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Nothing had gone as Paris had planned.
Every decision, every plot, every attempt – all turned on their heads and back at him. Even to the point that Troy was now burning, falling through a ploy he, himself, had offered up the building materials for.
All he'd wanted was to take the throne after his father died, but none of his actions had been meant to lead to this. Only to deprive Aeneas, annoying and in the way as he was, threatening Helen with his opposition to their marriage.
And now---
"Pick that up," Menelaus demanded, waving his sword at the crown he'd swiped off Helen's head.
It gleamed where it lay, lighter to wear than the solid construction might imply and with alternating flowers and palmettes. It was one of the first pieces of jewellery – with matching earrings – that he’d given Helen upon their arrival in Troy. Had had it made for her, and he was rather fond of it.
It’d hurt, a little, to see her put it on while Greeks were tearing through the city.
And now Menelaus knocked it off her head – he wasn't sure whether to be offended on her half or not, heart up in his throat – only to tell him to pick it up again? Paris stared, unable to react for a moment as he glanced between the king of Sparta and Helen’s crown, a flickering light reflected from outside catching in the metal. Screams pierced the air.
"Pick that up," Menelaus snarled, and Paris backed away, cautiously bending down to pick the crown up.
What the point was, he couldn't see. At least more distance should make it easier to defend himself, his sword reassuringly heavy in his hand.
If only he had the strength to.
Never mind the men Menelaus had come in here with; the sword felt too heavy. His grip on it was tremblingly lax, and he found no strength, just as Helen had said, to heft it at Menelaus as he straightened up, crown in hand.
"Now put it on your head."
Baffled, Paris stared at the king of Sparta, once again unable to react. This time, Menelaus didn’t wait. He stomped up to him, narrow-eyed and fury-mouthed.
"On your head, I say!" Menelaus glowered, nodding sharply. His voice dipped down roughly as he continued; "On your head."
The order punched through him, and Paris dropped his sword unthinkingly. But then, having given it up it was even easier to obey the demand and put the crown Helen had preened in front of the mirror with just moments before on his own head, heart hammering in his chest. It sat light on his head, well-balanced and gentle.
Paris straightened up as far as he was able, despite the trembling of his heart.
"That's it." Grunting, some momentary pleasure almost softened Menelaus' voice and demeanour both, though it didn't last long as he pointed to the bed behind Paris with his sword. "And now... on that bed."
What?
Paris glanced over his shoulder, then back to Menelaus, not quite sure he'd heard right.
The bed?
"Go on," Menelaus urged, and once again it was almost soft, even as he moved, raising his sword again, this time at Paris. His voice hardened when he spoke once more. "Go on."
Paris backed away, foot sliding along the sword he'd discarded. But though it was close – though Aeneas or Hektor would surely have dived down and snatched their weapon back up, if they would ever have dropped it to begin with – all he could do was obey. He slowly shuffled backwards until Menelaus had herded him up the stairs, crowding him up against the side of the bed.
Whatever strange desire had taken hold of the king of Sparta to see him in Helen's crown and put him here, the place where he and Helen had spent so much time, surely they'd reached the end.
"Down," Menelaus urged, spine stiff and eyes narrowed. Waggled his sword when Paris didn't immediately move. "Down."
Shuddering, Paris sat, only right at the very edge. The bed that had been the most treasured and beloved part of this room was now as if foreign underneath him.
"There."
A sick, thick pleasure warmed Menelaus' voice, their gazes meeting as Paris looked up. A beat, Menelaus' dark eyes boring into him, looking him up and down with an unholy light revealing some gleam of warmer brown in his irises. Paris smoothed the short fall of his chiton, barely covering the tops of his thighs, and made the mistake of lowering his gaze. Menelaus raised his sword to thrust and Paris flinched, a gasp stuck in the back of his throat.
Fire bloomed out from his jaw, his head snapping back as the sword's hilt slammed into his face. Paris fell back onto the bed, the gasp turned into a groan. Menelaus cursed and followed him up onto the bed, the sword once more raised – and shoved, blade first, into the bed by Paris' head, so deep into the mattress half the blade disappeared.
