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"You are," Paris panted, "this is..." He pulled back a little, paused, then drove in again, and Tybalt arched his back, his fingers digging into the sheets.
On his hands and knees like a common whore, enjoying it like a filthy beast -- this was what it had come to, he thought, groaning through his snarl. No use for his blade; his twisted desires were all that remained.
For Paris was babbling his name now, his hand working Tybalt's pounding flesh; he was distracted, all thoughts of Julia forgotten, and Tybalt's blood boiled with triumph: his perversion would save her yet.