Work Text:
"You know, dear husband, I’m starting to take a liking to this Polites." She muses, turning her gaze down from watching the man she’s referencing train to instead watch her husband.
"Hopefully not too much, my love." Odysseus teases as he raises from his seat, running a hand along the small of her back.
"Of course not, my dearest," with a sweet giggle at his protective display, she leans down slightly to kiss his cheek, "what are your feelings for him?"
"Well, he’s a good warrior, an even better friend, and a great man, with a joy and infectious hope that seems to rival the light of the sun. He’s a wonderful man."
Humming along with some suspicion lilting her tone, Penelope steps behind her husband and drapes her arms around his waist, bending slightly to rest her chin on his shoulder, a gentle smile full of mischief spreading across her lips as she whispers next to his ear, "Would you like to see him beneath you?"
The ghosting breaths cupping his ear making him temporarily lose his focus, he stills himself and tries to remember that he’s in broad view of his men, tries to remember not to show them how quickly their king crumbles at the touch of his queen, rasping out a low deflection, "I'm not sure I follow your meaning, my love."
"Oh, I think you do, oh-so great warrior of the mind. Would you lay with him?... You trust me, do you not?" She nudges against his hair and takes in the lingering musk of his own training, squeezing her arms around him just a little more.
"More than the Gods and the Heavens, with my entire soul and being, my Penelope. I trust you more than my own mind." The answer he gives is sincere, heart-warmingly so, a rough hand lifting to rest over one of hers, delicate and sweet like he's afraid of tainting her beauty, tipping his head in an attempt to get her back in his sights.
"Then trust my judgement of this not as a betrayal. Tell me, truthfully." Straightening herself again, Penelope steps aside just enough for them to truly see each other in their entirety, though never taking her hands off of him.
After a few beats of Odysseus simply staring at his wife, he finally gives his answer, lowly and almost shameful, "Yes."
More to soothe himself than anything else, he runs his hand along Penelope's arm and angles himself closer to her, "Only ever with your approval, only with your will. I am yours as much as you are mine."
"I know, my dearest love," she runs a hand up across his broad chest to hold his cheek, fingertips brushing through dark curls, "and if I asked for you to do it?"
"Yes." This answer comes much quicker, a little breathless as he steps closer into her touch, "Anything."
"And if I asked to observe?" She pulls her husband closer and dips her voice lower, adding a soft seductive air to her words that works quick to unwind her lover's mind, filling it with ideas of anything but war.
"Please. Anything for you, my divine gift." Reverence for his wife and queen colours each of his movements, gliding his hands up along her torso until his hands reach her face, taking a moment to drink in her almost otherworldly beauty, stroking each of his thumbs over the highs of her cheeks before gently pulling her down into a deal-sealing kiss, a promise made between lips and the brief brushes of tongues.
With the deal set, and after a quick conversation on who should bring the proposal to Polites himself — the decision being for Odysseus to come to him with the offer, both to prevent confusion and to save the king some pride — the royal couple sets a plan for a dinner, between the king, his wife and his closest friends. It doesn’t take long for the invitations to reach their targets, and only a night or so later, their guests arrive.
The dinner itself was nice, as peaceful as it could be with rowdy warriors and Ithacan wine, though the men made a concerted effort to stay at least moderately quiet when after Penelope had set their little prince to rest. When night began to fall, the structure of their dinner fading into more casual drinks and chatter, giving the perfect opportunity to approach his oldest friend.
"Polites!" When his shout for his friend’s attention comes out a little louder than he wanted, Odysseus quickly glances over to his wife, watching and eating patiently, though with a flat, disappointed warning in her eyes, one that earns an apologetic nod and the echo of him clearing his throat before the king returns to an easy smile.
"My friend," Polites seems as joyful as ever, holding out his arms as he almost skips closer, letting out a happy sigh when they get to embrace each other, "thank you for the beautiful dinner, Ody."
The hug lingers for longer that it would with any other man, or any other woman than his beloved, but eventually they part, a subtle pink colour staining Polites’ cheeks that doesn’t seem to be a symptom of the wine he quickly takes a moment to set down. With another sip for himself, Odysseus tries to formulate a plan, recalling his passing ideas of how exactly this will go, staring with an intensity that must be felt if the soft, confused furrow of his friend’s brow is anything to go by, "Would you mind following me? Just for a moment." In an attempt to smooth over the intensity of his gaze, he immediately returns to a charming smile as soon as he stops his drinking.
