(no subject)
Ooh arr, me hearties and a merry Wednesday to you all!
Thanks for all the feedback left for Chapter 1 of THA, I really appreciate it. It is growing by the day and will be the first, hopefully, of three stories all of the same arc. I’m toying with the name Pathei Mathos for the arc, as it is a Greek truth meaning ‘through suffering learning’ also I am pretentious, you should all know this by now. I hope I can finish it without getting bored but THA has taken me over a year so far and I’ve only done about two-thirds of it.
I have three wonderful presents to announce from the lovely marielyuy, finjeof and tsubasagahoushi. The first, courtesy of Mariel, is a website (OMGSQUEE!) for me where I can host my fics and can be found here. All the layouts on the site were done by her, including the drawings and I am so lucky to have her. Mariel, I loff thee.
The lovely Misa has drawn me her version of the photograph in TF that Ron finds. It is utterly fabulous and my very first piece of TF fanart! *hugs* That can be found here.
And last but by no means least, the beautiful Finny, who shamelessly abandoned me for a couple of days, wrote me this fic with which I might employ myself until her return. I read it and cried. You are a darling.
As for what I’ve been doing for all you little miscreants lately, I have written an Achilles/Paris Troy!fic for which I would love some feedback. It’s here anyway, just in case anyone would like to take a look.
Heated
Fandom: Troy
Pairing: Achilles/Paris
Rating: NC-17, probably.
Summary: Seriously AU, how I envision the siege of Troy to have really ended. Paris has a proposition that he hopes Achilles will accept. Wow, aren’t I good at summaries?
Feedback rewarded with love, affection and appalling singing. *breaks into song*
Prometheus’s gift of fire lit the torches that illumined the city of Troy beneath the inked heavens. They framed palatial archways and vaulted ceilings, not discriminating between the brackets on exquisitely carved marble columns and on the roughly hewn huts that filled the walled city. They were as a message of defiance to the gods, that despite the punishment of he that gifted the fire to them, the men of Troy would revel in that offering. Yellow flames burned in brass dishes of oil, licking the sides of buildings, casting shadows against walls and sending forth their heat into an already burning night. The country was bathed in a sultriness so intense that it stifled all sounds and exacerbated the growing tension and the agonizing knowledge that enemies lingered near, ready to strike.
Women bathed their feverish infants, their swathes of cloth clinging to their moist skin, their brows covered in a sheen of sweat. Their menfolk prayed to the gods for the heat to break, for their animals to survive the stifling weather, for the harvests not to wither and die. It was like a presence felt by everyone, without a single breeze to lift a lock of hair or a moment’s lapse in the slow suffocation of a country and its foes. In the royal quarters, Princess Helen’s slave girls fanned her with large green leaves, their own aching limbs and searing flesh sacrificed for the comfort of their mistress who lay upon her bed in a white shift, one hand held to her forehead, her eyes closed. Her lover Paris looked silently at her from across the room. He did not step closer, even when Helen’s eyes lifted and she saw him there, it was for her sake that Trojan blood stained the beaches, for her beauty and his folly.
In a land of stillness and silence, Paris was the only thing to move. He stole like a shadow through the cavernous hallways that built up the palace, his feet carrying him lightly through the passages he knew so well, had run along as a child. His mind was full of thoughts and he could not escape the awakened voices that spoke to him and chided his mistake. So many comrades had been slain, too many. He had to stop the slaughter of his people, he had to protect Troy, even at the expense of something he had once so greatly desired. His feet trod the marble steps, past lines of burning torches, and he discarded his cloak when the heat became too intense. From glittering opulence he moved to the dusty realms of the underground passages as, silent as a shadow, he left his fair city through secret ways, seeking the encampment of the Greeks and aspiring to diplomacy.
He paused for a moment as he reached the crest of a sandy hill over which he could clearly see the beaches covered in the tents of his enemies. Thousands of painted war-boats lined the bay, their owners fighting the torrid warmth of the night as they fruitlessly pursued the elusive snatches of a much needed slumber. Agammemnon’s dwelling was clearly marked with the finest silks and treasures plundered from the ransacked temples. Through chinks in the sumptuous material, Paris’s keen archer’s eyes could see the lustre of gold and bronze, could feel the stolen metal surrounding its captor with a shield of beauty. Hot, reckless anger surged through him and his hand strayed automatically to the hilt of the dagger he carried at his belt. He longed to strike Agammemnon, to kill him, for it was at his orders that Paris had lost so many friends, that so many widows screamed their losses out to the night.
No, it was not the time for more blood. He would achieve his ends through subtler means, but he would doubtlessly achieve them. He moved his hand from the dagger hilt. Even that was warm in this, most smouldering of nights. The tents of the legendary Myrmidons were also set apart from the rest by their distinctive style and position in an exclusive group. That was where Paris would strike most effectively, for it was well known that the Myrmidons gave the army its edge, the Myrmidons and their leader of such fame, the great Achilles. Paris had seen him fight, had marvelled at the way that muscular body moved so swiftly over the sands, smiting its enemies with single blows of the sword. He had admired the fighter for his prowess and now sought to take advantage of the influence Achilles wielded over the king he served.
Wary of the guard-archers above him, whose eyes scanned the sands for any sign of movement, Paris kept to the shadows and used his unrivalled knowledge of his country to cross the beaches without detection. He knew every dune, every stone and every rocky alcove where he might lie concealed for a moment. Thus, it was with swift feet, silent motion and cautious tread that Paris, son of Priam, infiltrated the Grecian camp and reached the tent of Achilles, the armour of whom stood proudly outside the entrance. With the utmost care he gently lifted the flap, his heart thudding powerfully in his throat. Achilles sat in one corner, a chalice held in his hands, sleep evidently escaping him in such calefaction as this. Paris knew that he would be in danger on entry but legend had it also that Achilles never killed for sport and curiosity alone would prompt him to spare Paris’s life if only to hear him state his purpose. Even if he met his end here, Paris knew that he would have died trying to right the wrong he had created, he would have died trying to save his people, for should he be slain then his country should have no use for Helen.
The material in his fingers rustled slightly as Paris widened the entrance and Achilles looked up at once as the Trojan prince entered stealthily. On beholding his royal garb and the jewellery denoting his status, Achilles got to his feet in one fluid movement, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword.
“You are prince of Troy,” he said at once, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. “I see it in your raiment. Hector of whom I have heard so much?”
“Nay,” Paris said, swallowing as the tip of Achilles’s sword was pressed closer to his throat. “I am brother of Hector and son of Priam.”
Achilles’s eyes widened. “Paris?” he asked breathlessly before giving a short laugh. “Paris whose love affair with the Queen of Sparta has brought me here?”
“The very same,” Paris said, trying to control the rapid beating of his heart. To his relief the sword was lowered very slightly. Achilles’s stance, his athletic poise and the smooth lines of his body smacked of great agility, confidence and a grace which he put into every movement.
“And what do you do here, Paris, son of Priam?” Achilles asked, seeming much amused. Paris squared his shoulders and stepped forwards, surprising even himself at his own bravery at risking the wrath of this most famed fighter.
“I am here to bargain with my tongue rather than my sword,” he said. “I am here to negotiate with you.” Achilles laughed again. It was a proud sound.
“You seek a bargain with Achilles?” he asked, smiling. “Tell me, prince, do you think this a wise move?” Paris shrugged.
“It is the only I am able to make,” he said. “My proposed bargain is this: the return of the Queen of Sparta for the removal of the Greeks from Troy. I ask you to leave this country with the prize you sought to claim.”
“I did not seek the queen,” Achilles said, “so why come to me? A humble soldier?” Now it was Paris’s turn to laugh, and he stepped further into the tent, closer to Achilles.
“Even the Trojans know that it is you alone whom Agammemnon fears and it is you alone with influence enough to persuade him,” he said. “Menelaus desires his wife back and he shall have her, for the removal of the Greeks.” Achilles stood his sword against the rack behind him and took a sip of wine from his chalice.
“You say Helen was the prize of Menelaus but was she not also yours? Why give up on your admiration for her?” Achilles asked Paris, his searching stare piercing the young man’s face more cleanly than the sharpest blade.
“My admiration for her fades with every Trojan life that is given so that she may remain here,” Paris said sadly. “Every time I look at her I see the faces of the men whose blood was spilt for her sake. Every time she speaks I hear not a sweet voice but the dying cries of a wounded man. She will be the ruin of my country and duty bids that I forsake her.”
“Menelaus will not treat her kindly,” Achilles warned, and Paris knew full well that his adversary had no wish to fight for a king he did not respect and greatly desired to leave these lands.
“My kinsfolk receive treatment a thousand times worse,” Paris replied stubbornly, his lips meeting in a determined line. The heat was even more stifling in here, ringing with a tension that pressed down thickly on the both of them. “It must stop.” Achilles paced tirelessly across the tent.
