one has for hospitality? Is that it? That you defy the very laws put in place to ensure the respect and sanctity of a house?” His spittal is hitting Telemachus’ nude body, like arrows sinking into flesh. “You, Prince Telemachus of Ithaca, are no god to be even thinking about denying these laws. You are no man, either, for a man understands and respects the will of the gods. You are nothing. Nothing.” 

Hand in his hair and yanking his head back, neck nearly snapping from the force. Telemachus’ mouth is already open from his screams and pants so there’s nothing stopping Zeus when he spits, landing in his mouth. He chokes on it over his tears. 

Zeus is leaning over, ever the omnipotent power that he is. Needing not the thunder or lightning emanating from him but letting it spill regardless. Telemachus’ terror is so vile that he can taste his heart behind his teeth. “Say it.”

Telemachus shudders and squirms, his instincts trying to get away in what he knows is a vain attempt. 

“Say it.”

There is no or else after. There doesn’t have to be. Because what Zeus demands is what he will get. 

Telemachus has no choice. 

“I’m— nothing,” he rasps out. It hurts him worse than anything else this night has forced upon him and he feels something inside him either. 

The hand in his hair tightens, pulling good chunks out. “Again.”

He wants his mama. “I’m nothing.” 

“Again.” Nails digging deep into his scalp and droplets of warmth soaking into his hair. 

“I’m nothing.”

The presence isn’t gone, not in the slightest, even as the hand is suddenly removed from his head, Telemachus harbors no illusions that Zeus is done with him. 

He’s never been more upset to be proven right when— “Bounce.”

He can’t and yet—

Telemachus finds that the weight is gone when he begs his thighs to grow taut. And although he has no strength left in his body, they comply. Because they have no choice, no choice at all. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a choice and it’s fucking life. He pushes, and his body obeys, lifting himself up as much as he can. 

Which isn’t very much. The moment he starts to move, the phallus demands to remain inside. His walls are dragging and clinging into it like a hand on another. And it’s… It fucking hurts. Too sensitive, too big, and just too much. His body screams at him to stop, and so he is forced to. He pants and whimpers, hands on his thighs and digging into his skin. Likely drawing blood, but his legs are beginning to numb so he barely even feels a pinch. 

But he knows that he can’t stop now, he can’t let his body receive any respite. Because there is a god watching him, ensuring that he does carry out his own punishment.

So Telemachus doesn’t even give himself more than ten seconds of pause, before he’s forcing his body to move upward again. He’s screaming, or at least he thinks he’s screaming. It’s hard to tell, the vibrations in his throat might just be him groaning, it might be him screaming, or it might just be his entire fucking imagination. 

All he knows is the pain, and fullness, and humiliation. 

He raises himself until he fears the phallus being able to pop from his hole, and he knows that he will not be able to put it back inside of him once it’s out. So he remains hovering. His legs are shaking, his feet threatening to slip from the waves of sweat trickling down his body, and his chest heaves with exertion. 

He feels the presence of the god, hovering over him and watching him debase himself fully. Utterly humiliating. It’s not that it gets any better with time, if anything, it just gets worse.

But he has no—

Telemachus lowers himself far too quickly. He just wants to get it over with, but he miscalculates. Because as he lets himself drop, there’s nothing stopping him except for the blunt object inside of him. So he feels every bit as it fills him once more. And it’s worse, so much worse than the first time. He’s already so sensitive, and him falling down onto the cock is just torture.

He cries out, pitifully, and small. But no less pathetically. The head of the phallus feels like it slammed inside of him, and it’s his own fault. His own doing. Because he’s doing this himself, isn’t he?

It’s his own fucking fault.

“Would think that a whore like yourself would be used to this,” Zeus taunts. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this.”

And he wants to fight back, really, he does. He wants to be all bark and all bite, able to be the man that he’s supposed to be and defend himself. But it’s never worked out well, has it? Because the one time he did, the one time he actually felt strong enough to do so, he’s punished.

