Troy/Iliad fanfiction

Hector/Paris, NC-17

Summary: In the midst of the destruction in Paris’s wake, Hector dreams of ways of controlling Paris. This time, with something he has never used on Paris: a kiss.

~*~

The desecration of Apollo’s temple was absolute. Hector stood staring about him. He stood before the alter amidst the strewn bodies of priests and the chaos of temple ruins. This could not be happening.

He and his guard had just barely managed to rid the temple of the bloodthirsty Myrmidons, but they had lost the beaches to them.

Now as the enemy settled unto Troy’s beautiful beaches, the horror and the reality of their plight finally sank in. It was no longer a rumor of war, war was making its home on their very doorstep.

How had it come so fast to this? With so little sanity in between. No war came as a surprise, but it seemed to Hector the Achaeans had launched their war even before Paris and he had made it back from Sparta.

Hector felt his mind reeling under the ramifications of war with all those kings and all their armies. It was going to be devastation. Troy’s walls were sixteen feet thick and could withstand the mightiest of sieges, but could its people? Could its children? Would a war leave a future for Troy?

All this madness, all this destruction to come, all because Paris must have his way. Paris, who did not know the meaning of self-denial. Not even from Hector.

Fear and dread welled up inside Hector, and all he wanted was a chance to turn back time and see that none of this came to pass. “Paris, Paris,” he intoned under his breath, and let his mind wander to a place where he had his brother well and truly under his control. There he would deal with Paris in a way his brother would not quickly forget.

Hector was so full of desolation that he thought that were he to get at Paris at this moment, he would want more than anything to brand him permanently with a kiss that would scar him forever. For he had never truly kissed Paris before.

But now, Hector closed his eyes and dreamed of kissing Paris, of being in command of him with just one kiss. One that would bring him under control. Maybe he would even have to tie him down to accomplish this, so that Paris would not be able to kiss him back without his permission. It could be done. There could be control. And he would say, “Enough”, and Paris would say, “Yes, Hector”.

“Prince Hector,” a cry from his second suddenly shattered his fantasy. The man rushed up and stood in the temple entrance. “The Achaeans have taken the beach. There’s no regaining it this day.”

“Sound the retreat, Echemmon.” But Hector did not have the strength left to move, so he remained with his back to his lieutenant, and his head lowered. “We retreat into the city. Inside its walls there is— there is hope.”

As they entered the city, Hector looked around and all he could see and smell was fear. The once beautiful city was nearly paralyzed with it. Streets were empty and old men wept in corners. His eyes burned but he resisted showing his despair. The men depended on him to persevere.

Hector stood before his father’s throne, helmet in hand, the blood cleaned off his armor, and detailed the siege on the beach. He was ashamed of their losses, but his father was a kind man.

Beside King Priam, standing in a world of his own, was Paris. Hector’s eyes strained as he forced himself not to look directly at his brother.

But he knew Paris watched him.

Finally he was done and was permitted to take his leave. He bowed stiffly and when he did so, it took all his effort to stand up erect again. There was a terrible path ahead for Troy, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

He took a side door and made for his rooms. Two steps ahead, Paris stepped into his way.

“Brother,” he breathed. “What a morning you have endured.”

Hector stared glassy eyed at Paris. Somehow he did not seem real to Hector. That anyone could look so beautiful and aloof from the realities of the world was beyond his understanding.

“Come.” Paris very lightly touched his arm, then let his fingers slide down until he slipped his hand into Hector’s. Hector’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out, for the pleasure of that immaterial touch alone was nearly indescribable.

Paris began to walk, and gently pulled Hector along. Hector’s feet followed. He stared at the back of Paris’s head, trying to think. Should he fight Paris and make him let go?

That was all he could manage to think, and then they were at a door. Paris pushed it open and pulled Hector in. They were in Paris’s rooms.

Hector’s feet refused to move further.

“It’s all right, Hector,” Paris smiled gently, and stepped closer. He ran the back of his fingers against Hector’s neck, and then began to walk backwards. As if magnetized, Hector followed.

Paris reached his massive bed and turned around. He pressed Hector against the side of the bed and Hector sank down into it. Paris then took the helmet Hector forgot he was still holding and placed it carefully on the floor next to the bed. Hector watched his careful movements and wondered in his daze why Paris didn’t simply toss it.

Paris placed both hands on Hector’s shoulders and pushed until Hector laid flat on his back. Hector wanted to say that he was still fully armored but his mouth would not work.

Paris moved forward unto the bed and knelt both knees on either side of Hector. Hector’s eyes raked over Paris’s bare thighs, up over the skirt of his blue robe and settled on his face.

“Your armor is your protection,” Paris said in response to his thought. And hearing those words, Hector’s heart finally pumped back to life. His eyes widened and he suddenly saw clearly what the situation was. That he was lying beneath Paris, on his bed, in his room.

Hector started, but Paris was not as weak as some assumed. His knees tightened and held unto Hector, and Hector stopped moving. He would not fight his brother, for Paris was not trying to hurt him. He didn’t even know what Paris was trying to do, he lied to himself.

Paris pulled on the rope securing his robe and let it and the robe come apart and fall off him unto the floor. Hector shook his head no. Paris’s golden beauty radiated into every corner of Hector’s vision, and he heard himself gasping in wonder. Every muscle, every strand of hair, was perfection.

Paris leaned over him, supporting himself on one hand. He ran his fingertips over Hector’s armor.