“You are aware that your reputation precedes you?” he asked Paris who looked taken aback.
“My reputation?” he asked. Achilles smiled at him and took another sip of wine.
“The reputation of your love for women and theirs for you,” he said boldly. “It is quite well known. The Trojan prince and his collection of whores.” He laughed as Paris bristled. “Tell me why Queen Helen should have been any different.” He sat down lazily and stretched out his legs. Paris felt wrong-footed, he had not envisioned their talk taking any such turn but he also took a seat.
“I was captivated by her beauty,” he answered at length, “and she was a gift from the great Aphrodite. How could I refuse the generous rewards of a goddess?”
“How indeed?”
“My love for Helen is bittersweet and I fear the bitterness shall soon become all-consuming. I cannot love forever someone who has brought so much fear and pain to the country of my birth.” Paris sighed and kneeled with Achilles on the soft bed of material.
“Why do women flock so readily to you?” Achilles asked. “You are no warrior. I see no marks of bravery other than the questionable bravery of coming to me here. Is it beauty you rely upon?” Paris’s beauty was renowned. He had the high cheekbones and glittering, dark eyes of some forgotten hero, the lithe physique that was so desirable and a presence so powerful that it was impossible to overlook him. It was true he was not a skilled warrior but he was beloved by all.
“I can give them pleasure,” he asked, surprised at Achilles’s rudeness. “There are many gifts in this world of gold or fire but mine is of a softer nature. That which I may bestow is greatly looked-for.” Achilles’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was intrigued by this prince, who had dared to tread near him and answered him so truthfully, there was fire behind those warm eyes and the embers of a kindled fortitude.
“Women may be appreciative of softness when their eyes are not diverted by the gifts of gold offered by others,” Achilles mused. “But what of the men? Do your acquaintances love you whatever their sex?”
“I am well-loved by many,” Paris answered ambiguously.
“And what do the men seek from you?” Achilles asked and was mildly taken aback to feel Paris’s eyes lift to his face and pierce his own with a bold, intense stare that each held for a long moment.
“They seek pleasure also,” Paris replied in a voice that was barely more that a murmur.
“Are you as skilled with them as you are with your women?”
“Why should one discern between sexes when pleasure should be what one should live for?” Paris smiled easily, his face relaxing as he did so. Achilles, for the briefest of instants, watched him silently. Paris looked away again soon, though. “I come not to spar,” he said. “I come for the agreement I have already proposed.”
Achilles settled back, businesslike. “I have no love for Agammemnon,” he said, “and none for the men of Troy whom you seek to protect. Self-interest and concern for those whom I truly love govern my actions so what might this agreement hold for me?”
Paris idly rubbed a gold ring on his finger. “What do you wish for?” he asked.
Achilles looked nonchalant. “What every weary soldier seeks,” he said, draining his chalice. “I wish for short relief from battle, a distraction from the rigours of ending lives. Can that be mine, Prince?” Paris swallowed once more. Achilles was looking at him searchingly, his magnificence only enhanced by his humble surroundings, his golden hair falling lightly over his tanned shoulders, his muscles shadowed in the torchlight.
“I can grant you both relief and distraction,” Paris said. “Helen of Sparta has long been the prize most desired by men, but a prince of Troy is a greater one.” Achilles raised one eyebrow.
“Is he?”
“Invariably.” Paris shifted forwards slightly. His heart was beating faster than ever and the collected poise of Achilles did nothing to lessen his anxiety. He could not deny, though, that he felt a powerful attraction to this man, the one to whom he would give himself as the greatest prize and to whom he would give a blessed distraction. “Princes of Troy are most pleasing company, even for a single night.” He drew himself level with Achilles and with great force of mind steadying his hand, laid it with apparent confidence on one of those long, toned thighs. Achilles did not move and Paris traced a line across the golden skin, dipping over the inner muscle, moving upwards with a slowness he knew to be torturous. Achilles’s breath had quickened even though he had made no outward sign.
“Perhaps the morning shall see the Greeks departure and the recapture of Helen,” Achilles said. “Perhaps the armies shall see no more bloodshed and the forces of Troy will have been saved by the stealth of their prince.”
“That is my hope,” Paris murmured, moving closer still so that he could feel Achilles’s breath on his skin, their bodies were aligned but barely touching. His hand moved more swiftly along his thigh as the other one skimmed lightly over the rippling muscles of his chest, sliding beneath his light tunic. Paris noted with triumph that as his fingers teased one of his nipples, Achilles closed his eyes with pleasure and Paris’s actions became more assured. He skilfully manoeuvred Achilles backwards to lie flat on the bed, aware all the time of the power of those muscular arms and the ease with which they could end Paris’s life. As he lowered himself upon that muscular body, one of Achilles’s hands threaded into Paris’s hair and he thrust his mouth upwards, claiming the prince’s with a possessive brutality that yet elicited so much pleasure. Paris sank himself into the kiss, wondering if he had ever felt something so wholly intense and exhilarating in his life.
His body fitted well over Achilles’s as he laid himself on top of him, and as their lips broke for a moment, Paris took the opportunity to shift himself against him, grinding upwards with force enough to render the most focused warrior eager for satisfaction. Paris felt strong hands unlashing his leather belt and as his tunic fell open, Achilles looked appraisingly at him, stirred, like everyone else, by his beauty. Paris was charming and easy to love and his physical attractiveness was apparent to everyone, even enemies. He wasted no time in releasing Achilles from his flimsy raiment and finding a lean form aroused and heat-slick beneath him. Just as the tight knots of tension were releasing from Paris’s gut, he felt hands grip his lower waist tightly and he found himself twisted unceremoniously and with considerable discomfort onto his back.
This was not a position Paris preferred. Being of a naturally controlling nature, he delighted in having his lovers submissive to himself, compliant and easily dominated. Those that sought to master him did so only with his silent permission, and only when he desired. Achilles, he should have known, would not be so readily swayed and the warrior proved so by keeping Paris pressed firmly against the blankets and holding him and touching him possessively, as though he was something to be owned and conquered.
There was no tenderness here, all gentleness being reserved for the many countless women that no doubt filled the bed of the mighty Achilles over time. Paris was granted no affectionate love-making or soft words, but instead had broad hands fastened about his upper arms, leaving fingerprints of bruises in their wake. A hard body, forged of muscle and sinew, acted as an anchor, keeping him in his place and keeping him under Achilles’s command. He breathed raggedly against the plane of hard jaw before raising his mouth again and touching Achilles’s lips, their tongues meeting and exploring. A brief interlude. Paris could feel a growing hardness pressed against his thigh and struggled against the hands that bound his arms before working one free and moving it down to stroke the warrior’s cock. Achilles gave a small shudder atop him that sent ripples of excitement exploding through Paris’s body and he began to moving his hand faster, closing his fingers tightly and drawing Achilles into a swelling rhythm. Paris could feel sweat beginning to build up on his skin, covering him with a delicate film as the warm weight across him shifted in his hand. He began to feel some semblance of control as he was generous with his speed and quelled the pulse in his throat that hummed beneath his skin to the wild beats of his heart.
Even as Paris moved his other hand to join the first, Achilles grabbed both with frightening speed and wrenched them upwards above Paris’s head, pinning them against the blankets with all his weight.
“I-” Paris stammered, taken aback by this and feeling the muscles in his arms scream from the rough treatment. Achilles’s face suddenly swam into the flickering candlelight, a picture of flushed composure, but Paris could detect the faint thrum of exhilaration and silver gleam in his eyes.
“You are mine, Prince,” Achilles was saying in a voice low and husky with lust, “for the night. Was that not our deal?”
Paris swallowed and nodded slightly, the sense of anxiety rising in him again and fully replacing any ideas he had had that he was in control of this situation. He could see what folly it was to have presumed so, to have supposed that he would have the wit to remain holding the upper hand. Achilles was the greatest warrior that had ever lived, and Paris feared to the very depths of his being that he was nowhere near his match.
“I am yours,” he said, trying to steel himself.
Achilles’s mouth broke into a half smile. “Good,” he said, without trace of malice. He then dove with little ceremony on Paris’s mouth, which bore the assault and responded to his passion with equal fervour. Slowly Achilles moved his hands from where they held Paris’s own, to graze the prince’s thighs before moving between his legs. With due abandon, Achilles grabbed for a glass phial, knocking over a line of jars which rolled across the floor. He uncorked it quickly and threw it aside and Paris looked up in time to witness the warrior preparing himself and in that moment he knew that he would be entirely vulnerable and at Achilles’s mercy. Feeling his heartbeat quicken once more, the Prince curled his fingers around the blankets beneath him and gasped aloud as his body was invaded.