And perhaps that’s just how the world works. Perhaps there’s just some people that are always meant to crawl.

Telemachus hangs his head, subjugated and humiliated. But he knows that he’s far from over. He will be finished when the god says he’s finished. So—

He’s forcing his body to move up, oddly disassociated from it, even though he could feel everything tenfold. He can’t stop looking at himself, watching as his stomach becomes flat again as he rises. It doesn’t get any better. With every movement, it just gets worse, and worse, and worse.

His mouth is hung open, panting heavily, and letting every whine and groan out.

He won’t ever be able to forget this. Anytime that he tries to… Pleasure himself, he’s just going to be remembering this. And perhaps that’s the point too, because even when his punishment is finished— if it ever will be— he’s still going to be suffering the aftermath. 

“Faster.”

There’s no possible way that he can actually go faster, so he does. Why not defy his own odds while he’s being punished? Telemachus forces himself to fall down faster, even though it fills him with overstimulation and too much. And when he rises, he does it faster too. He’s not getting more energy, he’s getting less and less. And yet he still forces himself to rise and fall. Falling is easier than rising.

“That’s it,” Zeus croons. “You are good for something it turns out.” A cruel, cruel chuckle. “Fucking yourself like the whore that you are.”

He’s already crying, and the god has already said, so why does the words hurt even more?

Telemachus is gripping his thighs as hard as he can, as if that will stabilize him. And it doesn’t, because as he’s falling back down again, as he shifts a little bit too much in the head of the cock brushes against something even more sensitive than he already thought, he lets out a loud cry. Falling over and having to brace himself on his hands.

Oh… oh no… not…

“Did I tell you to stop?”

His body moves on its own accord, too afraid of what other punishments the King of Gods will bestow upon him. He should have set up, but he knows that he doesn’t have the energy too. But this is bad, because as he fucks himself on that phallus, the angle is different. Meaning that he’s brushing against that sensitive spot inside of him every other time.

No! He doesn’t want… This. It’s already hard enough that he’s… Essentially raping himself, he doesn’t… He can’t… Take pleasure from it.

He can’t—!

But—

“Ah,” a different sort of sound escapes him. And while he’s feeling more pain than he ever has in his entire life, or physically and emotionally, his body doesn’t seem to get the memo that it’s all he should be feeling. 

“Enjoying yourself now, are you?”

He wants to scream no, that he’s not fucking enjoying himself and it’s not his fault and he’s sorry and he just wants his mama— but the words are caught in his throat and all that comes out is an abhorrent moan. A moan. Not a groan, but a fucking moan.

“Fuck—!” His voice, cracking and breaking under the pressure, and yet he isn’t able to close his mouth. So more and more blasphemous sounds escape.

He wishes that he had torn himself, and he thinks maybe he has? It’s hard to tell, if the warmth inside of him is just the oil. It feels like there’s more, and there’s a squelching noise as he continues to grind himself against the phallus. 

“Makes sense,” Zeus continues to taunt, sounding like he’s making rounds around Telemachus. Watching him from every possible angle. “A boy who’s been subjected to nothing but humiliation and dominance will ultimately get off on it. Is this what gets you off, being debased and by the thought of a man’s cock?”

Telemachus just fucks himself harder, shuddering as he hits his prostate twice and his moans reach a higher pitch. With himself hunched over on his hands like this, and his head hanging low, he can see through the tears in his eyes as his own dick starts to twitch. 

He tries to focus on the burn of his legs, how his stomach is starting to cramp from all of the stimulation. But that just makes it worse, because his head is getting light and his dick is throbbing anew. 

He just wants all of this to be over with. How long will the god make this last? Surely he’s proving himself to be nothing but a whore. What more could Zeus need?

Until you debase yourself thoroughly echoes in his mind and he—

He realizes. 