"Of course, anything!" With that beaming bright smile, the one that warms Odysseus’ heart like the sun, Polites gladly nods and readily follows his captain’s lead as he guides him through the hall.
With the human puppy trailing behind him, Odysseus stops at his wife’s seat for a moment, holding out a hand to help her to her feet, offering himself up as something sturdy to lean on as he walks both her and their prospect partner for the night to somewhere more private, away from soldiers hungry for gossip. Once they find a spot, Odysseus takes another swig of his wine for courage, though truthfully the reassuring and expectant look Penelope gives him does more for him than his drink, before turning to face the man that’s been dutifully trailing after them without question, being met with that same shining and warm smile.
"Polites, my dearest friend, you know this, right?" He speaks like he’s beginning a speech, clearly something he’s resorted to to cloak his nerves, though the overly kingly nature still earns a playful eye roll from his beloved beside him.
"Of course, and you mine!" He seems warmed by the profession, but still, that look of confusion crosses his features again, "Why? Is something wrong, friend?"
"No, not wrong," he clears his throat and hums when Penelope squeezes her arm around his, prompting him to continue, "just different. This is— strange to ask, but…" his gaze dips to the floor as the presence of his beloved distracts him from his plan, the image of it, of his friend like that, with my beloved wife and queen there to witness and guide him, making it more and more difficult to focus on speaking any more elaborately, "Do you ever wish for more than that? From me."
For the first time in a long while, he seems to have rendered Polites briefly speechless, only able to string together words with any meaning after a few moments of confused floundering, "Wwhy? Pen, Ody, is everything alright?"
"Everything is perfect, Polites, I swear," she offers a saccharine smile to soothe his worries, briefly reaching out to stroke over his shoulder before returning both hands to her husband, "thank you for your worry, but I’d like to hear you answer too."
"I-I—" he stops himself from stumbling over more of his words and instead takes a breath, sighing out before eventually offering something to seemingly give himself some idea of the ‘correct’ answer, "Do you from me, Ody?"
With just a gentle nudge from his Penelope, Odysseus assuredly nods, "I do… and you?" He lifts his gaze, just enough to meet Polites’.
He takes a moment, eyes flickering between the two to make a final assessment of the intentions behind such a question, before finally, "Truthfully… often. Since we were boys."
"Perfect…" Penelope whispers it like a final piece of her puzzle has been set into place.
"What—?" That one whispered word startles an airy and bright laugh from Polites for just a moment, the wonderful sound acting like a release of the heavy tension between them.
"See, Ody, my love? I told you," she slips behind her dearest’s back once again and hugs around him, tight and close, pressing her chest to the muscles of his back in a way that visible makes him falter, the kiss to his temple and prompting "now ask him…" whispered next to his ear not aiding in his focus.
Giving her a grumble disguised as another clearing of his throat, he takes another sip of his wine before following his queen’s gentle order, first reaching his free hand out to hold his friend’s, taking a moment to stroke over the back of his hand before finally, "Polites. Would you let me lay with you tonight?"
Though the question itself is relatively straightforward, it still manages to send a blizzard of conflicting emotions through its receiver before he manages to focus in on one at a time, starting with another question, "I— Really? Are you sure?"
Odysseus simply nods, firm and sure, Penelope, too, nodding against his shoulder.
"But, Penelope—"
Before he can finish his question, the couple is quick to ease any worries, "She will be there. Strangely, she’s the one who… prompted this."
"I’ll be an observer only, I promise." With another disarmingly sweet smile, she nuzzles into curls of black and runs her hands across her beloved’s chest, if only to tease him with more than her words and presence, "I just wish to see my Odysseus lose himself in another. You two can do that for me, yes?"
With just the tip of her finger drawing a line up the centre of his abdomen and over his chest, a shiver runs through him and he huffs out his breath, tipping his head back and to one side to rest on his lover’s shoulder, "For you, my everything, my love, anything."
"Anything…" Polites echos back, though he doesn’t follow his friend’s gaze, instead keeping his eyes locked on him, like he’s less so answering Penelope’s question, and more so an unasked one.
With a tug at their still-connected hands, Odysseus pulls his friend closer and into another lingering embrace, though this time without any of the performative roughness of their last, all warmth and brushes with feelings more than friendship, squeezes for security and assurance, the king mumbling his words into Polites' shoulder, "We'll go to bed with you tonight and not a soul has to know... just please, don't indulge too much in our wine, I'd prefer you with your wits about you, my friend."