A heat that bordered on searing seemed to race the length of his spine and despite initially contending with the pain of Achilles’s swift thrusts, he was able to derive pleasure from him and hooked his long legs around Achilles’s waist, drawing them into even closer proximity. His breaths were audible, issuing from his lips in short gasps as he breathed against Achilles’s skin as the man sought to master him. The scent of flesh was all about him, indubitably masculine and edged with a sharpness that was redolent of peril lingering in the quiet.
The pain he had felt was beginning to fade as Achilles moved against him, inside him and all over him. Clinging tightly to the skin stretched over shoulder blades, Paris allowed his gold rings to bite Achilles and leave perhaps some mark, some reminder. Feeling Achilles at last move deeply enough to strike the heart of him, Paris’s senses exploded with pleasure and he could not help but emit a throaty cry which soaked into the air like smoke. Paris suddenly became aware of everything around him and he was bombarded with sensations and clarity as his sensitised skin prickled in the air.
Achilles’s face was lost for the briefest of moments, absent, as it were, from this reality and borne far away to a place where no dead awaited him and where destiny was irrelevant. For that indescribable moment, Paris found himself transfixed and watched with fascination and a slow pleasure as Achilles gave in and released, his groan rolling through Paris and the slackening of his muscles making him sink onto the prince and seal them as one, shining and sated both, their arms entangled around each other.
Paris closed his eyes, a sense of lethargy was filling his bones. He opened them again, however, when he felt a light touch against his cheek and saw a lock of golden hair lying on his face. Without considering the motion, he tucked it back with silent fingers and felt the warrior atop him stir slightly. Achilles moved his head and caught his eye and, his hand moving to cup Paris’s jaw, kissed him chastely on the lips before rolling over and collapsing again on the bed.
The silence was as thick as the heat. Paris felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal and he made a conscious effort to regulate his breathing, sensing that Achilles was employed similarly. After a long minute’s quiet, Paris found strength enough to prop himself up on his elbows and survey the man lying next to him.
“I had never bedded a prince before,” Achilles murmured, his eyes closed.
“I had never bedded Achilles before,” Paris replied, wondering what had become of his tunic. He was surprised to see Achilles lips quirk into a smile at his remark.
“True,” he said, and opened his eyes to look at Paris.
Paris hardly dared to hope for satisfaction. He was expecting Achilles to fling him from his tent any minute now, to call down the Greek hordes, to slay Paris on the spot or else ransom him to Priam for the key to Troy’s Sceaen gate. Fear clutched at him again. He should never have come here, he was only going to make it worse.
“Will you then parley with Agammemnon?” he asked. Achilles let out a short burst of laughter, apparently much amused by something. “You won’t?” Paris’s eyes widened and he scrambled to sit up, forgetting his nakedness for the moment. “We had an accord!”
“We had nothing of the sort,” Achilles replied, more harshly than Paris had anticipated. “I made no promises, Prince, and you have whored yourself willingly without the wit to ensure that a deal was struck. It is your own doing. Your own folly.”
Paris felt his mouth drop open in astonishment and dismay. His cheeks began to flush under Achilles’s devastating stare and, entirely furious, he began to don his raiment once more, not looking at the warrior. Not able to. As he tugged the familiar leather thongs that tied his tunic into place he heard a rustle of material behind him and turned to see Achilles laid backwards on his bed, a picture of peacefulness and self assurance. Paris felt as though fury were corroding his insides and it was only immense strength of will that prevented him reaching for his dagger at his belt. Achilles seemed to sense his thoughts, for he smiled quietly and took a sip of wine.
“You are a liar,” Paris muttered, unable to restrain himself. Achilles raised an eyebrow.
“I never lie,” he replied and Paris half expected him to say something else but Achilles merely hissed at him as one might to a dog they were attempting to be rid of. Feeling his face heat, Paris flung open the folds of material fashioned into a doorway and stormed out, becoming nothing more than a shadow darting between the gathered tents, eluding the torchlight that burned across the beaches.
Even the air outside the confines of the stagnant tent was not more fresh than inside and Paris was blind to everything but his own simmering anger and the sense of shame that was becoming more and more prominent inside his core. He could not believe he had allowed himself to be so coldly used by Achilles who right now would be toasting the gods in thanks for his conquest and would gleefully spread tales of Paris’s profligacy. Paris could almost hear the words echoing around the golden sands. The pleasure Achilles had sustained from the prince was bound to be relayed amongst the men with considerable delight. That Paris had been used and discarded by him like a broken spear would only increase the respect Achilles enjoyed. Paris suddenly felt sick and desired nothing more than to conceal himself away in the halls of his palace and forget the entire affair had ever happened. Should rumours reach his own troops of his imprudence then he would surely be reviled by all. Paris could hardly bear the thought and as soon as he reached the safety of his own chambers he doused his face with water in an effort to clear his tumultuous thoughts. With an aching heart, he allowed a fitful sleep to take him.
That night, the heat broke and the moon winked and died behind a rolling mass of clouds that spread from the East. At first there was a gentle sigh of rain which soon gave way to a nourishing deluge as the heavens opened and quenched the thirsting lands.
“Paris! Paris! Awake!” The noise jerked Paris out of what was only a shadow of a sleep and he opened bleary eyes to see Hector darting through his bedroom to shake him by the shoulders.
“What is it?” Paris asked, trying to bat away his brother who would not be deterred.
“The Greeks are leaving!” Hector declared triumphantly. “They are sailing away as we speak!”
“What?” Paris was fully awake now and sat up so quickly he felt light-headed. He felt Hector’s hand fasten around his arm and drag him to the huge arch that overlooked the beach from a lofty position. It was smattered with debris but lacking in Greeks. They themselves were visible as an immense line of shapes, drifting across the Bay of Troy which eventually opened out onto the Aegean sea. “What happened?” Paris asked, awed.
Hector sounded breathless with excitement. “At a late hour last night, so I am told from the scouts who were observing them, Achilles and his Myrmidons dismantled their tents and packed away their supplies. We know Achilles spoke for a long time with Agammemnon who must have been persuaded to leave with them for he gave orders for their return to Greece just before first light.”
“And Helen?”
Hector turned to him with an unreadable look on his face. “Helen is once again Queen of Sparta,” he told his brother. “She cloaked herself in black and stole away last night.” He placed a comforting hand on Paris’s shoulder. “I am sorry, brother,” he said, imagining Paris’s distress to be great. “But do not forget that Menelaus was her husband, and she has borne him children who she has not seen for some time.”
“I know,” Paris said quietly, watching the retreating ships with a thoughtful expression. Suddenly he whirled around and began to throw on his clothes.
“Where are you going?” Hector asked in bemusement, there is much rejoicing in the palace.
“I am going down to the beaches,” Paris declared, and left the room before Hector could ask anything more.
The streets of Troy were full of jubilation. People were joined together in celebration, threading garlands through their hair, dancing with Troy’s maidens and paying homage to the gods, whom they believed to have orchestrated Troy’s rescue.
Paris slipped through them silently and stumbled down onto the shifting sands that were littered with timbers of wood, shards of metal and the various pieces of debris that a thousands-strong army could leave in their wake. From this vantage point his keen eyes could easily pick out the black sails of Achilles’s ships as they sailed away from him. He stood there, alone on the beach whilst all around him was joy and celebration. Achilles had not lied to him after all, had acted honourably and had saved Troy. For Paris.
Paris contended with a swelling triumph and a leaden sense of disappointment that he could not clarify. The memory of Achilles pinning him to the bed, his strong arms around Paris and his hard length thrust fully inside him came back to him and Paris felt a flush of arousal as he pictured it again. He had thought himself only a whim for the great warrior, and maybe he had been, but at least it had not been in vain. At least he could say he had influenced the mighty Achilles, had bent him to his will, had had the upper hand over him, if only for a moment. None but them would ever know but it would be a small, separate victory in Paris’s own heart. For one night he had known the true taste of power. Unseen, perhaps, but not caring, he raised one hand in final valediction.
A league away, with the gentle slap of the water against the oars, Achilles found himself looking back to the beaches of Troy and thinking of the Trojan prince whom he had taken to his bed. Something about Paris had touched him more deeply than he would ever have admitted to, and something attracted him to him so powerfully that Achilles was unnerved by it. He felt a flash of sharpness in his shoulder as his leather tunic moved slightly across his back. Feeling his shoulder blade with his fingers, Achilles felt a small nick in his skin that he had hitherto not noticed. It had been made by the edge of a diamond set into a gold ring and would last for several days as a physical reminder of Paris.
The memory of him would last for much longer.