Menelaus snatched the crown back up and shoved it into Paris' chest.
"Put it back on," he demanded, his fury making his voice hoarse. Fury, and something rougher, darker than that. Hungrier, perhaps.
"But why? What is the point of all th---"
"Put it back on!" Menelaus snarled, slapping a hard, heavy hand down on Paris’ thigh.
Even as Paris obeyed, putting it back on and this time it might stay the way it was now trapped between the top of his head and the cushion, he looked down. Down at the tanned hand clutching his thigh, down at the fall of luridly red chiton covering Menelaus' broad thighs. Down at the bulge he could see, even past the protective, studded leather covering Menelaus' loins.
Wait.
Menelaus grunted, pleased, and shoved his legs up. The skirt of his chiton fell back to bunch up at his hips, baring him in full for Menelaus, and there was no missing the flash of darkening lust that lighted those dark eyes like a stroke of lightning in the night.
What?
"Wait!" Paris cried, squirming, heart up in his throat as Menelaus surged forward, studded leather and metal jangling. Menelaus ignored him, shoving his legs full up against his torso and practically bending him in half. He hadn't expected this! "Wait, yo---!"
"Be quiet and put your hands over your head," Menelaus snapped, deep and rolling, like a bull's lowing when challenged by an unwary rival. "Go on. Do it."
Menelaus' eyes were hard and dark, and so were his words.
Paris' heart wasn't just up in his throat, it was all the way out in his mouth. His pulse was heavy in his ears, and he should do something. Yet, when he raised his hands it was to drop them by his head. Once there, they seemed as heavy as his now-lost sword.
He twisted them against the cushion, not able to let them lie still, yet equally unable under that hard, dark stare – Menelaus eyes and hair matched to one another – to lift them. Unable to do anything at all but curling his fingers around the crown. The metal was cool, in contrast to the impossible heat in his belly.
Fear only, most assuredly, when he was laid out like this, the king of Sparta hovering over him, looking down at him like that.
He felt naked though he was still dressed, even as dishevelled as he now was. Helen could make him feel this way, and he always did delight in kneeling for her, in letting her sultry voice wash over him and her demands pierce him, but this... this was not...
"Good."
Smile grim, Menelaus stuck a hand beneath the fall of his chiton, and Paris couldn't look away as he pulled his cock out. It was red and hard and with a pearling gleam at the tip, thick and yet surely not as large as Paris' skittering heart insisted it was. Still plenty large, no matter what.
His insides seized. Surely not.
"What---"
"You think to steal my wife, and fuck her? Well, since this is the bed you have taken her in, I will take you in it, and claim back at least a sliver of what you've stolen from me," Menelaus growled and shouldered Paris' legs up against his torso as he shoved himself in between his bared thighs.
Menelaus' cock might not be giant, but however large or small it in truth was, it was still hefty. Paris' would-be protest disintegrated into a gasp at the shock of intrusion, caught like a worm on a hook as he was penetrated clean through; the king of Sparta didn't stop until he was fully seated.
Twisting weakly, legs shaking where they dangled over Menelaus' arms, Paris whimpered.
The hot, angrily throbbing cock piercing him twitched, and the king of Sparta himself groaned.
"Such a sound out of you, Prince of Troy... Certainly her crown fits you just as well as it did my wife, and you look as good in it as she did. But with all I've seen of you, dressing just as decoratively as she, tastes alike, is that any wonder? Neither Hektor nor Aeneas dressed or dresses as you do."
Menelaus' smile was more of a mocking thrust of the sword he no longer held, buried in the bed as it was, than an expression.
He reached out, dragging fingers along the draped collar of Paris' chiton with its folds and trailing ends. This chiton was one of his more simple pieces, thicker than most of the rest of his clothing and not something he'd worn in years. But it had seemed best to wear something that was, if not armour, then more thickly woven than what he now usually wore. He might as well have been naked anyway, or worn one of Helen's even filmier dresses, the way Menelaus was looking at him.