Zeus can’t mean… he can’t…

He makes an even further mistake of looking up, at just the right time that Zeus makes a pass right in front of his face. It’s hard to see from this angle, the god is so much taller than he is, even when he is standing. So as he is on his hands and knees, Telemachus barely gets a glance at his eyes before he has to hang his head again. The exertion of his body is too much. 

And he’s gotten his answer in that short amount of time. 

“I—can’t,” he breaks. 

Zeus doesn’t sound remotely sorry, “I don’t care.”

Telemachus sobs. His hips keep moving and his tears still fall. It hurts and it feels good, which is a betrayal to himself. A betrayal to what he’s supposed to be. A prince, and a prince is not supposed to do all of them… This. He’s supposed to have boys, confidence, and masculinity. And this is the furthest thing from it. 

His breathing comes sharper the longer he continues. And he has to continue, because he’s only finished when… Finishes. But—

He’s never finished without the use of his hand on his dick. He can’t… He can’t just orgasm from something inside of him. And he’s… He’s tried. Of course he’s trying, as humiliating as it is, he’s tried many things. And maybe, just maybe, if it was… An actual cock. If he was actually being fucked by someone, he might be able to cum. But he isn’t, it’s him who is doing this to himself. Setting the pace, deciding how much we’ll go inside of him, and grinding whenever he can.

He doesn’t have the strength to reach out and take himself in hand, if he didn’t worry about his balance. Because of how hard he’s going, with how much his body is shaking, he knows that the moment he moves, his hand, even an inch, he’s just going to come crashing down onto his face. Not that he wouldn’t mind blacking out. But he knows that the moment he wakes up, Zeus will just make him continue until he’s done.

He does want this to be over quickly…

Just like he thought, the moment that he shifts his body, he comes crashing down. Or, he comes, crashing down. His head doesn’t even move that much, maybe even only half an inch, but it’s enough to send him slamming against the floor.

He doesn’t even register the pain when his forehead hits the marble. It’s nothing compared to the one stemming from his ass. At least he didn’t break his nose, he can still shudder through it. Even if all he can smell is  the salt of his tears and sweat. And the tang of iron. 

And perhaps he should give himself a punishment of his own, for being so weak and landing himself here in the first place. So he doesn’t give himself any reprieve, no opportunity to catch his breath and accumulate to the new position. Because the position just forces the phallus to hit even deeper inside of him. So it’s not that he’s hitting his soft spot every other time, or every two times. But every single time. He gets no respite, and he doesn’t deserve it. Especially not when he starts to slide his arm underneath. Blindly reaching for his dick.

His stomach isn’t completely pressed against the floor, it’s more so just the upper parts of his stomach and his chest, so there’s nothing really stopping him from being able to find it. But he’s uncoordinated, already so dizzy with the pain and pleasure that he’s not able to coordinate his arm properly. It takes him a few tries until he’s able to find it. His knuckles brush against the head and he lets out an unfathomably pathetic whine.

Not allowing himself to gather his thoughts or strength, Telemachus passes his hand in that direction again. Desperately trying to grab onto his own dick.

He touches himself again at this time he doesn’t let himself go so easily. Wrapping around his dick and not even able to stifle the sound coming out of his mouth. It’s not a moan, and it’s not a grunt, something of a mixture between. Utterly pathetic, and if anyone were to hear him, they never would have assumed he would be the prince, the son of the two most grandiose and intelligent minds and all of Greece. All they would ever hear would be a whore.

And that’s all he’ll ever be.

Telemachus practically bites on the marble floor when he moves his wrist, dragging the palm of his hand against his dick. He’s already overstimulated enough, this is just painful. Painfully pleasurable, and he knows that he’s going to hate himself for the rest of his life for it.

But he still doesn’t stop himself from moving his hand back-and-forth, not even in rhythm with how his thighs are bouncing. It’s already too much to ask him for that, so the best you can do is just to stroke himself sloppily like an inexperienced teenager. 