* * * * * * * * *
And as though that wasn’t enough, I’ve also written a H/D ficlet for your perusal. This was written for finjeof when she contracted glandular fever a while ago and was ranting on the phone to me about maths and how it should be stricken from the world for the greater good of mankind. I decided to write three fics in her honour and here is the first…
Figuring It Out
The problem was staring Draco in the face.
Inked in black on cream parchment. He had looked at it for so long the lines merged and bled into each other, forming grand shapes that his mind was fuzzily able to decipher and recognize. The letters he was looking at had begun to lose all meaning, like when you choose a word and repeat it over and over to yourself, it crumbles and splits and begins to sound like nonsense when before it had been perfectly understandable.
…In Griknok, Siberia, the population of feral goblins is equivalent to:
dy/dx = 3 root x - x2, where y = 2/3 when x = 1
y = the number of available watering holes and x = the number of nearby hostile tribes of gremlins.
Find the value of y when x = 4…
Hmm. Draco knew this, he was sure he did. In fact, if he worked very hard and screwed up his eyes so that those tiny lines started appearing in between his eyebrows, he was certain he could recall Professor Marches saying something about this very problem.
“…and when you have an equation like this whether or not the unknown quantity refers to the population size, first of all you must always-”
Always what? Draco opened his eyes again. Damn, he must have tuned out during that sentence. Now he came to think about it, he remembered being particularly distracted at that point by the way Blaise leaned back in his chair in front. The sunlight had caught over the muscles of his shoulders, which were only hinted at by shadows through the thin white cotton of his shirt. Blaise had such a lovely olive tan, as though he had been drinking light and it seemed to gleam through him, through his skin, moistened with warmth. Draco imagined it filmed with smoke, imagined dragging his tongue along that throat and those collarbones.
“…always differentiate.”
Draco smacked himself on the forehead. That was it, differentiation. Of course.
To differentiate take axn , which is 6n1, which is 6n… Then what?
Draco stared at the piece of paper he was scribbling on for several long seconds before screwing it up and throwing it hard against the wall. It bounced off merrily and landed on the floor to join a growing pile of balls of parchment. All had been hurled in moments of irritation and were becoming something of a health and safety hazard.
Draco stared at the page again without seeing it. He hated it when his teachers set problems that he couldn’t do, especially as his sense of determination wouldn’t let him give up on them before they were complete. Jabbing his quill roughly into the ink pot he started to scrawl again, mixing maths equations with absent-minded doodles as his thoughts wandered sporadically. He was left with a page much like the last, which soon found its way to the floor, webbed with algebra merging into little drawings of snitches and Draco’s initials entwined together with others. His mind became a little detached from its task and it was as though the words and numbers were flat against the page, his thoughts refusing them entry or clarity.
Draco stabbed his quill on the clean sheet of parchment in frustration. There was a faint cracking sound and the end of his quill split, gushing ink all over the table. It spread in a slow pool, contaminating his scrolls and staining his snow white feather black.
“Shit.” He scowled and tried to gather his things together, pushing back the pieces of blond hair that fell into his eyes and dropping as many things as he managed to pick up.
“Draco?” Draco looked up, flustered, to see Harry leaning nonchalantly against the line of bookshelves, his arms crossed against his chest, his lips quirked into a smile. Draco’s mouth went very dry. Harry had cast off his robes and his shirt was untucked, revealing a tiny triangle of bare skin at his navel where the buttons had come undone. His hair was even more ruffled than usual and his eyes, that strangely verdant green, flickered with the reflections of the candlelight and were calm and bright.
“What?” Draco asked, snapping back to his ink flood after a moment’s slack-jawed gazing.
“You were supposed to meet me,” Harry said unreproachfully, picking his way through the clusters of balled up parchment until he was standing in front of Draco’s desk.
“I wanted to get this done first,” Draco said, stuffing papers haphazardly into his bag.
“And did you?” Harry asked, uncrossing his arms to pick up some of the loose leaves of parchment.
“No,” Draco said in irritation, not looking at Harry. “And now I won’t because you’re here.”
“I can go if you like,” Harry said affably, “and leave you to your homework.”
Draco didn’t say anything but huffed a couple of times for good measure and tried to mop up some of the ink that was drifting across the edge of the table and dripping onto the flagstone floor. He suddenly felt something touch his neck and looked up to see Harry stretching out his hand to cup his face, brushing his cheekbone with his thumb. The motion was quiet and intimate and Draco felt his breath quicken.
Harry grinned. “You are absolutely covered in ink.” He recoiled as Draco swatted him, feeling his face heat up.
“Fuck off,” he muttered under his breath. Harry didn’t let go, though, and he slid his hand around the back of Draco’s neck, tilting their faces together before sinking onto his mouth and drawing him into a kiss so intense that it made his skin tingle with excitement. He felt a tongue sweep across his own and was unable to control his hands, which moved of their own accord to thread themselves through the jet of Harry’s hair. His senses seemed to overflow with the taste, smell and feel of Harry against his skin. He felt himself being pushed backwards against the desk, felt it slam into the back of his legs as Harry pressed closer against him, trapping him with his mouth and his hands and making him want to sink across that hard body. Everything became about Harry, every moment seeming to break upon him until he filled Draco’s mind with his undeniable presence.
Harry pulled back, one hand still twined around Draco’s neck, lips parted, breath quick and cheeks flushed. Draco’s body was acting of its own accord to distract him from everything but Harry as the Gryffindor moved his hands down to rest on the very lowest planes of Draco’s hips. Draco cursed him under his breath.
Harry quirked up an eyebrow before idly picking up a leaf of scattered parchment.
“Why have you written DM 4 HP all over this?” he asked, grinning.
“I haven’t!” Draco flushed scarlet and snatched the paper out of his hand. “Oh yeah. That stands for Draco Malfoy and Humungous Prat.”
Harry relinquished the paper, looking smug. “Sure it does.”
“Bugger off, you,” Draco said quickly, hoping to inject a sense of acidity into his tone.
Harry looked incredibly amused by this. “Nah, I don’t think I will,” he said, crossing his arms again and locking Draco with that intense flashing green. “I think I’ll stay and bother you instead.” His proximity sent Draco’s pulse skittering to his throat and he swallowed heavily, his heart beating faster with excitement and his eyes narrowing.
“Oh really?” he replied, edging slowly forward. “Hoping to distract me?”
Harry shrugged appealingly but his eyes were sparkling. “Perhaps,” he said and leaned so close to Draco’s face that Draco’s skin was prickling as Harry’s breath feathered over his ear. “Perhaps I’m just going to shag you so hard that you forget all about homework.”
Those words went straight to Draco’s groin and after pausing for the briefest of split seconds, he grabbed Harry by the collar and yanked him forward roughly, jarring their lips together and carrying them both backwards onto the desk. Papers exploded onto the floor, quills crushed beneath their bodies and the bottle of ink fell over for the second time that day, creating even more havoc out of what was already a complete mess. Draco, strangely, didn’t care. As Harry’s lips moved relentlessly against his he couldn’t resist pulling open the buttons of his shirt so that his toned, muscular chest was uncovered and glimmering tantalizingly on top of Draco. Draco had a sudden urge to lick it and as he drew his tongue along the sensitive hollow of Harry’s neck he felt the other boy shudder on top of him and his own arousal was made evident.
“Fuck, Harry,” he breathed against Harry’s skin. Harry quieted him with another kiss that seemed to rip the bottom out of Draco’s world and left him spinning in some abstract place that he didn’t quite know how to rationalize. Whatever happened, Harry was always going to be the one thing in Draco’s life that he couldn’t come to terms with, that he couldn’t grow used to or work out. He was a problem and a puzzle that intellect was at a loss to solve but something inside Draco loved him for that, for despite the complexities of their enigmatic relationship, Harry was simply Harry.
Ignoring the more basic urges he was contending with, Draco kissed him then on the corner of his mouth, as tenderly as he had ever kissed anyone in his life.
* * * * * * * * * *
Let us not forget how feedback makes the world go round.
Have been on the cabbage soup diet for the past three days and it has absolutely killed me. I haven’t been allowed bread or meat or anything that wasn’t cabbage soup but I have lost about 6 pounds in three days. I haven’t been eating at all, though, so that might be it.
I’m in London tomorrow for a couple of days so if there are any slashers out there who spot a dark haired girl drooling at the Chanel window then you’ve met Stylophile. Aren’t you lucky.
Am up at Skyehawke! Having received several offers in the past I decided to finally take them up and am very glad I did. I also received my 1000th review for TF over at ff.net! ‘Tis very exciting, ‘tis. Yay.
I hope everyone out there is well and feeling full of slashy goodness. I’ll miss the fandom whilst in London but I live in hope of one of the classic WiPs having been updated by the time I get back. Must now embark on monster shopping trip and spend the next few months in Mexico fleeing my bank manager and his thumb screws.
