Chapter Text
⊹ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ˖
" Thank you for taking him, Pyrrhus." The woman in rich royal-blue last spoke, " He will be no trouble, I assume you."
No trouble - she had promised but two nights ago..
Yet trouble sat strong, or rather laid upon one's grandfather's throne, adorned in gold and gemstones whilst staring at the freckled youth, kicking bare feet ever so slightly over the very edge of Peleus' fallen throne.
No trouble - What a joke.
"Phthia is just.. truly, truly wonderful." The smug blue-eyed brunet laughed along, tilting his head as to find himself glancing back at the face of who the land belonged to, a cocky smile playing on dimpled cheeks, "You are a very hospitable people, you know?"
O' Telemachus of Ithaca.. what an asshole.
For a child born of such noble-name, raised upon and with the best Ithaca could ever afford, educated alongside the greatest minds of the time - who would have known the son of Odysseus and no less, Penelope's, was to lack exactly that which was so praised of his mother - grace, poise, charm and wisdom?
How much did the heir of Phthia hate the boy - that idiotic grin, turned-up nose.. stupidly thin chlamys that hid nothing below it, only skin so tantalizing and unscarred that it made the man proud to have fought the war he did, if that conflict somehow saved skin so fresh from being torn by scars, as his own.
".. are Ithacans as you are, insufferable?" The ruler questioned, dizzy as his eyes wandered to fall onto the youth's thigh, the constellation of beauty-marks etched below his hips making Neoptolemus shiver. ".. so proud as to destroy divine law - to disrespect my home's hospitality, disrespect my throne..?"
Truly, the mentioned Ithacan did not seem to care for that lack of Xenia - he was young, perhaps to fault, he didn't seem particularly bound to what others called law.. a spoiled prince by all means, one not only smiling at reprimands, but laughing in the face of disapproval.
"Generally, no." Telemachus finally disagreed, an immature smile still playing on lightly reddened lips - toned ochre and powdered berries surely, no man could be so perfectly shaded without both, "Soon you'll find I am quite the special case, Pyrrhus!"
Frustration rose upon the son of Achilles.
Hot-blooded anger, which so far unexplored, laid bare as Neoptolemus stopped to stare at the other.. he hadn't quite realised it, but the more the king gave himself time to appreciate those charming features in the Ithacan - by the gods his lips were full - the more his teeth came down into his lip, drawing blood as he held back the urges to strike and pin-down the brunet, to 'shut him up for good', in a way.
"Does your mother know you are oh so special?" Neoptolemus, or Pyrrhus, whatever it be questioned, sarcastic in his tone if not rhetorical, approaching, "Matter of fact, does she know how you dress, in someone else's home, at that? I see no ball or spear to toss near my throne, no sport."
A roar of laughter followed the man right after.
"Pff-ahah ~" Telemachus laughed freely, giggling and tossing his feet aside, almost hitting the nearing Pyrrhus, " Oh, I'm sure your tent-mates would have enjoyed my little display tenfold as much.. Now is it scandalous that a guest tries as much as to please his host? Or could it be.."
One paused for impact, faking innocence for a moment as those pretty lips formed a surprised 'o'.
"No.. would dear old daddy’s soul be fuming if he'd found me here?" The prince teased, unaware of just how much of the past-soldier's ego he had hurt. "Now come on.. everyone knows Achilles did the exact same with his ‘mate’, - right here, even!"
So for a moment, a harsh silence stood.
As hilarious as Telemachus had found his comment to be, there was no laughter ringing against his ears - no giggles of condonation, not even a snide reprimanding.. Pyrrhus was quiet, and that was particularly unsettling.
"..I was joking, you know?" The youngest of the two pointed out, suddenly stiff as he watched the muscular man approach him further, coming in nearer. "..you're supposed to laugh, you prude - why are you.. why are you looking at me like that..?"
Perhaps the young man had not expected his teasing to work as well as this..
Yet regardless, by the time hands larger than his own had reached him, the quarter-nymph had no time to register his situation: face to face with the hardened eyes of a past-killer, eyes so dark the speckles of green that flourished in the sunlight were absorbed.
"..does this entertain you?" Neoptolemus asked, not so gentle as rough palms grasped onto such a thin neck, suffocating, pressing onto the boy's Adam's apple as to hold back his tongue, the pressure of every hushed breath living in his grasp, "..are you having fun?"
Aching dislike made the prince want to run.
Although he could not, and in fact he could barely move with a body stronger than his own suddenly straddling him, pinning him into the throne he had almost claimed as his own - for such a 'respectful young man', Neoptolemus sure looked as if he aimed to kill with the way he began huffing just on top of his supposed guest..
Truth be told, Telemachus wasn’t quite sure whether he was incredibly attracted to this or not.
“Oh, trust me soldier boy,” The self absorbed prince began, struggling with his words with a slight cough manifested in a whimpering voice, "I'm enjoying this a whole lot more than you are."
The pressure once upon the heedful's neck slid down if so slightly to his collarbones at his mockful delight - pride didn't suit him well in the Phthian's mind.