"I won't, I promise." He hugs tighter, his growing smile felt in the warm, incidental brush of his lips against the side of Odysseus' throat as he bends slightly to nuzzle against him, "Just don't excite me too much, Ody, or I might have to retire to my room early." A playful brightness colouring his voice, Polites leaves a quick kiss to his old friend's shoulder before pulling back with a grin, sunny and beaming as always but with an edge of nervousness, resting his hands on either of Odysseus' shoulders, fiddling with the light linen of his himation where it drapes over his shoulder and briefly picking at the broach that holds it together for a moment before his gaze drifts up to meet the queen's, "I can take my leave," he brushes the hips of his own clothes and lets out an airy sigh in the vague shape of a laugh, "hopefully it'll be less suspicious that way, yes?"
"Yes, thank you Polites, I'll be happy to see you tonight." Returning his sunny disposition with one of her own, she and her husband gratefully wave as their third for the night takes his leave, though as soon as the pair are no longer in sight of anyone, the hand she'd used to politely wave moves, quickly finding its place slipping under her husband's clothes and scratching light circles across his chest, tempting to push the fabric of his himation off of his shoulders into a more suggestive and inviting draping, "See, my darling love? Easy…"
"Only because you were here with me, my sweet Penelope…" Spinning in her arms, he wastes no time as he slides both hands under her blousing, the one at the open side slipping lower while the other braces against her upper back, and buries his face in the new, reinvigorated fullness of her chest, that hand that drifts lower tracing over the subtle indentations of her stretch marks, the evidence of the gift she’d given them both in the form of a son. Though he risks being struck down by Aphrodite for such a thought, he’ll always think of his wife’s beauty as divine, despite the physical reminders of her mortality, her scars and blemishes, she’ll always be a gift directly from the heavens to him.
"Awh, my love, can our king not hold his own?" She holds him close, returning the embrace wholeheartedly, and runs her fingers through his hair, a giggle being pushed free from her heart when he simply groans and somehow tries to pull her even closer, almost like he’s trying to absorb her into himself.
"Why would I when I have such a competent queen?" He starts to move, more out of instinct than with any real rational thought, pressing her back to the nearest wall and pulling a hand away from her back to instead hitch up her leg, gripping the meat of her thigh in his palm and lifting himself up slightly to kiss at every inch of exposed skin that he can reach, "My divine queen…"
"Ody, sweetheart," cupping his cheeks, flushed with drink and desire, Penelope tips his head up to meet her gaze and places a slow kiss to his forehead, "you know you can’t yet, as much as I’d love to feel you again," she dips down to whisper next to his ear, satiating that part of her that simply wants to see her lover melt and yearn, one hand gliding down his chest to instead tease at the growing tent in his loins, "to feel you fill me and sow your seed again," when he rewards her teasing with a groan, she peppers a few more kisses across his cheeks before landing a final on his lips, slower and brimming with unsated desires, eventually making enough room between them to finish her thought, "but I’m still healing…"
With a frustrated groan that comes dangerously close to a growl, Odysseus’ fingers dig into her thigh before he resolves to simply hug around her, squeezing her and grasping the fabric draped down her back, "I swear to the gods, I’ll scream at the heavens until Panacea comes to heal you Herself."
"How oh-so dramatic, my tragic Odysseus," with a performative pout and an almost maternally condescending tone, Penelope drapes her arms over her husband’s shoulders and buries her hand in his hair, "I want you, my love, to take all this energy, this frustration, all this," she rolls her hips into her lover and tugs his hair back, making sure to angle her hips away slightly to save herself the tender pain, unable to hide her all-too satisfied grin when she earns a sharp, quivering breath from her dear desperate husband, "pent-up lust, into ruining your dear friend for me. Is that understood, my sweet king?"
"Yes," he breathes out his answer, resting his forehead against her collarbones as he tries to collect himself, eventually tipping his head back up to meet her eyes again, "my queen… I understand." Nodding along with his words, Odysseus once again rests his head against his wife’s chest, slipping his eyes shut with a subtle furrow as he attempts to focus on anything else for just a moment, anything but the firm heat under his clothes, anything but the thought of Polites under him, anything but the idea of his Penelope with her chest pressed to his back, whispering orders into his ear… it doesn’t take long before he realises it’s simply not going to work, "You’re a seductress, you know that, love?"