Toodle-pip.
Thanks for all the feedback left for Chapter 1 of THA, I really appreciate it. It is growing by the day and will be the first, hopefully, of three stories all of the same arc. I’m toying with the name Pathei Mathos for the arc, as it is a Greek truth meaning ‘through suffering learning’ also I am pretentious, you should all know this by now. I hope I can finish it without getting bored but THA has taken me over a year so far and I’ve only done about two-thirds of it.
I have three wonderful presents to announce from the lovely marielyuy, finjeof and tsubasagahoushi. The first, courtesy of Mariel, is a website (OMGSQUEE!) for me where I can host my fics and can be found here. All the layouts on the site were done by her, including the drawings and I am so lucky to have her. Mariel, I loff thee.
The lovely Misa has drawn me her version of the photograph in TF that Ron finds. It is utterly fabulous and my very first piece of TF fanart! *hugs* That can be found here.
And last but by no means least, the beautiful Finny, who shamelessly abandoned me for a couple of days, wrote me this fic with which I might employ myself until her return. I read it and cried. You are a darling.
As for what I’ve been doing for all you little miscreants lately, I have written an Achilles/Paris Troy!fic for which I would love some feedback. It’s here anyway, just in case anyone would like to take a look.
Heated
Fandom: Troy
Pairing: Achilles/Paris
Rating: NC-17, probably.
Summary: Seriously AU, how I envision the siege of Troy to have really ended. Paris has a proposition that he hopes Achilles will accept. Wow, aren’t I good at summaries?
Feedback rewarded with love, affection and appalling singing. *breaks into song*
Prometheus’s gift of fire lit the torches that illumined the city of Troy beneath the inked heavens. They framed palatial archways and vaulted ceilings, not discriminating between the brackets on exquisitely carved marble columns and on the roughly hewn huts that filled the walled city. They were as a message of defiance to the gods, that despite the punishment of he that gifted the fire to them, the men of Troy would revel in that offering. Yellow flames burned in brass dishes of oil, licking the sides of buildings, casting shadows against walls and sending forth their heat into an already burning night. The country was bathed in a sultriness so intense that it stifled all sounds and exacerbated the growing tension and the agonizing knowledge that enemies lingered near, ready to strike.
Women bathed their feverish infants, their swathes of cloth clinging to their moist skin, their brows covered in a sheen of sweat. Their menfolk prayed to the gods for the heat to break, for their animals to survive the stifling weather, for the harvests not to wither and die. It was like a presence felt by everyone, without a single breeze to lift a lock of hair or a moment’s lapse in the slow suffocation of a country and its foes. In the royal quarters, Princess Helen’s slave girls fanned her with large green leaves, their own aching limbs and searing flesh sacrificed for the comfort of their mistress who lay upon her bed in a white shift, one hand held to her forehead, her eyes closed. Her lover Paris looked silently at her from across the room. He did not step closer, even when Helen’s eyes lifted and she saw him there, it was for her sake that Trojan blood stained the beaches, for her beauty and his folly.
In a land of stillness and silence, Paris was the only thing to move. He stole like a shadow through the cavernous hallways that built up the palace, his feet carrying him lightly through the passages he knew so well, had run along as a child. His mind was full of thoughts and he could not escape the awakened voices that spoke to him and chided his mistake. So many comrades had been slain, too many. He had to stop the slaughter of his people, he had to protect Troy, even at the expense of something he had once so greatly desired. His feet trod the marble steps, past lines of burning torches, and he discarded his cloak when the heat became too intense. From glittering opulence he moved to the dusty realms of the underground passages as, silent as a shadow, he left his fair city through secret ways, seeking the encampment of the Greeks and aspiring to diplomacy.
He paused for a moment as he reached the crest of a sandy hill over which he could clearly see the beaches covered in the tents of his enemies. Thousands of painted war-boats lined the bay, their owners fighting the torrid warmth of the night as they fruitlessly pursued the elusive snatches of a much needed slumber. Agammemnon’s dwelling was clearly marked with the finest silks and treasures plundered from the ransacked temples. Through chinks in the sumptuous material, Paris’s keen archer’s eyes could see the lustre of gold and bronze, could feel the stolen metal surrounding its captor with a shield of beauty. Hot, reckless anger surged through him and his hand strayed automatically to the hilt of the dagger he carried at his belt. He longed to strike Agammemnon, to kill him, for it was at his orders that Paris had lost so many friends, that so many widows screamed their losses out to the night.
No, it was not the time for more blood. He would achieve his ends through subtler means, but he would doubtlessly achieve them. He moved his hand from the dagger hilt. Even that was warm in this, most smouldering of nights. The tents of the legendary Myrmidons were also set apart from the rest by their distinctive style and position in an exclusive group. That was where Paris would strike most effectively, for it was well known that the Myrmidons gave the army its edge, the Myrmidons and their leader of such fame, the great Achilles. Paris had seen him fight, had marvelled at the way that muscular body moved so swiftly over the sands, smiting its enemies with single blows of the sword. He had admired the fighter for his prowess and now sought to take advantage of the influence Achilles wielded over the king he served.
Wary of the guard-archers above him, whose eyes scanned the sands for any sign of movement, Paris kept to the shadows and used his unrivalled knowledge of his country to cross the beaches without detection. He knew every dune, every stone and every rocky alcove where he might lie concealed for a moment. Thus, it was with swift feet, silent motion and cautious tread that Paris, son of Priam, infiltrated the Grecian camp and reached the tent of Achilles, the armour of whom stood proudly outside the entrance. With the utmost care he gently lifted the flap, his heart thudding powerfully in his throat. Achilles sat in one corner, a chalice held in his hands, sleep evidently escaping him in such calefaction as this. Paris knew that he would be in danger on entry but legend had it also that Achilles never killed for sport and curiosity alone would prompt him to spare Paris’s life if only to hear him state his purpose. Even if he met his end here, Paris knew that he would have died trying to right the wrong he had created, he would have died trying to save his people, for should he be slain then his country should have no use for Helen.
The material in his fingers rustled slightly as Paris widened the entrance and Achilles looked up at once as the Trojan prince entered stealthily. On beholding his royal garb and the jewellery denoting his status, Achilles got to his feet in one fluid movement, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword.
“You are prince of Troy,” he said at once, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. “I see it in your raiment. Hector of whom I have heard so much?”
“Nay,” Paris said, swallowing as the tip of Achilles’s sword was pressed closer to his throat. “I am brother of Hector and son of Priam.”
Achilles’s eyes widened. “Paris?” he asked breathlessly before giving a short laugh. “Paris whose love affair with the Queen of Sparta has brought me here?”
“The very same,” Paris said, trying to control the rapid beating of his heart. To his relief the sword was lowered very slightly. Achilles’s stance, his athletic poise and the smooth lines of his body smacked of great agility, confidence and a grace which he put into every movement.
“And what do you do here, Paris, son of Priam?” Achilles asked, seeming much amused. Paris squared his shoulders and stepped forwards, surprising even himself at his own bravery at risking the wrath of this most famed fighter.
“I am here to bargain with my tongue rather than my sword,” he said. “I am here to negotiate with you.” Achilles laughed again. It was a proud sound.
“You seek a bargain with Achilles?” he asked, smiling. “Tell me, prince, do you think this a wise move?” Paris shrugged.
“It is the only I am able to make,” he said. “My proposed bargain is this: the return of the Queen of Sparta for the removal of the Greeks from Troy. I ask you to leave this country with the prize you sought to claim.”
“I did not seek the queen,” Achilles said, “so why come to me? A humble soldier?” Now it was Paris’s turn to laugh, and he stepped further into the tent, closer to Achilles.
“Even the Trojans know that it is you alone whom Agammemnon fears and it is you alone with influence enough to persuade him,” he said. “Menelaus desires his wife back and he shall have her, for the removal of the Greeks.” Achilles stood his sword against the rack behind him and took a sip of wine from his chalice.
“You say Helen was the prize of Menelaus but was she not also yours? Why give up on your admiration for her?” Achilles asked Paris, his searching stare piercing the young man’s face more cleanly than the sharpest blade.
“My admiration for her fades with every Trojan life that is given so that she may remain here,” Paris said sadly. “Every time I look at her I see the faces of the men whose blood was spilt for her sake. Every time she speaks I hear not a sweet voice but the dying cries of a wounded man. She will be the ruin of my country and duty bids that I forsake her.”
“Menelaus will not treat her kindly,” Achilles warned, and Paris knew full well that his adversary had no wish to fight for a king he did not respect and greatly desired to leave these lands.
“My kinsfolk receive treatment a thousand times worse,” Paris replied stubbornly, his lips meeting in a determined line. The heat was even more stifling in here, ringing with a tension that pressed down thickly on the both of them. “It must stop.” Achilles paced tirelessly across the tent.
