brush me down like a horse

Not only that the language itself sounds straight out of a marvel forcibly funny haha moment, but Menelaus? The Menelaus who all thoughout human history, from Homer, to Sappho, to Euripides, to Virgil, to Shakespeare, to Brooke, to Barth; from Classical vases to Medieval poetry to Reinessance art, has been known as the man whose sword fell from his hands at the sight of his wife after 10 years apart?

"What joy for me to hold my wife" Menelaus?

"He flung the sword away, and kissed her feet" Menelaus?

"I believe all. I understand nothing. I love you" Menelaus?

"I have no fault to find; my wife, he daughter of Zeus and Leda, is mine again, she whom her brothers on their snow-white steeds, whilst torches blazed, made my happy bride, but gods removed her from my home." Menelaus?

The Menelaus who was picked out of the suitors by Helen herself? The Menelaus who couldn't kill a begging Trojan so his brother had to do it for him? The Menelaus who rescued Odysseus and got out Patroclus' body? The Menelaus who volounteered to fight Paris one on one so everybody could go home? Who kept expressing his guilt about himself being the cause of war through every assembly he spoke at in the Iliad? Who after 10 years away at Troy, took his wife through a 7-year long journey at sea back home, where he reinstated her as the queen of Sparta? Who wept like a child in front of Telemachus recalling the war and his brother and all the friends he lost and the only consolation being his wife' gentle hand on his?

You want me to believe that man scarred Helen's face and called her only worth half the ships because of it?

Also I'm doing my yearly playthrough of kotor and am BURNING with need for some good filth involving this pairing.

They’d all had a few drinks that night. Played some Dejarik and a few hands of pazaak - laughed, traded friendly barbs… it felt almost real - like they were actually getting somewhere, despite their differences. It was the most normal Trinn had felt since the attack on the Endar Spire and the cavalcade of insanity that had followed: swoop gangs, rakghouls… an entire planet scattered across the system by the Dark Lord who was so desperate to destroy one young (and rather snotty) Jedi that such casualties were warranted: an action written off as the cost of victory. It hit her halfway through her third pour of Alderaanian brandy. A funny time for such a thing: it had happened well over a month earlier. Days had passed with the force of a solar hurricane since. Between her truncated Jedi training on Dantooine, and their interplanetary travels to Manaan and Kashyyyk - there simply hadn’t been time for it all to sink in… She tips back the remainder of her drink and rises from the table. “I think I’d better call it a night before Mission shakes me down any more. Try not to stay up too late, hey?” Deciding not to hang around for more playful ribbing at her expense, even as it begins, she tosses her hand up in a lazy wave to the others and retreats from the central common area of the Ebon Hawk towards the dormitory, keenly aware of one pair of eyes that follow her after the others have returned to their cards. Stretching out on her cot is short-lived: the restlessness within her apparently refuses to be assuaged by simply laying down, despite the late hour. Laughter and merriment continue to echo down the hallways of the Hawk, and her bare feet hit the durasteel floor so she can stand - a shower. Showers are nice. Meditative. The loud rushing water drowns out… everything. Then she's standing in front of the sink, steam fogging up the mirror. There's the ghost of a vulgar word and a silly face drawn with a fingertip on the obscured glass that she hadn't noticed before - likely Mission's doing. She opens the door to help clear the heavy wet air. A Republic soldier is revealed - he looks caught off guard, and she wonders how long he's been standing there. “I hate this perfume,” she says, considering the travel-sized vial in her hand. “All I can smell is gruttaweed when I spray it.” She looks to Carth. “But the crazy thing is - I can’t remember buying it. I’ve racked my brain for weeks now, and I can’t think of why this perfume that I hate would be in the bag of things I took with me when we evacuated the Endar Spire.” She waves the spout past her nose and grimaces. “Why would I carry around a perfume that I hate? Why would this - never mind all my other shit - why would this matter? Why do I even have this?” “Trinn…” Exasperated - out of his depth... eyes looking at anything but her towel clad body and the damp strands of hair sticking to her skin. “I - I’m really not the guy to be asking about perfumes— I just think that—” "Do you like it?" She inquires, feeling bold and pushing away from the wall to spritz the fragrance in question onto her skin and wave her wrist under the nose of her pilot. He swallows hard and braces himself against the doorframe with a nonchalance that betrays him. "I guess, yeah. Your perfume is nice." "Thanks for saying that, flyboy - have a good night." She moves to slip past him - make her way back to the solace of her quiet cot that she's desperately trying to convince herself she enjoys - but finds herself bundled against an orange jacket that smells like fuel and blaster discharge. Warm arms first hesitate, then enfold. He's strong. Physically and otherwise... even if he doesn't know it. Then they're gone, replaced by hands - also strong; callused and rough like Canderous', but wielded with deliberate gentleness that the Mandalorian was never taught: the hands of a lover - a married man. They slide down her shoulders and settle on her upper arms, his left thumb intercepting a trailing bead of water on its downward journey. "Trinn? Are you alright?"