He refused to blush at such ridiculous comparison, yet there was still an undeniable heat under his skin, threatening to spill out.
"Good taste knows no difference," Paris said haughtily, raising his chin.
It dug the crown into the bottom curve of the cushion beyond his head, pressing it down more firmly onto his head. The crown. Helen’s crown. A blush bloomed out, Paris drawing a sharp breath as if cooler air, though it tasted like smoke, like burning, might cool off his insides.
It shouldn't be so embarrassing, yet the manner in which Menelaus talked, looked at him when he'd put on Helen's crown, was crawling under his skin.
"It's hardly my fault none of y-uh!"
Menelaus jostled his hips, drawing back and hitching forward. Paris' insides shifted to follow, and he shuddered around the sensation.
He hadn't forgotten Menelaus had penetrated him. He'd just – gotten used to it?
"There's a difference to taste and decoration," Menelaus said, wry and dark. His gaze swept over Paris, dismissive and devouring in one. "The latter is for women. But given that, I'm sure you would fit in one of her dresses as well as her crown fits you."
"Ridiculous!"
Paris' protest turned into a gasp as Menelaus drew out almost completely, the shock of the lack, of easing, almost as great as the way Menelaus' cock stroked his insides when he thrust back in again, sharp and quick, forcing him open.
Blessed Eros and Aphrodite both, that sensation---
The king of Sparta grunted like a lusty bull breeding a cow in heat.
He rutted like one, too.
But there was no long-horned cattle caught in the need of nature here, only him.
Now that Menelaus had begun, he didn't pause, or stop. He moved with full, heavy strokes, taking all Paris had to give, whether he wanted to or no, leaving Paris writhing.
Every thrust jangled with Menelaus’ armour, but as Paris was jostled there was no sound. Only the catching slide of fabric against fabric – he could just as well have worn one of Helen’s dresses, and it would have been all the same.
Paris groaned in protest, something terrible twisting in his chest and spilling out warmly in his veins.
But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped, the way Menelaus had pushed his legs back up against him and then followed himself, heavy like the bull he resembled, squarer and thicker than Paris. It wasn't particularly comfortable; he was a little taller than Menelaus, and was mostly leg, too, and so there was much more of him Menelaus had to squash together to put himself where he wanted to be.
Yet despite that discomfort, despite the fear, the heavy cock repeatedly bulling its way inside drew fire from his veins, through his limbs, but not pain.
Oh, Aphrodite, if only it was pain.
Paris gasped as if he really had been speared through by a sword instead of Menelaus’ thick cock with the next thrust, shuddering and unintentionally clamping down. Menelaus moaned, somewhere low in his chest, and bared his teeth, repeating it with no less force. Paris' toes curled, gilded sensation shooting through him in ways he hadn't so much never contemplated before as never had much thought to experiencing; the joys of women were more than enough for him.
And now... Now---
Twisting away from the cock piercing him like the sword hadn't without getting anywhere, Paris desperately looked around.
And met Helen's wide-eyed gaze.
She was watching.
They all were, in fact, Helen and the men Menelaus had penetrated his bedroom with, though at least the men were still mostly out of view from this angle.
But not Helen. Helen stood there, a dislodged lock of gleaming-pale hair framing her face from when Menelaus had swiped the crown off her head. She was wide-eyed and pale-faced, a slender hand pressed to her soft, dark mouth. Pale – and yet, there were two high spots of colour on her lovely cheeks, and her shock was not really shock. In fact, as he watched, and their gazes met, her lashes lowered without her gaze doing so, smouldering and mocking.
And hungry.
Paris burned. Burned where Menelaus was repeatedly piercing him through, a liquid heat all too familiar, and through his whole face, down his throat and bleeding out over even his chest.
He couldn't just lie here.
Another jolting thrust knocked his fingers against the metal of the crown, and Paris sucked a shocked punch of air in. Lifted his hands, heavy though they were – no strength at all, though he wasn't truly injured, despite the throb in his jaw – and froze under Menelaus' dark, forbidding stare.