“You are aware that your reputation precedes you?” he asked Paris who looked taken aback.
“My reputation?” he asked. Achilles smiled at him and took another sip of wine.
“The reputation of your love for women and theirs for you,” he said boldly. “It is quite well known. The Trojan prince and his collection of whores.” He laughed as Paris bristled. “Tell me why Queen Helen should have been any different.” He sat down lazily and stretched out his legs. Paris felt wrong-footed, he had not envisioned their talk taking any such turn but he also took a seat.
“I was captivated by her beauty,” he answered at length, “and she was a gift from the great Aphrodite. How could I refuse the generous rewards of a goddess?”
“How indeed?”
“My love for Helen is bittersweet and I fear the bitterness shall soon become all-consuming. I cannot love forever someone who has brought so much fear and pain to the country of my birth.” Paris sighed and kneeled with Achilles on the soft bed of material.
“Why do women flock so readily to you?” Achilles asked. “You are no warrior. I see no marks of bravery other than the questionable bravery of coming to me here. Is it beauty you rely upon?” Paris’s beauty was renowned. He had the high cheekbones and glittering, dark eyes of some forgotten hero, the lithe physique that was so desirable and a presence so powerful that it was impossible to overlook him. It was true he was not a skilled warrior but he was beloved by all.
“I can give them pleasure,” he asked, surprised at Achilles’s rudeness. “There are many gifts in this world of gold or fire but mine is of a softer nature. That which I may bestow is greatly looked-for.” Achilles’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was intrigued by this prince, who had dared to tread near him and answered him so truthfully, there was fire behind those warm eyes and the embers of a kindled fortitude.
“Women may be appreciative of softness when their eyes are not diverted by the gifts of gold offered by others,” Achilles mused. “But what of the men? Do your acquaintances love you whatever their sex?”
“I am well-loved by many,” Paris answered ambiguously.
“And what do the men seek from you?” Achilles asked and was mildly taken aback to feel Paris’s eyes lift to his face and pierce his own with a bold, intense stare that each held for a long moment.
“They seek pleasure also,” Paris replied in a voice that was barely more that a murmur.
“Are you as skilled with them as you are with your women?”
“Why should one discern between sexes when pleasure should be what one should live for?” Paris smiled easily, his face relaxing as he did so. Achilles, for the briefest of instants, watched him silently. Paris looked away again soon, though. “I come not to spar,” he said. “I come for the agreement I have already proposed.”
Achilles settled back, businesslike. “I have no love for Agammemnon,” he said, “and none for the men of Troy whom you seek to protect. Self-interest and concern for those whom I truly love govern my actions so what might this agreement hold for me?”
Paris idly rubbed a gold ring on his finger. “What do you wish for?” he asked.
Achilles looked nonchalant. “What every weary soldier seeks,” he said, draining his chalice. “I wish for short relief from battle, a distraction from the rigours of ending lives. Can that be mine, Prince?” Paris swallowed once more. Achilles was looking at him searchingly, his magnificence only enhanced by his humble surroundings, his golden hair falling lightly over his tanned shoulders, his muscles shadowed in the torchlight.
“I can grant you both relief and distraction,” Paris said. “Helen of Sparta has long been the prize most desired by men, but a prince of Troy is a greater one.” Achilles raised one eyebrow.
“Is he?”
“Invariably.” Paris shifted forwards slightly. His heart was beating faster than ever and the collected poise of Achilles did nothing to lessen his anxiety. He could not deny, though, that he felt a powerful attraction to this man, the one to whom he would give himself as the greatest prize and to whom he would give a blessed distraction. “Princes of Troy are most pleasing company, even for a single night.” He drew himself level with Achilles and with great force of mind steadying his hand, laid it with apparent confidence on one of those long, toned thighs. Achilles did not move and Paris traced a line across the golden skin, dipping over the inner muscle, moving upwards with a slowness he knew to be torturous. Achilles’s breath had quickened even though he had made no outward sign.
“Perhaps the morning shall see the Greeks departure and the recapture of Helen,” Achilles said. “Perhaps the armies shall see no more bloodshed and the forces of Troy will have been saved by the stealth of their prince.”
“That is my hope,” Paris murmured, moving closer still so that he could feel Achilles’s breath on his skin, their bodies were aligned but barely touching. His hand moved more swiftly along his thigh as the other one skimmed lightly over the rippling muscles of his chest, sliding beneath his light tunic. Paris noted with triumph that as his fingers teased one of his nipples, Achilles closed his eyes with pleasure and Paris’s actions became more assured. He skilfully manoeuvred Achilles backwards to lie flat on the bed, aware all the time of the power of those muscular arms and the ease with which they could end Paris’s life. As he lowered himself upon that muscular body, one of Achilles’s hands threaded into Paris’s hair and he thrust his mouth upwards, claiming the prince’s with a possessive brutality that yet elicited so much pleasure. Paris sank himself into the kiss, wondering if he had ever felt something so wholly intense and exhilarating in his life.
His body fitted well over Achilles’s as he laid himself on top of him, and as their lips broke for a moment, Paris took the opportunity to shift himself against him, grinding upwards with force enough to render the most focused warrior eager for satisfaction. Paris felt strong hands unlashing his leather belt and as his tunic fell open, Achilles looked appraisingly at him, stirred, like everyone else, by his beauty. Paris was charming and easy to love and his physical attractiveness was apparent to everyone, even enemies. He wasted no time in releasing Achilles from his flimsy raiment and finding a lean form aroused and heat-slick beneath him. Just as the tight knots of tension were releasing from Paris’s gut, he felt hands grip his lower waist tightly and he found himself twisted unceremoniously and with considerable discomfort onto his back.
This was not a position Paris preferred. Being of a naturally controlling nature, he delighted in having his lovers submissive to himself, compliant and easily dominated. Those that sought to master him did so only with his silent permission, and only when he desired. Achilles, he should have known, would not be so readily swayed and the warrior proved so by keeping Paris pressed firmly against the blankets and holding him and touching him possessively, as though he was something to be owned and conquered.
There was no tenderness here, all gentleness being reserved for the many countless women that no doubt filled the bed of the mighty Achilles over time. Paris was granted no affectionate love-making or soft words, but instead had broad hands fastened about his upper arms, leaving fingerprints of bruises in their wake. A hard body, forged of muscle and sinew, acted as an anchor, keeping him in his place and keeping him under Achilles’s command. He breathed raggedly against the plane of hard jaw before raising his mouth again and touching Achilles’s lips, their tongues meeting and exploring. A brief interlude. Paris could feel a growing hardness pressed against his thigh and struggled against the hands that bound his arms before working one free and moving it down to stroke the warrior’s cock. Achilles gave a small shudder atop him that sent ripples of excitement exploding through Paris’s body and he began to moving his hand faster, closing his fingers tightly and drawing Achilles into a swelling rhythm. Paris could feel sweat beginning to build up on his skin, covering him with a delicate film as the warm weight across him shifted in his hand. He began to feel some semblance of control as he was generous with his speed and quelled the pulse in his throat that hummed beneath his skin to the wild beats of his heart.
Even as Paris moved his other hand to join the first, Achilles grabbed both with frightening speed and wrenched them upwards above Paris’s head, pinning them against the blankets with all his weight.
“I-” Paris stammered, taken aback by this and feeling the muscles in his arms scream from the rough treatment. Achilles’s face suddenly swam into the flickering candlelight, a picture of flushed composure, but Paris could detect the faint thrum of exhilaration and silver gleam in his eyes.
“You are mine, Prince,” Achilles was saying in a voice low and husky with lust, “for the night. Was that not our deal?”
Paris swallowed and nodded slightly, the sense of anxiety rising in him again and fully replacing any ideas he had had that he was in control of this situation. He could see what folly it was to have presumed so, to have supposed that he would have the wit to remain holding the upper hand. Achilles was the greatest warrior that had ever lived, and Paris feared to the very depths of his being that he was nowhere near his match.
“I am yours,” he said, trying to steel himself.
Achilles’s mouth broke into a half smile. “Good,” he said, without trace of malice. He then dove with little ceremony on Paris’s mouth, which bore the assault and responded to his passion with equal fervour. Slowly Achilles moved his hands from where they held Paris’s own, to graze the prince’s thighs before moving between his legs. With due abandon, Achilles grabbed for a glass phial, knocking over a line of jars which rolled across the floor. He uncorked it quickly and threw it aside and Paris looked up in time to witness the warrior preparing himself and in that moment he knew that he would be entirely vulnerable and at Achilles’s mercy. Feeling his heartbeat quicken once more, the Prince curled his fingers around the blankets beneath him and gasped aloud as his body was invaded.