He’s entirely sure that his prostate is going to be completely blown by the end of this period. It already feels too swollen, too sensitive. And yet the phallus keeps slamming against it again and again, of his own doing. This is all his own fault. All of it. It’s always his fucking fault.

“You really are enjoying this," the god taunts. Telemachus is unable to voice anything that isn’t a cry for help or a moan of pleasure. “This is supposed to be a punishment, you know. But you’re treating this like a whore at the brothel. Is this what you secretly wanted this whole time?” The voice suddenly gets too close to him, and he can feel a warm breath on the back of his neck. He keeps bouncing. “Is that why you were so quick to throw that first punch?” Telemachus sobs, wringing his hand painfully over his leaking dick. “Only, you hadn’t wanted me to bestow you with this punishment, did you? Did you?”

He knows that he’s been asked a question, he has to answer. Even though there is no fucking way that he’d be able to, “Y-no…” 

“Prince of liars it seems. Answer me properly.”

He has no way of winning. He’s damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. The sooner, the better. So, “Y-yes.”

“Yes, what?” Teeth graze his neck. 

“Yes, I—” A slew of pants and moans and grunts before he’s people to continue again. His body is an absolute wreck, and his mind is already long since shattered. “Yes— I—wanted th-this.” He doesn’t deserve the laurel on his head. Nor the bowing of the servants. And not even the kind smile of his mother. He doesn’t deserve anything. Nothing, but this.

“Might as well show me how much of a whore you really are. Show me just how willing you are to let your pride fall so that your undress will be your confession.”

And he does. Telemchus’ hand is shaking profusely, and there’s more sweat dripping down his palms, then the oil inside of him, and yet it gives him enough slide to drag his hand up and down. He finds a rhythm, or somewhat of one. Not in time with his thrusts, he can’t even begin to think to try. But enough that is dick hardens to completeness. 

He should find it horrifying how it is, in fact, easier to bounce up and down. And he does, maybe. But it’s hard to feel anything rather than hysterics. Hysterics and an irony that he only has himself to blame for. 

The phallus is squishy enough that his bending over doesn’t make it stay standing, but curve with him. Hitting his prostate perfectly, as if it was designed for this very thing. And the motions are getting easier, Telemachus is learning his body in ways he’s only scratched the surface of. Letting the faux cock brush his insides in a way that has his toes curling. 

“Hah, hah, hah…” Telemachus can hear his moans vibrate in his mind, his gaps of air echoing within the spaces between. The squelching sounds of the cock in his ass and his own hand on his dick almost overshadows his own sounds-/or more like he can’t tell them apart from himself. 

It’s inevitable, really, that his other hand would slip. Landing fully on his chest and face now, but he doesn’t stop his movements. His hand is perfectly under his own pec and by his own volition, fingers finding a nipple.  He’s only done this once or twice before, and it never really felt like anything. But now, with all of his senses heightened, it’s fire-pleasure. Pinching and pulling at his bud sloppily, without skill, his body is met with new horribly pleasurable sensations. 

There’s the rumbling of the god above him but Telemachus isn't able to grasp onto any of the words. His body acting as if a puppet pulled by a string. 

Except he is his own puppeteer, pulling the strings while he watches from the rafters. 

His orgasm comes upon him without warning. He doesn’t— usually he can tell moments before, even minutes. Where there’s a rising heat in his gut and his breath comes sharper. But it’s been like that for so long, and perhaps something divine has been prolonging it.

He doesn’t feel any different until he does, so we’re probably that it takes whatever breath he had left away.

Not crashing over him like a wave in his most intense ends, but striking him with the force of a lightning too terrible. His whole body searches with an energy that is much too powerful for him to comprehend, makes him feel nauseous and completely numb at the same time.