"Only for you, dearest. And only because you’re so entertaining when you get needy and desperate for me." With a play pout of her bottom lip, she barely contains her giggles at the jab, nuzzling into dark curls and gently scratching down his back, pushing his himation down to instead rest around his waist rather than his shoulders, "Will we be rejoining our guests any time soon, darling? Or are we going to stay here until you stop prodding me?" Penelope keeps her voice light and devoid of any true discomfort or frustration.
"If I could spend all of eternity in your arms, I would, my darling wife," he gives a solemn sigh and presses closer into her touch, trying to be subtle as he moves his hands into the right positions on her body, "but my men and my friends are waiting…" a smile growing on his lips, he gives a moment for his words to settle before bending down slightly and sweeping Penelope off of her feet, his smile only spreading into a prideful grin at the gasp and giggle she gives him in return, "so instead you’ll have to spend it in mine."
With the rest of the ‘dinner’, now more of a casual gathering with food and drinks, spent with his Penelope draped in his lap, littering kisses across his face, neck and shoulders no matter the conversations happening around her, like she's making it her duty to distract her husband with her doting affections, Odysseus eventually manages to distract himself from the inevitable ending of their night together, through inane talks with his men and in the, slightly more innocent, love of his wife. When the night starts to wind down, the less inebriated of the men slowly filtering out of the palace with the help of various servants, the more indulgent of his friends being guided to various guest chambers, Odysseus rises from the seat he'd resigned himself to, keeping his Penelope in his arms even as he sets her feet back on the ground, while they wave their leaving guests off, sharing goodnights. And yet both of their true attentions are focused only on one, sharing glances with Polites as everyone disperses.
Sharing hushed orders to leave the king's closest friend to go to his room on his own with the servants, and to move the usual positions of his guards to instead flank the end of the hall rather than each of their doors, Odysseus volunteers to show his friend back to his room himself, earning a nod and a nerve-edged agreement, "Of course! Thank you, friend."
Slinging his arm over his friend's shoulder, Odysseus walks with both his wife and his, he supposes, lover for the night under each of his arms, guiding them to the nearest guest room to the royal's chambers.
"My queen," Odysseus gestures as he opens the door before them, taking her hand and kissing the back of it as she walks past and inside, already lighting candles for them while Ody turns and holds his friend's wrist, pulling him in past the threshold and closing the door, a hand finding its way to cup the flushed cheek of Polites, "my loyal friend..."
"Kiss him, my love…" it comes as a whisper next to his ear, sweet and warm but nonetheless commanding, like Penelope is putting a voice to his own impulses, the brush of delicate fingers against his waist and soft lips against the shell of his ear reigniting that fire that he only was able to temper an hour ago, pushing him to immediately act on her gracious order.
Odysseus surges forward under her command, pulling Polites down a touch as he crowds him back against the bedroom door, earning a startled whimper just before the kiss is melted into and returned with the same fervour, hands grasping at his sides where Penelope had only ghosted her touch, pulling him ever-closer and bunching the fine fabric of his clothes in his fists. He tastes like wine and honey — he supposes they both do — and his touch is somehow both tentative and desperate, every brief parting of their lips for air coming with huffs and groans, instinctively moving together, grips tightening and hips rolling into each other, though mostly being resigned to rutting against the bottom Odysseus’ abdomen and the top of Polites’ thigh.
Interrupting the rhythm they build together, a hand, nimble and familiar, scores through Odysseus’ hair and twists long curls into a fist, ripping his head back until he’s forced to stare up at his Penelope, standing just behind him. Giving him just a moment to breathe and allow the creeping shame of not only giving up this much control, but being seen in such a way by his closest friend, someone he loves and respects and he wants to love and respect him too, to worm it’s way into his chest and settle for now, she eventually bends down to whisper beside his ear again, "Take him to bed, dearest."
After a few deep and shaky breaths, mainly to gather his bearings again, Odysseus gives a short nod and swallows hard, "Yes, my queen…"
Before he even has the opportunity to turn his head back over to follow her order, Polites is already surging forward, burying his face in his neck, littering the space with slow kisses and bites, and muttering against his skin, echoing Penelope's words back to him, "Take me to bed, Ody, please…" sighing out a shaky breath, he seems to try and pull Odysseus into himself, mouthing at the prickly skin of his jaw, "I’ll be good for you, I promise."