A heat that bordered on searing seemed to race the length of his spine and despite initially contending with the pain of Achilles’s swift thrusts, he was able to derive pleasure from him and hooked his long legs around Achilles’s waist, drawing them into even closer proximity. His breaths were audible, issuing from his lips in short gasps as he breathed against Achilles’s skin as the man sought to master him. The scent of flesh was all about him, indubitably masculine and edged with a sharpness that was redolent of peril lingering in the quiet.
The pain he had felt was beginning to fade as Achilles moved against him, inside him and all over him. Clinging tightly to the skin stretched over shoulder blades, Paris allowed his gold rings to bite Achilles and leave perhaps some mark, some reminder. Feeling Achilles at last move deeply enough to strike the heart of him, Paris’s senses exploded with pleasure and he could not help but emit a throaty cry which soaked into the air like smoke. Paris suddenly became aware of everything around him and he was bombarded with sensations and clarity as his sensitised skin prickled in the air.
Achilles’s face was lost for the briefest of moments, absent, as it were, from this reality and borne far away to a place where no dead awaited him and where destiny was irrelevant. For that indescribable moment, Paris found himself transfixed and watched with fascination and a slow pleasure as Achilles gave in and released, his groan rolling through Paris and the slackening of his muscles making him sink onto the prince and seal them as one, shining and sated both, their arms entangled around each other.
Paris closed his eyes, a sense of lethargy was filling his bones. He opened them again, however, when he felt a light touch against his cheek and saw a lock of golden hair lying on his face. Without considering the motion, he tucked it back with silent fingers and felt the warrior atop him stir slightly. Achilles moved his head and caught his eye and, his hand moving to cup Paris’s jaw, kissed him chastely on the lips before rolling over and collapsing again on the bed.
The silence was as thick as the heat. Paris felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal and he made a conscious effort to regulate his breathing, sensing that Achilles was employed similarly. After a long minute’s quiet, Paris found strength enough to prop himself up on his elbows and survey the man lying next to him.
“I had never bedded a prince before,” Achilles murmured, his eyes closed.
“I had never bedded Achilles before,” Paris replied, wondering what had become of his tunic. He was surprised to see Achilles lips quirk into a smile at his remark.
“True,” he said, and opened his eyes to look at Paris.
Paris hardly dared to hope for satisfaction. He was expecting Achilles to fling him from his tent any minute now, to call down the Greek hordes, to slay Paris on the spot or else ransom him to Priam for the key to Troy’s Sceaen gate. Fear clutched at him again. He should never have come here, he was only going to make it worse.
“Will you then parley with Agammemnon?” he asked. Achilles let out a short burst of laughter, apparently much amused by something. “You won’t?” Paris’s eyes widened and he scrambled to sit up, forgetting his nakedness for the moment. “We had an accord!”
“We had nothing of the sort,” Achilles replied, more harshly than Paris had anticipated. “I made no promises, Prince, and you have whored yourself willingly without the wit to ensure that a deal was struck. It is your own doing. Your own folly.”
Paris felt his mouth drop open in astonishment and dismay. His cheeks began to flush under Achilles’s devastating stare and, entirely furious, he began to don his raiment once more, not looking at the warrior. Not able to. As he tugged the familiar leather thongs that tied his tunic into place he heard a rustle of material behind him and turned to see Achilles laid backwards on his bed, a picture of peacefulness and self assurance. Paris felt as though fury were corroding his insides and it was only immense strength of will that prevented him reaching for his dagger at his belt. Achilles seemed to sense his thoughts, for he smiled quietly and took a sip of wine.
“You are a liar,” Paris muttered, unable to restrain himself. Achilles raised an eyebrow.
“I never lie,” he replied and Paris half expected him to say something else but Achilles merely hissed at him as one might to a dog they were attempting to be rid of. Feeling his face heat, Paris flung open the folds of material fashioned into a doorway and stormed out, becoming nothing more than a shadow darting between the gathered tents, eluding the torchlight that burned across the beaches.
Even the air outside the confines of the stagnant tent was not more fresh than inside and Paris was blind to everything but his own simmering anger and the sense of shame that was becoming more and more prominent inside his core. He could not believe he had allowed himself to be so coldly used by Achilles who right now would be toasting the gods in thanks for his conquest and would gleefully spread tales of Paris’s profligacy. Paris could almost hear the words echoing around the golden sands. The pleasure Achilles had sustained from the prince was bound to be relayed amongst the men with considerable delight. That Paris had been used and discarded by him like a broken spear would only increase the respect Achilles enjoyed. Paris suddenly felt sick and desired nothing more than to conceal himself away in the halls of his palace and forget the entire affair had ever happened. Should rumours reach his own troops of his imprudence then he would surely be reviled by all. Paris could hardly bear the thought and as soon as he reached the safety of his own chambers he doused his face with water in an effort to clear his tumultuous thoughts. With an aching heart, he allowed a fitful sleep to take him.
That night, the heat broke and the moon winked and died behind a rolling mass of clouds that spread from the East. At first there was a gentle sigh of rain which soon gave way to a nourishing deluge as the heavens opened and quenched the thirsting lands.
“Paris! Paris! Awake!” The noise jerked Paris out of what was only a shadow of a sleep and he opened bleary eyes to see Hector darting through his bedroom to shake him by the shoulders.
“What is it?” Paris asked, trying to bat away his brother who would not be deterred.
“The Greeks are leaving!” Hector declared triumphantly. “They are sailing away as we speak!”
“What?” Paris was fully awake now and sat up so quickly he felt light-headed. He felt Hector’s hand fasten around his arm and drag him to the huge arch that overlooked the beach from a lofty position. It was smattered with debris but lacking in Greeks. They themselves were visible as an immense line of shapes, drifting across the Bay of Troy which eventually opened out onto the Aegean sea. “What happened?” Paris asked, awed.
Hector sounded breathless with excitement. “At a late hour last night, so I am told from the scouts who were observing them, Achilles and his Myrmidons dismantled their tents and packed away their supplies. We know Achilles spoke for a long time with Agammemnon who must have been persuaded to leave with them for he gave orders for their return to Greece just before first light.”
“And Helen?”
Hector turned to him with an unreadable look on his face. “Helen is once again Queen of Sparta,” he told his brother. “She cloaked herself in black and stole away last night.” He placed a comforting hand on Paris’s shoulder. “I am sorry, brother,” he said, imagining Paris’s distress to be great. “But do not forget that Menelaus was her husband, and she has borne him children who she has not seen for some time.”
“I know,” Paris said quietly, watching the retreating ships with a thoughtful expression. Suddenly he whirled around and began to throw on his clothes.
“Where are you going?” Hector asked in bemusement, there is much rejoicing in the palace.
“I am going down to the beaches,” Paris declared, and left the room before Hector could ask anything more.
The streets of Troy were full of jubilation. People were joined together in celebration, threading garlands through their hair, dancing with Troy’s maidens and paying homage to the gods, whom they believed to have orchestrated Troy’s rescue.
Paris slipped through them silently and stumbled down onto the shifting sands that were littered with timbers of wood, shards of metal and the various pieces of debris that a thousands-strong army could leave in their wake. From this vantage point his keen eyes could easily pick out the black sails of Achilles’s ships as they sailed away from him. He stood there, alone on the beach whilst all around him was joy and celebration. Achilles had not lied to him after all, had acted honourably and had saved Troy. For Paris.
Paris contended with a swelling triumph and a leaden sense of disappointment that he could not clarify. The memory of Achilles pinning him to the bed, his strong arms around Paris and his hard length thrust fully inside him came back to him and Paris felt a flush of arousal as he pictured it again. He had thought himself only a whim for the great warrior, and maybe he had been, but at least it had not been in vain. At least he could say he had influenced the mighty Achilles, had bent him to his will, had had the upper hand over him, if only for a moment. None but them would ever know but it would be a small, separate victory in Paris’s own heart. For one night he had known the true taste of power. Unseen, perhaps, but not caring, he raised one hand in final valediction.
A league away, with the gentle slap of the water against the oars, Achilles found himself looking back to the beaches of Troy and thinking of the Trojan prince whom he had taken to his bed. Something about Paris had touched him more deeply than he would ever have admitted to, and something attracted him to him so powerfully that Achilles was unnerved by it. He felt a flash of sharpness in his shoulder as his leather tunic moved slightly across his back. Feeling his shoulder blade with his fingers, Achilles felt a small nick in his skin that he had hitherto not noticed. It had been made by the edge of a diamond set into a gold ring and would last for several days as a physical reminder of Paris.
The memory of him would last for much longer.