His mind wants to stop moving but his body doesn’t get the memo. In fact, it’s like he moves faster. His muscles spasming as his nerves alight with fire. His arms and legs are moving much too fast, and his stomach is heaving along with his chest.

And it’s horrible, absolutely horrible. And while he’s physically, feeling the pleasure along with the pain, and while his mind is winding out with the ecstasy, it’s the worst euphoria he’s ever felt. 

Too good, if there’s even such a thing. Too good and too much. 

At the mercy of a pleasure that only causes him pain. 

He must eventually slump over on the floor, because when he comes back to himself, although he wishes he doesn’t, his body is flushed with the cool marble. Well, most of his body. His ass is still raised in the air where the phallus is still snugly lodged inside of him. Filling his insides and he swears he can feel the trickle of a liquid that isn’t oil running down his legs. He can only hope that the blood is a sign of tearing and not internal, irreparable damage. 

There’s a wheezing sound, and he knows it’s him. He’s surprised that he can even make a sound, how torn his vocal cords feel. 

His whole body isn’t just on fire, it’s well past being burned. Singed in a way that no real fire could ever even attempt to replicate. His nerves are fried beyond belief, and his muscles are locked into place. His bones feel squishy, and his heart barely manages one thumb after another, too far apart despite all of that, his mind has never felt sharper. And comes back to himself, he fully realizes the depths of his situation. Not a single memory eludes him, and he is forced to remember every single detail.

Every single detail. 

Another wheeze that doesn’t sound anything different from the first couple, but it scrapes even harsher against his throat.

Not even the deepest pit or the highest mountain would ever be able to hold his humiliation.

He hadn’t even realized that his eyes were open, but when there’s movement in his vision, he blinks furiously to get it into focus. It takes several painstaking minutes, and with each second of the passes, his anxiety only grows and grows. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms have long since died, but he feels the prickle of goosebumps running along every inch of his skin.

“Boy.”

And for a brief, brief moment, Telemachus hallucinates a different man looming over him and the humiliation burns just a little bit hotter. But the sharpness of his mind waves away that depravity and he’s instead shrinking in on himself as he lowers his gaze to the marble. Unable to even look upon the god’s feet. 

“Have you learned your lesson full heartedly?” Zeus booms, although his voice isn’t above a speaking volume it still rattled the mortal’s bones. 

Telemachus knows there is no possible way that he will be able to verbally answer, he does his best to nod his head. 

He should’ve known that that wouldn’t be good enough for the King of Gods. And he should have praised himself for it. But he didn’t, because he’s a fool. So he has nothing but a broken wheeze to show for it when his throat is roughly grabbed by invisible hands, and he is being lifted up into the air once more.

He’s not sure if his body is just numb to everything, he’s in too much pain to really comprehend it, or he’s just grown used to it. Perhaps all three. His body is limp, his hands not even reaching up to class at his neck, even though he knows that it would be futile. The instinct to do so is there, but he just… Stays a dead weight.

“I asked you a question.”

And it’s even more impossible than it had been to answer him earlier. Now, with the nonexistent hands wrapping around his throat and squeezing. Making it near impossible to breathe, let alone speak back. But Telemachus knows that if he doesn’t, there won’t be anything left of him.

So he nods his head, his tongue hanging out of his mouth and his throat convulsing. But— “Y-yeah. I ha-ve.” he pours all of his fear, his pain, and the humiliation into his eyes. Hoping beyond all that the god will be able to understand that he’s trying, really trying, and if he were able to, he would get on his knees and we for the forgiveness he knows he won’t receive.

For one terrifying moment, he’s held in place. His body waning even more than it already has been. Zeus staring deep into his eyes. Terrifying, absolutely humiliating. Exactly what he deserves.

Electric flashes behind those eyes, a lightning that his body shudders with the memory of. Golden irises that are almost so dark that he can’t see, but too bright that he is unable to look away. “Good. Don’t break Xenia again. Or I will not be so merciful.” 