For some reason he can’t pinpoint in the moment, that promise of goodness and obedience forces him into action, grabbing fist-fulls of fabric, bunching the skirt of his chiton up at the hips and hooking his thumb under the zoster around his waist, using it to anchor his grip as he spins them around and throws Polites towards the bed. Taking a moment to attempt to calm the thudding of his heart and to take in his friend’s flushed face and the small beginning of a deliriously excited smile that starts to pull at the corner of his lips, before, soon enough, Odysseus hurriedly closes the gap between them again, the kiss they share now tinged with hunger as he shoves Polites down to the bed, following him down with a soft bounce.
With frenzied hands grasping at linen and wool in imprecise attempts to pull each other free from their clothes, the finickiness of Polites’ buttons pose them the most frustrating challenge, one that Penelope seems to see and take pity on, bending over the pair and assuring to press herself against her husband’s back in a quiet reassurance that she’s still here for him, even as she helps to unbutton Polites’ chiton at the shoulders, limiting her touch to only the fastening and her beloved, leaving a warm kiss to his shoulder before stepping back once again to her position as simply an observer of their depravity. Newly reinvigorated by the touch and help of his wife, Odysseus wastes no time before standing and freeing them both from their clothes, not returning to his place over his friend for a few moments, if only to admire him: the flushed cheeks and parted kiss-slicked and nipped lips, the mess of curls pooling under his head with the ends of his headband swirling between the waves of brown, the soft definition caused by the anticipatory flexing of each of his well-worked muscles, the jittery rise and fall of his chest. It’s somehow better than the sight of him after training, better than seeing him in the bathhouse, better than glimpses under free-flowing clothes or lingering glances at freely bared skin, and maybe it’s because he’s the cause, maybe it’s the accompanying look of adoration and submittance, but a part of him wishes he could have this moment painted for him to keep, some way to capture this sight and bottle it for him to keep for eternity. But, lacking that divine power for himself, Odysseus eventually forces himself to ruin the perfect view, only for it to be replaced with a different kind of perfection for the rest of his senses as he lays back over Polites, feeling the tensing of muscles in large thighs as he holds them in his palms and the soft brush of chest hair against his cheek and chin, the smell of the decadence of their food and drinks of the night mingling with the faint scent of aromatic oils and rubbing oils as well as the ever-present smell of the musk that’s become so familiar between warriors, the sound of heavy yet unfulfilling breaths that interweave with airy and light moans with every brush of their hips together.
A warm and familiar presence returns behind him, pulling him slightly from his blind admiration enough to hear the subtle tapping of nails against hardened clay, the soft sound of Polites drawing out a reminder, "Ody, please… take it, take me."
Lifting his head, Odysseus’ attention is drawn to his wife, holding out a pot of olive oil, waiting patiently for a hand to coat it with, a sweet and strangely grateful smile appearing on her lips when her husband holds out his dominant hand for her to tip drops of oil into his palm, taking a moment to spread it around his fingers before breathing out a rough "Thank you, my love…" and returning his hand to the space between him and Polites, propping himself up with his non-oiled hand as he wraps his fist around himself, moving in long, drawn out strokes like he’s trying to drive himself crazy with self-inflicted teasing. The feeling of eyes burning into him, of being perceived so closely and so intimately in this unique vulnerability, only paradoxically leading him to further indulge in this small self-torture as a beautiful mix of shame and arousal swirls and stews in the bottom of his stomach, his own airless gasps and choked-back groans only adding to the brutal mix, the movement of his own hand continuously drawing his attention to a difference between them that does much more than simply add. The dangerous cocktail, of blissful humiliation and painful vulnerability, grows, spreading upwards and squeezing around his lungs and heart, as Odysseus compares himself erroneously; though his Penelope insists he disproves the philosophy, that she believes him the ideal ratio of brute to intellect, that she enjoys the fullness he gives her, and though he doesn’t believe her a liar for it, he can never truly fight off this nagging feeling that the gods blessed him in all ways but this, yet Polites is gifted in all ways, the pinnacle of manhood with a physical reminder of not only his bright mind but open heart. His friend is larger than him in all manners but one, and for some strange reason, though it feels impossible to separate it from whatever hidden barbarism the gods decided to showcase on his body, he hopes his wife notices, hopes his Penelope sees the difference between the manhood her dear husband and his dearest friend and points it out to them, uses it against him, hopes she takes the opportunity of comparison to send her Odysseus entirely into the well of his own perfect shame for his own selfish desire, the idea itself makes him start to lose focus.