* * * * * * * * *
And as though that wasn’t enough, I’ve also written a H/D ficlet for your perusal. This was written for finjeof when she contracted glandular fever a while ago and was ranting on the phone to me about maths and how it should be stricken from the world for the greater good of mankind. I decided to write three fics in her honour and here is the first…
Figuring It Out
The problem was staring Draco in the face.
Inked in black on cream parchment. He had looked at it for so long the lines merged and bled into each other, forming grand shapes that his mind was fuzzily able to decipher and recognize. The letters he was looking at had begun to lose all meaning, like when you choose a word and repeat it over and over to yourself, it crumbles and splits and begins to sound like nonsense when before it had been perfectly understandable.
…In Griknok, Siberia, the population of feral goblins is equivalent to:
dy/dx = 3 root x - x2, where y = 2/3 when x = 1
y = the number of available watering holes and x = the number of nearby hostile tribes of gremlins.
Find the value of y when x = 4…
Hmm. Draco knew this, he was sure he did. In fact, if he worked very hard and screwed up his eyes so that those tiny lines started appearing in between his eyebrows, he was certain he could recall Professor Marches saying something about this very problem.
“…and when you have an equation like this whether or not the unknown quantity refers to the population size, first of all you must always-”
Always what? Draco opened his eyes again. Damn, he must have tuned out during that sentence. Now he came to think about it, he remembered being particularly distracted at that point by the way Blaise leaned back in his chair in front. The sunlight had caught over the muscles of his shoulders, which were only hinted at by shadows through the thin white cotton of his shirt. Blaise had such a lovely olive tan, as though he had been drinking light and it seemed to gleam through him, through his skin, moistened with warmth. Draco imagined it filmed with smoke, imagined dragging his tongue along that throat and those collarbones.
“…always differentiate.”
Draco smacked himself on the forehead. That was it, differentiation. Of course.
To differentiate take axn , which is 6n1, which is 6n… Then what?
Draco stared at the piece of paper he was scribbling on for several long seconds before screwing it up and throwing it hard against the wall. It bounced off merrily and landed on the floor to join a growing pile of balls of parchment. All had been hurled in moments of irritation and were becoming something of a health and safety hazard.
Draco stared at the page again without seeing it. He hated it when his teachers set problems that he couldn’t do, especially as his sense of determination wouldn’t let him give up on them before they were complete. Jabbing his quill roughly into the ink pot he started to scrawl again, mixing maths equations with absent-minded doodles as his thoughts wandered sporadically. He was left with a page much like the last, which soon found its way to the floor, webbed with algebra merging into little drawings of snitches and Draco’s initials entwined together with others. His mind became a little detached from its task and it was as though the words and numbers were flat against the page, his thoughts refusing them entry or clarity.
Draco stabbed his quill on the clean sheet of parchment in frustration. There was a faint cracking sound and the end of his quill split, gushing ink all over the table. It spread in a slow pool, contaminating his scrolls and staining his snow white feather black.
“Shit.” He scowled and tried to gather his things together, pushing back the pieces of blond hair that fell into his eyes and dropping as many things as he managed to pick up.
“Draco?” Draco looked up, flustered, to see Harry leaning nonchalantly against the line of bookshelves, his arms crossed against his chest, his lips quirked into a smile. Draco’s mouth went very dry. Harry had cast off his robes and his shirt was untucked, revealing a tiny triangle of bare skin at his navel where the buttons had come undone. His hair was even more ruffled than usual and his eyes, that strangely verdant green, flickered with the reflections of the candlelight and were calm and bright.
“What?” Draco asked, snapping back to his ink flood after a moment’s slack-jawed gazing.
“You were supposed to meet me,” Harry said unreproachfully, picking his way through the clusters of balled up parchment until he was standing in front of Draco’s desk.
“I wanted to get this done first,” Draco said, stuffing papers haphazardly into his bag.
“And did you?” Harry asked, uncrossing his arms to pick up some of the loose leaves of parchment.
“No,” Draco said in irritation, not looking at Harry. “And now I won’t because you’re here.”
“I can go if you like,” Harry said affably, “and leave you to your homework.”
Draco didn’t say anything but huffed a couple of times for good measure and tried to mop up some of the ink that was drifting across the edge of the table and dripping onto the flagstone floor. He suddenly felt something touch his neck and looked up to see Harry stretching out his hand to cup his face, brushing his cheekbone with his thumb. The motion was quiet and intimate and Draco felt his breath quicken.
Harry grinned. “You are absolutely covered in ink.” He recoiled as Draco swatted him, feeling his face heat up.
“Fuck off,” he muttered under his breath. Harry didn’t let go, though, and he slid his hand around the back of Draco’s neck, tilting their faces together before sinking onto his mouth and drawing him into a kiss so intense that it made his skin tingle with excitement. He felt a tongue sweep across his own and was unable to control his hands, which moved of their own accord to thread themselves through the jet of Harry’s hair. His senses seemed to overflow with the taste, smell and feel of Harry against his skin. He felt himself being pushed backwards against the desk, felt it slam into the back of his legs as Harry pressed closer against him, trapping him with his mouth and his hands and making him want to sink across that hard body. Everything became about Harry, every moment seeming to break upon him until he filled Draco’s mind with his undeniable presence.
Harry pulled back, one hand still twined around Draco’s neck, lips parted, breath quick and cheeks flushed. Draco’s body was acting of its own accord to distract him from everything but Harry as the Gryffindor moved his hands down to rest on the very lowest planes of Draco’s hips. Draco cursed him under his breath.
Harry quirked up an eyebrow before idly picking up a leaf of scattered parchment.
“Why have you written DM 4 HP all over this?” he asked, grinning.
“I haven’t!” Draco flushed scarlet and snatched the paper out of his hand. “Oh yeah. That stands for Draco Malfoy and Humungous Prat.”
Harry relinquished the paper, looking smug. “Sure it does.”
“Bugger off, you,” Draco said quickly, hoping to inject a sense of acidity into his tone.
Harry looked incredibly amused by this. “Nah, I don’t think I will,” he said, crossing his arms again and locking Draco with that intense flashing green. “I think I’ll stay and bother you instead.” His proximity sent Draco’s pulse skittering to his throat and he swallowed heavily, his heart beating faster with excitement and his eyes narrowing.
“Oh really?” he replied, edging slowly forward. “Hoping to distract me?”
Harry shrugged appealingly but his eyes were sparkling. “Perhaps,” he said and leaned so close to Draco’s face that Draco’s skin was prickling as Harry’s breath feathered over his ear. “Perhaps I’m just going to shag you so hard that you forget all about homework.”
Those words went straight to Draco’s groin and after pausing for the briefest of split seconds, he grabbed Harry by the collar and yanked him forward roughly, jarring their lips together and carrying them both backwards onto the desk. Papers exploded onto the floor, quills crushed beneath their bodies and the bottle of ink fell over for the second time that day, creating even more havoc out of what was already a complete mess. Draco, strangely, didn’t care. As Harry’s lips moved relentlessly against his he couldn’t resist pulling open the buttons of his shirt so that his toned, muscular chest was uncovered and glimmering tantalizingly on top of Draco. Draco had a sudden urge to lick it and as he drew his tongue along the sensitive hollow of Harry’s neck he felt the other boy shudder on top of him and his own arousal was made evident.
“Fuck, Harry,” he breathed against Harry’s skin. Harry quieted him with another kiss that seemed to rip the bottom out of Draco’s world and left him spinning in some abstract place that he didn’t quite know how to rationalize. Whatever happened, Harry was always going to be the one thing in Draco’s life that he couldn’t come to terms with, that he couldn’t grow used to or work out. He was a problem and a puzzle that intellect was at a loss to solve but something inside Draco loved him for that, for despite the complexities of their enigmatic relationship, Harry was simply Harry.
Ignoring the more basic urges he was contending with, Draco kissed him then on the corner of his mouth, as tenderly as he had ever kissed anyone in his life.
* * * * * * * * * *
Let us not forget how feedback makes the world go round.
Have been on the cabbage soup diet for the past three days and it has absolutely killed me. I haven’t been allowed bread or meat or anything that wasn’t cabbage soup but I have lost about 6 pounds in three days. I haven’t been eating at all, though, so that might be it.
I’m in London tomorrow for a couple of days so if there are any slashers out there who spot a dark haired girl drooling at the Chanel window then you’ve met Stylophile. Aren’t you lucky.
Am up at Skyehawke! Having received several offers in the past I decided to finally take them up and am very glad I did. I also received my 1000th review for TF over at ff.net! ‘Tis very exciting, ‘tis. Yay.
I hope everyone out there is well and feeling full of slashy goodness. I’ll miss the fandom whilst in London but I live in hope of one of the classic WiPs having been updated by the time I get back. Must now embark on monster shopping trip and spend the next few months in Mexico fleeing my bank manager and his thumb screws.
Toodle-pip.