“Was it bad, on the beach? Was the enemy’s loss comparable?”

“It was bad,” Hector rasped, his voice sounding as if he had not used it for years.

Paris’s eyes roamed over his breastplate, and face, before locking on Hector’s eyes. His free hand cupped Hector’s jaw, and Hector felt Paris’s long fingers sliding up and trapping his earlobe between them.

“My poor Hector. A kiss,” Paris whispered, slowly lowering his head. “To keep the enemy at bay.”

Like a child’s, Hector’s lips involuntarily and firmly pressed together. Oh gods! It was happening and he was not prepared. Everything he had imagined, the scene he had conjured up in his head… this was not it! He was supposed to be the one controlling. On his back, he could not control anything. He could not win lying on his back.

But Paris’s lips never touched his. Hector opened his eyes, not realizing he had shut them, to look up and find Paris smiling down at him. “Stop it, Hector,” he admonished gently.

Heat flooded Hector’s face, and he made himself relax his lips slightly. It was just a kiss of comfort and there was not going to be any loss of control involved. So he kept his eyes open as Paris shut his and lowered his head the rest of the way.

Hector felt Paris’s lips press gently, lightly against his. After a moment a small smile began to play on Hector’s lips. Paris could do nothing with conviction, and this kiss of comfort was no different. He would let Paris play for a while and then he would bring him in line and exact his kiss on him. The one he had been wanting since standing in Apollo’s temple. And maybe he would tie Paris down.

Hector relaxed and felt Paris’s hand begin to work it’s way into his hair. Paris’s fingers played with the rich brown locks as Hector’s mind spun its retributive kiss.

Paris’s fingers began pushing under Hector’s head until he was cradling the back of Hector’s head in his palm, with Hector’s locks falling between his fingers. Then Paris’s grip began very gently to tighten on Hector’s hair, and the pads of his fingers pressed down on Hector’s scalp.

Hector gasped in surprise, and shivered. His eyes flew to Paris’s and in them he saw desire with no end. For an instant in time the mysteries of the goddess were laid bare to Hector’s soul, and acutely reminded him that he was merely mortal.

In that instant before it was too late to think, Hector became aware that while he had been gloating over Paris’s childlike kisses, Paris had somehow removed his breastplate and left him bare-chested under him.

Gods of Olympus, Hector cried silently, do not let me lose myself to him.

Then his amnesty passed, and Paris kissed him.

Paris slid his full, warm lips over Hector’s, slowly stroking over Hector’s upper and lower lips with his own. He used no tongue, only the heat inside his mouth. Hector heard a moan so plaintive it nearly stopped his heart, and then realized it was his.

Paris kept a firm hold on the back of his head, and then slid his other arm under Hector’s body, digging his fingers into the flesh of his back. Hector’s arms constricted over Paris’s naked back until each hand was gripping either side of Paris’s torso. He felt Paris’s naked heat on every inch of his chest and writhed in ecstatic disbelief. Every sentient thought left Hector, leaving him with only one desire. That this kiss last forever.

Paris pulled his arm from under Hector and now held Hector’s head in both hands. His elbows rested on either side of Hector’s head, and his fingers stroked his locks. Like this, he moved his lips slightly to the side and stroked them against the edges of Hector’s mouth. Hector tried to turn his head to capture Paris’s lips again, but Paris held him firm.

Hector groaned pitifully. Paris move his lips again, and closed them over Hector’s cheek, gently sucking skin into his mouth. Hector’s breath left him, and he accepted that Paris was in no rush, and he could do nothing about it. He felt himself tumbling, and his hands lazily stroked the sides of Paris’s torso in acceptance.

“Yes,” Paris moaned softly in approval. He moved his lips again and found Hector’s earlobe, and gently caught it between them. He tugged. Hector arched off the bed, lifting Paris with him. Please, please, protect me from him, Hector incanted. To which god, he could not say.

"Enough, Hector?" he heard Paris whisper, and knew the gods hated him.

"No, Paris."

Paris held his head and would not let him kiss back. Paris stitched kisses along his hairline, down to the other side of his face and along his jaw line. He closed his lips over Hector’s chin and sucked gently, before lifting his head to look down into Hector’s face.

Hector’s vision was feverish, and unfocused. He inhaled through clenched teeth as if he held a scalding thing in his hands, then his hands rode up the sides of Paris’s body, gripping the flesh below his armpits, before sliding back down and crossing over his back again. He pressed Paris to him, trying to massage their chests together.

Paris purred in a low sound, and dipped his head again. He slanted his open mouth over Hector’s panting one, and finally slid his tongue inside.

In the infinite heat inside their mouths Hector stroked his tongue along the underside of Paris’s. And Paris slowly began to beat his tongue against Hector’s in response.

Hector’s fingers seized, digging into Paris’s sides. Then he began to gasp over and over into Paris’s mouth. Paris’s tongue got wetter, never easing up on its steady beating, holding Hector on the edge of oblivion for one endless moment before Hector finally broke, and began shuddering in an unyielding climax.

A long time later, as Hector lay under his brother in embarrassed silence - for he had learned his lesson well - he thought back to Apollo’s temple and his fantasy of his kiss of control. There was no control to be had. He had forgotten then that Paris was Aphrodite’s. It was not a matter of control, it was a matter of…

He let the thought die. It was much too late to realize that not only had he not been ready for the kiss, he never would be.

So he would never kiss Paris again, otherwise he would forever lie immovable, and underneath him.

~*~