But when those perverse dreams start to be brought to life, with an almost startlingly sweet giggle from beside them that forces both men to flinch slightly and look over, Odysseus can already feel all his blood rush away from his mind.
Though he opens his mouth to speak, his mind fails to come up with any words to come out, instead a crackle, followed with a sharp inhale and a rasped out groan that escapes with the last of his breath, is what leaves his lips, only seeming to add to the contradictively saccharine and sadistic glee that infects both her smile and her voice, "Look at my beast of a man, who would have imagined that our king’s great mind is negligible next to his brutishness, hm?" She steps closer again, reaching a hand down to drape over her husband’s, though only for a moment before drawing one finger up to instead circle around the very tip of his cock, the small touch already working to unravel him before he’s even managed to do all she wants from him, "Maybe our dear king is simply a monster with good wit." Stopping her total unraveling of her husband for just a moment, Penelope takes his oil-slicked hand by the wrist and pulls it away from himself, gently guiding it lower to instead work on preparing Polites, knowing all too well herself that he needs to work his fingers if they want the stretch to be anything but aching. When they get the response they were hoping for, of soft gasps and light moans, from Polites, Penelope can’t help but take the opportunity to give her Ody more of that humiliation he seems to crave from her, brushing her lips against his ear as she whispers to him, "It’s quite pitiful, isn’t it?.. So boorish that you have to use your fingers just to prepare us so we can take your overgrown prick," she ensures her grin can be felt against the shell of his ear as she trails a finger up along his length, pressing harder until she lets off, glancing down to watch it obscenely bob up and down, "maybe I should forbid you from using such a barbaric thing." She muses, entirely facetiously, unwilling to waste such a wonderful bliss, though Odysseus seems all too far gone to even think of the truth.
"No—" his voice comes airy and desperate, though he continues to work his fingers, like some small bid for forgiveness for the tools he was cursed with, the constant spill of groans and moans from beneath him only adding to his desperation, "please, Penelope, don’t— not now, please." His need and unchecked lust taint his every plea, cracking his voice and making it sound more like a plea for his life rather than a plea for simply the permission to use his own cock.
Thankfully for him, his appeals seem to work, though it was never something he’d needed to fight against, a delicate finger returning to trace down the line of his prick, gliding up through a bush of dark curls and up his stomach, quickly pulling him into breathless worship without a thought in his mind, though the purity of that emptiness doesn’t last long, with a whisper, loud enough for both men to hear, comes next to his ear with an almost militant firmness, a demand, "Then you will fuck him as the beast you are."
It'll take some convincing after this to get Odysseus to believe his wife is not some enchantress, because with only her voice she manages to compel him to act, pushing him down without having to lay another finger on him, sending him into some kind of spell. With a strength that's almost startling, Odysseus grabs Polites' thigh with an unslicked hand, propping the other up with his own as he presses his knee into the soft bedding, using his fingers coated in oil only to guide himself for a brief moment, the simple pressure between them enough to draw louder noises from Polites, only growing louder when it takes no time, no moment for preparation or adjustment, before Odysseus buries himself, sheathing himself entirely in one smooth movement, forcing joint noises of bliss from both of them, though through the fuzziness of his vision he catches sight of a beautifully delicate hand clasping over his friend's mouth. Allowing whatever beastly animal lies within him to take over, he replaces the work of his wife's hand, digging his blunted nails into full cheeks as his body ruts helplessly into him, muffling the loud moaning replies to each of his own punched-out groans and brutish grunts whenever their bodies meet and become one. Whatever spell his wondrous wife has put him under has made it impossible to think of anything but more, being inside him isn't enough, feeling his lips against his palm isn't enough, hearing the unruly bliss he inspires from him is barely enough, he needs more of him. Climbing completely onto the bed with him, Odysseus does whatever he can to drive himself deeper, to connect them further, raking his teeth over warm flesh and for a flash, the image of feeling his warm and beating heart against his tongue and between his teeth appears in his mind, stunning him still for just a second before he continues on, biting into the skin of his pec, avoiding catching hairs between his teeth and he sinks them into the flesh and muscle protecting his friend's racing heart, growling against his skin, "Quiet."