An exhale through his nose and Telemachus is dropped. 

He’s able to get one gasp of air in, before he starts to fall. 

He braces himself to collide with the marble flooring, knowing that his hands and knees will inevitably get the brunt of the damage. Perhaps his bones will shatter, perhaps he’ll only bruise, and perhaps he’ll just cease to exist. But that doesn’t happen. And he continues to fall. Longer than he thinks he should and he risks the danger of opening his eyes. Only to see nothing but sky beneath him. Panicking, he tries to gasp, tries to shout for help, tries to look up at the god for reassurance. But he doesn’t see anything. Just a bright blue sky, clouds all around him, and when rushing against him. In his ears, messing up his hair, and drying up his eyes.

Zeus hadn’t dropped him onto the floor, he let it open up so that Telemachus would fall through.

A different kind of terror opens itself up and eats a way at his skin. Zeus is a god, and the gods are known for their understanding of humanity. Even the simplest things, like mortality. Perhaps Zeus didn’t think anything of it, dropping immoral from the heavens of Olympus. Or perhaps he knows exactly what he’s doing, a final punishment to be fitting a whore. Being dropped to his death. Splattering against the very walls Telemachus calls home. 

His mouth opens in a silent screen. And not only fear, but anger. The humiliation. And the absolute unfairness of the whole situation. And he knows it’s his fault, but some childish part of him wants to say that it isn’t. Wants to say that it was Antinous. The suitors. The gods themselves. The very life that has been thrust upon Telemachus. Unfair— it’s also fucking unfair. So as he falls, he screams. Even if there’s no one to hear him.

It’s ludicrous to try, but he peels his eyes open. Somehow, and blinks the blurriness from his vision. Looking down, he sees it. Ithaca. 

Nearing him much too quickly. In fact, Telemachus is only afforded a passing glance, the realization that it’s his home, before his eyes are forced shut again. And as he falls through the air, he allows himself one last hiccoughing sob, before he succumbs to darkness.

—

He’s not expecting to wake up, so when he does, he’s deliriously confused. Even more so confused as his body isn’t pressed against the rocks of the shore, but a soft, comfortable mattress. Sheets all around him and a pillow on his head. Telemachus blinks, blinks again, and then groans loudly.

He— hurts. 

All over. 

He doesn’t even want to acknowledge it, but he can do nothing, but that. His head is killing him, a loud throbbing sensation ringing in his ears. Pulsating like his heart, in tune with it too. His very veins feel like they’ve been singed into nothing but ash. His bones are stiff, but at the same time feeling so brittle that the softest movement will render them shattered into a million pieces. His skin is molten lava, and it’s a wonder that it’s not melted into a puddle beneath him. His ass… hurts. And a sensation that that’s not new to him, but it is with this degree. Not feeling like he’s fingered himself, or even used a dildo, or something that could be used as one. But as if he’s been opened up by the very hands of a giant. Even the shiver that racks his whole body sends an abysmal pain through him. His throat is still raw, but he’s able to wheeze out a pitiful moan.

And he remembers. Gods, does he remember. 

His mind half manifests the wish that he had actually died, before he suddenly sits up both right in his bed.

Only to discover two things. The first is that he is in his bed. His sheets curled around him like it would if he had been waking up from a deep slumber. The second is that moving is a fucking mistake. Because the moment he sits up, his entire body sees us. As if he’s being struck by lightning once more. And his mouth is open, a whistling scream emitting from it. Too high for anyone but a dog to hear. Or him, because his eardrums ring with how much force is behind that single scream. 

And it’s only that single screen he can get out, because once his lungs deflate, it seems near impossible to get them to expand, and Telemachus spends what feels like several hours to get his breathing under control again. The ache doesn’t disappear, the pain is still as bad as it was when he first woke up, perhaps even worse as he grows aware of his body. 

And he wants to cry, but it seems that he’s all cried out. 