"Drop them," he growled, hoarse past his pants, yet no less threatening than when he'd ordered him to pick up the crown, had herded him back towards the bed. "Drop them back where they belong, graceful things as they are, knowing of no real weapon."
Under the weight of that stare, those words, Paris could do nothing but obey.
It should, surely, be for the threatening gleam of dancing light – fire light, gods above, fire, Menelaus was fucking him on his and Helen's bed while Troy burned outside – in the blade of the sword buried in the mattress. Paris would very much like to cling to that reason.
And it wasn't not that reason, his jaw throbbing, still, but – it wasn't, shamefully, the only reason.
It was simply for how Menelaus had demanded it done, the same as Paris had found himself obeying each demand from the king of Sparta after he'd entered. He did not know why that urge was there, the inability to act that had little to do with fear. He'd wanted his whole life to take command, to take the throne – though could not imagine acting against his brother – and had done all he had so far to reach that goal, and yet, a single look, a single word from the king of Sparta and he was - soft. On the bed, on his back, legs spread, because he'd demanded it.
Helen was one thing, was a private thing. This was something else entirely, when Menelaus surely wanted to kill him, still.
Aphrodite, why?
The goddess was silent, and Paris was shocked into another moan as Menelaus pulled out nearly the whole way and fucked inside viciously, then ground his hips in.
Familiar move, though not from this side. Paris melted into the bed, and the noise out of him was---
"Perfect." Menelaus grunted, repeating the heavy demand of his hips. "Is this what you followed him for, wife?"
"He is... pleasing, no matter how, whenever he is in bed," Helen said off to the left, her voice heatedly dark and breathy in ways it surely had no right to be with more than him and Helen in this room. With more than the three of them in here, if he had to admit Menelaus' presence at all.
Paris would've groaned in protest, though he still took pride in the compliment as he would've usually thought it to mean. It turned into another whimper instead, and Menelaus shuddered, twitching his hips roughly.
The king of Sparta shifted over to balance on only one hand, the other catching rough in Paris’ hair, somehow finding purchase in the short strands. Yanked his head back and lurched forward, Menelaus’ weight now resting on Paris in ways that should not please, but that cock was even more inescapable like this and the pleasure threatened to spill over instead of be strangled.
"I was going to cleanse this bed first with your blood, then with fire, your body left to burn together with the bed where you've repeatedly soiled my marriage. Yet – it'd be a waste to kill you," Menelaus said, his voice a deep, rough rumble, his smile a threatening slash of white in his tanned face. "I'll get my wife back either way, and you – once is not enough to pay for what you stole. I think you'd make a fine concubine."
"God--- no," Paris gasped, shaking his head against the grip Menelaus had in his hair, and yet.
"Oh yes," Menelaus growled, a triumphant purr to the sound as he thrust in, just so and Paris writhed, cheeks blooming red.
For he was on fire; his blood turned molten, his body a conflagration, like there was a firebrand inside, having taken the place of his flesh. Not merely – barely at all – for the cock spearing him, assaulting some secret place that shot sparks through him, but for those words.
He shouldn't, he shouldn't, for what man found such words pleasing?
Yet he shuddered, gasping, as his body seized around Menelaus' cock and he came, clutching the metal of the crown. It was the only thing solid enough within reach that he had the strength to hold onto.
Menelaus grunted and drew back against his shuddering, wanton body, and then thrust inside. Liquid heat followed, Menelaus’ thighs where they were pressed to the back of Paris' own trembling slightly. Yet the king of Sparta was also like a rock, relentless, and fucked through both of their releases. It drew a second one out of Paris, much too soon after the first, and his awareness wavered under the onslaught, vision briefly going black.
"Back to the Greek camp," Menelaus said somewhere above him, his voice as hard as his cock had been, and Paris had no strength to protest when he was picked up and slung over Menelaus' shoulder.
As they stepped out into smoke-choked darkness, it seemed much simpler to give in to his weakness and let unconsciousness take him.