"You wouldn't want the entire palace to hear you, would you, Polites?" Her presence is still close, what could be a stabilising force of warmth and calm instead deciding to instigate, her tone painted with a condescension that feels pinpointed to light fires in each of the men before her, "Unless you want them to know how you repay your king for his friendship and his teachings, would you like that? For them to hear how easily you’re overpowered in the presence of such a brutish king?" Penelope leans over the pair, seeming to find her joy in the grunts and growls of her husband rutting like a hapless beast and in watching the sunshine behind Polites’ eyes slowly cloud over with every snap meeting of bodies, "Would you like that, Polites? For this entire palace, full of friends and servants, to know you’re his eromenos? For them all to hear you fall apart for him like this? Go on…" her smile only grows when her target simply squirms, unable to answer through his own moans and through the barrier of Odysseus’ palm, "Awh," her smile briefly turns to an almost mocking pout before returning, "I almost forgot, it must be difficult to speak while being ravaged so brutally by your king…" when all she gets in return for her teasing is an almost delirious seeming nod from Polites, she lets out a delighted gasp, biting at her lip as she seats herself at the very corner of the bed, seeming to enjoy her personal show of indulgence.
He barely notices the shift in the bedding beneath them, only glancing up through his feral haze to catch sight of his wife, sitting patiently with a delighted smile and pure captivation in her eyes, a wonder so beautiful that for a moment or so he feels his heart squeeze and his lungs empty of breath, the small nod she gives him to continue spurring him on to double down of his efforts, watching his dearest friend’s eyes widen and listening to his unrelenting euphoric noise get somehow louder again his palm, filling with cracks and whines as the moans struggle to leave his tightening chest in one piece.
Somehow still-soft hands, despite the hard work that should've roughened his touch, desperately grasp for his Ody, for anything to ground him and hold him to earth, one finding its place between strong shoulders, sinking his nails into his back, while the other buries in long curls of inky black, tangling the mane in his fist and, without a thought to the effect, pulls with an unusual force, his thighs locking around his friend and king, forcing him to still. His body twists and thrashes one final time as it all becomes too much to hold anymore, every muscle tightening as white spills in the small spaces between them, twitches and shakes rushing through him in the aftermath.
Held securely in place by Polites, Odysseus is quickly pulled over that same cliff, collapsing over him and resting his head over his broad chest, ear pressed to the bite mark he’d left over the thudding of his heartbeat. The sound of that rhythmic pumping of blood paired with the gorgeous view of his wife, still sitting and watching, does something to aid in his recovery, using the little strength left in his body to reach out a hand, laying it flat and open for his Penelope to take, allowing his eyes to slip shut and for himself to focus on his other senses when she does.
The rhythmic thump in his ear eventually starts to slow once again, returning to a regular beat, and the heaving breaths that lift and lower his head with each one gradually becomes more even, the regulation of Polites acting almost as a guide for Odysseus’ own recovery. The familiarly sweet and tender touch of his wife runs up his arm and across the tired strain of his back, her thumb creating soft pressured circles on each of his muscles that she can reach in the moment, the fingers of her other hand intertwining with his. It’s slow, but the presence of both his Penelope and his Polites surrounding him does something to speed up the process of regaining his mind and wits, his strength and vitality, and lastly his voice, the first words out of his mouth being simple and raspy, "My light… my love…"
"Ody…" his voice, too, is broken, crackling at the seams, and yet, when Odysseus manages to peek his eyes open again, he’s wearing that smile again, warm and bright, fitting perfectly with his features like it’s the expression he was created to make the most, the sight alone stripping him of a small portion of his exhaustion.
"Are you both alright?… My darling husband?" Penelope draws his attention her way again, reaching over to pet over his cheek and wipe the sweat from his temple and brow, "If there’s anything you need, I’ll get it for you…"
"We’re," his voice comes in a broken rasp, clearing his throat before trying again, "we’re alright… some water, maybe. And towels…" as if to accentuate their need for both, Odysseus shakily attempts to lift himself up from his position of collapse, looking over their bodies — coated in a gleam of sweat not that dissimilar from the glow of rubbing oils, sticky white mess stringing their stomachs together — and finds a breathless laugh escaping him at the obscenity and strange beauty, "I’m sorry, my friend."