His hands come to wrap around his body, and although he knows he shouldn’t, he rocks back-and-forth. It just makes the pain all of the more apparent, which makes him rock back-and-forth more, which makes the pain worse. A cycle that repeats itself until he manages to get a hold of himself. Or somewhat of one.

He’s blinking rapidly, even though there are no tears for him to shed, and turning his neck ever so slowly. Even that small movement is enough to send shudders wracking his body. But he doesn’t give up and stares at his window. Helios is just peeking over the horizon. He has to wonder if it’s been just that, a night. Or if it’s been much longer. He’s not sure which one he would prefer, neither if he could, but he doesn’t get to choose.

If it’s only been a day like he thinks it has, then that means he has council meetings to attend. Afternoon prayers with his mother. And a garden to upkeep, although he knows that it’s not his job, he likes to take care of the blossoming flowers. Having control over some form of life makes it easier than the lack of control he has over his own.

His mind blinks for a moment, and when he comes back to himself, he realizes that he’s on his hands and knees on the floor. How did he get there? He doesn’t remember getting up. His body is still in pain, and he feels like he’ll never be rid of it. Perhaps it’ll just become a part of himself.

Breathing heavily, Telemachus forces himself to move forward. He knows that he won’t be able to stand just yet, so he crawls. Like the whore that he is.

He’s not even sure of where he’s going until he gets to his destination. Staring at the reflection of his hands, unable to raise his head for a long, long time. He doesn’t want to, but he knows that he has to assess the damage that has been done to him. The punishment. So he forces himself to stand. Luckily, for him, there’s a chair just within his reach. So he braces himself on it as he gets his legs up from underneath him. It’s a lot easier than he thought it would be, and although his body shakes profusely, he’s standing all the same.

Might as well rip the scab off— Telemachus raises his eyes to look at his own reflection.

In a way, it’s not as bad as you thought. But it’s so much worse.

The first thing that he knows are the scars. Not completely healed over like they would be, that would be ridiculous, but they are more healed over than they should be. Dark, angry, pink lines that run all over his skin. And he’s never been a particularly hairy man, but with the scars, it’s evident where they have shaved away any of the hair that he might have had. He’s unable to thoroughly see the back of his body, but when he turns, minuscule, since that brings him a whole world of pain, Telemachus is able to see it running across that skin as well. Almost looking like… Lightning. He wants to vomit, but luckily for him there’s nothing in his stomach.

At first, he thinks that he’s wearing a collar, only to realize that the dark ring around his neck is in the shape of hands, and that it isn’t leather, but bruising. His very skin is dark purple from the invisible grip the god had around his throat.

His legs give out on him, and he crashes to the floor, landing on his ass and sending a pain so magnificent that he blacked out. When he comes back to himself, Telemachus has the perfect view of his backside.

The worst part isn’t that he’s gaping, he’s expecting to, no, the worst part is that… It looks normal. It looks like nothing at all has touched him. Which couldn’t be further from the truth of what he’s feeling. Because he feels like he’s gotten his insides absolutely obliterated. Even just breathing makes his guts flinch from the pain. And he knows that he won’t be able to walk properly for weeks, let alone maybe the rest of his lifetime.

But there’s no evidence of his… debasement. It’s as if it never happened. All he has to show for it are the lightning scars running over his body and the purple grip around his neck.

And the utter humiliation of the memories and the invisible pain that only he can feel.

Realization hits him full force, and he has to gasp before breath for several minutes before he’s able to come back to himself. This is his final punishment, the knowledge of what has been done to him, but knowing that he won’t ever be able to prove it. And if he would, what good would it do? What can a mortal do against a god’s punishment? 

And staring into the mirror, Telemachus knows that the worst punishment isn’t anything that anyone else could ever be still upon him, it’s his own faults that led him to it. 

His own punishment isn’t the result of breaking Xenia. 

No, his punishment is the realization that he wants it to happen again.