"If I chose to, I could kill you now." So threatened the boy-king, hands sliding down to comfort fragile bones, those that were so easy to break as they were to hold enchanted the fiery-head, his eyes draping over every perfectly marked spots, constellations dotting a skin much purer then his own, "..fucking asshole.."
As suddenly as heated hostility came, it was shortly followed by a collapsing kiss.
Dragging the brunet down in its headiness, the young king came to lay upon him, roughened hands now grasping onto thighs smooth as silk whilst exchanging a generous, but fanatical crossing of lips, swapping of tongues leaving the receiver drooling - frankly it was a rather beautiful sight to have a man so pretty arch his spine so sweetly, needlingly after such an impulsive attack.
"You.." Telemachus mewled, buckling knees now held down and spreading by the weight of the man before him, his ministrations - as it seemed, his playful teasing soon came to reality, only he hadn’t expected to taste a venom so sickly sweet, "..shit.”
The cocky, supposedly 'spoiled' prince was fucked - rather literally.
Without much struggle, paired with a sense of urgency the larger and undeniably warmer hands came to wander where that thinly-made chlamys had been; from the curve of a slender waist to prominent hip-dips, those very hands crawled with a tease to fall just short of his pelvis ; for may the throne have been rather cold, too wide and lonely in its gentle cushioning, Neoptolemus hands were not quite so - they were unforgiving, as hot as the fire in his hair that caused sweat to build in his palm as he slid down.
"Insufferable, spoiled fuck," Pyrrhus interrupted a session of breathless cupping and grasping to roar, looking through his eyelashes to stare at the pathetically blushed prince and those delightful dark curls obscuring his pretty eyes - it was a delightful sight really, to see that cocky smile drop into a desperate attempt at staying quiet, that small body ranking up a sweat in his struggle, "Nothing left to say, no idiotic joke to make?"
Clearly not, by the way Telemachus came to hide his face between flailing arms, there was nothing to practically poke fun at, his humorous smirk shadowed by sudden the embarrassment of having his skin grow clammy with touch.
"*Tsk..*" Neoptolemus clicked his tongue, separating from the Ithacan's face to wander downwards, scarred lips now falling to suck onto the side of his neck, just above his shoulder leaving a reddened mark on that salty skin whilst reaching to hike his own chiton as to release and relieve himself of the harsh tenting down bellow, "Not so much of a smartass anymore, are you?"
The poor unwise son of Odysseus barely dared to look down.
Instead, he soon came to feel the warm rocking of the ginger's hips against his own, pushing to rub base-to-base in a painfully slow-pace, dry friction being very quickly corrected by not only mingled sweat, but also by a string of drool, spit coming from the prince’s own mouth, making a mess of his now exposed chest and both men's shafts.
"A..ah.." unsteady breathing followed the shallow motions, the once so-quick mind Telemachus had been so prized for turning into a dazed excuse of bare instinctual thoughts: hips, forwards, burns, salty - commands he urged himself to follow "..mm.."
By the gods, he hadn't fucked in so long - when had he last seen Peisistratus?
No wonder he looked particularly pathetic as he twitched and drooled - sensitive to fault, like a virgin the worse of ways possible.. It was humiliation to its core, emasculating in how easily the proud prince found himself whimpering and whining for the comfort of a steady hold, of the crushing
“Messy..” The one above commented with a torturous tone, mockery attached to his voice as he focused on his work: holding the youngest by his waist with one hand, keeping his back elongated as the other palm worked on a variation of manic strokes, each eliciting the most delightful of shuddered reactions from the boy, “For a prince, you sure look like a rather cheap whore.. Are you always as this, drooling on yourself?”
For a moment, Telemachus truly questioned if Pyrrhus was the worse of kings he had ever met..
By the time he felt such gentle kisses trail down his neck, as if the red-head hadn’t spent the last several minutes torturing him, the charming-one knew for sure he had met the cruelest one.
“You’re as dirty as me..” The son of Ithaca argued, legs finally giving into their urges and hooking themselves around the oldest, a change of positions that only served to intensify the sensations all around - from the pulsating base, paired with two overly sensitive cockheads, to the sweat and aching lips trailing down his neck, past golden adjournments, gems and all, “you’re fucking.. gross too..”
Yet amongst the gentlest of groans, that didn’t seem to ring quite true.. not when Telemachus had been the writhing one, who had been covered in shared saliva and sweat.
Not so ‘well composed’ anymore, now was he?
That was not to imply Neoptolemus wasn’t particularly enjoying himself - by many means, he seemed to be having just as much fun as his partner, especially in seeing just how well he could exert control: dominating the situation, position, speed and length of the interaction.. a rather fitting position for a new king, so he thought and looked upon himself with pride..
Just like his father, some would have said.
Only his father would have, assumingly, lasted plenty longer than the at-most seven minutes it took for the twenty year old to collapse under the delightfully miserable expression written on his partner’s face - his grimacing, that rebellious expression written across his face.
“Fuck..” So the oldest groaned, careless to the evil-eye Telemachus had given him as he finally finished, a spur of white overfilling his vision as he came upon the prince’s navel, fluids of too many kinds sliding down from the very end of one’s bellybutton to his crotch, melting into the throne bellow he. “Your mother will kill me. ”