The subtle shifting of the bed beneath them and the quiet steps of their queen making her way through the guest amenities, a lightness fills the air around the three, no longer weighed down with heavy, desperate, feral desire and the chase for release, instead simple joy and love fills the space, occasionally accented with deliriously airy and weightless laughter, "Oh, Ody, what is there to be sorry for? I was going to thank you…"
Returning to their sides, Penelope unfolds each of the towels in the stack she’s collected, laying one over Polites’ chest, one over the mess on his stomach, and handing another to Odysseus, taking another into her own hands to gently wipe the glisten of sweat from her husband’s body, "I was going to offer the same thanks to you, Polites. You both make for a beautiful show…"
Lazily patting and swiping at his own face and chest with his hand towel, Odysseus leans into the caring touch of his wife and sighs happily, "I’ve made such a mess of us," tipping his head to one side, he smiles and nudges against his Penelope’s cheek as she leans down over him to set a kiss to his, "I’m glad we made for good entertainment for our queen tonight… do you need anything, my wife?"
"No, my dearest," Penelope litters a trail of kisses over his cheek, along his shoulder and across his back, running her hand towel over the small of his back and down his hips and the back of his thighs the best she can reach, "unlike you men, I can tolerate my own arousal, even enjoy letting it settle. Not every lustful desire needs to be met within the hour to be dispelled, my love. Sometimes allowing them to resolve on their own is just as dizzying and blissful… maybe I’ll show you one day." She lays a final kiss to the back of his head as a she stands straight, draping her arms over each of his shoulders.
"You’re a torturous woman, you do know that, my love?" With a breathless laugh, he rests back against her, glancing down to wipe away the mess coating his stomach and tangling through the coils the settle just below, making the occasional small noise of disgust as the mess between their still connected hips.
"Mmm, but you prefer me this way. Sweet and vicious." She giggles at his sounds of dismay and kisses his temple, holding her palms over his chest and feeling his heartbeat.
Once they’ve done all they can to wipe away sweat and seed from their bodies without separating entirely, Polites gives a soft, playful pout at the inevitability of the next step, reaching his hands out and using the little strength left in his legs to pull Odysseus down with him again, resting their foreheads together with a smile.
"Polites?…" Propping himself up with his elbow, he allows his eyes to slip shut and runs a hand through the short curls and waves of brunette at the back of his head, sliding a towel under where they meet and holding his hip in place with the other.
"I’m ready, I promise." Tipping his head slightly, he presses a kiss to either corner of his friend’s parted lips, cupping his cheeks in each of his palms.
"Alright…" with a gentle nod, Odysseus follows through, biting back overstimulated groans at the returning of friction, though his dearest friend seems to make no such effort for himself, heated sighs and airy whines escaping him much more freely as their bodies become separate once again.
Once it’s over, and after a moment to catch their breaths and watch the spill, Odysseus climbs into the bed, collapsing down in the very centre with a soft uff sound accompanying the gentle impact. "We rest here tonight…" he says it like a tired decree.
"Yes, sir," Polites gives a firm nod and grins, wide and hopeful, as he crawls over to slump down beside his king, quickly carving out his resting place under his Ody’s arm and nuzzling into the side of his chest, draping an arm and a leg over him, "thank you, Ody."
After a moment to set their messied towels aside and to pull up the lightweight blankets over the exhausted men, Penelope moves to join them, waiting until she’s already under the covers to remove her peplos dress before sliding closer to her husband and snuggling up close against his side, a pleased hum leaving her when she feels his arm wrap around her waist to pull her somehow closer, making a concerted effort to nuzzle his face into her chest, which of course she wants nothing more than to aid him in. Hugging him closer, though without tilting him too far away from Polites, she presses a kiss to the crown of his head and pets over his cheek, "May Hypnos bless you both in sleep… I love you, darling husband."
"I love you too, my sweet love, may Hypnos bless you just as well…" though his voice tired, reverence for his Penelope still lines every word, the kiss he lays to her sternum like an offering, "you too, Polites, my light…" he uses the little energy he has left to hug his friend closer, scratching at his scalp and incidentally slipping his headband off to instead rest below them, "though it’s different, I love you too, my sunlight…"
"I-…" he squeezes Odysseus weakly and hides under his arm, though fails to hide the beaming grin of pure, untouchable joy on his lips, once that almost threatens to steal his sleep from him, "I love you too, Ody. May you both be blessed by Hypnos too…"
"Goodnight, my dearest."
"Goodnight, my sweet love, goodnight, my light…"
"Goodnight, Ody, my friend."