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This Northern King, like many of the others Salas had met since captured,wantedhim. As had the mean guard. The King seemed to be mean. Perhaps meanness was part of a Northern romantic ritual he had yet to understand.
He could surely use their lust to free himself and the other birds.
So, despite the icy rage behind King Jareth’s eyes as they bore into Salas with nothing but contempt, Salas held onto that one fact of the King’s hidden ‘desire,’ and with it, the rest came naturally. He was accustomed to seduction, if not much else.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Salas purred, slinking closer still until he finally stood before the man. “Perhaps you—”
A force, painful and powerful, shattered across the side of Salas’ face, catching his temple and jaw and a bit of his right eye as it shot upon him. Salas stumbled, nearly spinning to the floor, though his wobbly legs caught him gracelessly before the collision was made. It took him full seconds to realize what had happened. King Jareth had backhanded him.
Salas had been slapped by the guards earlier, but it had not been like this. Shattering. Intent to punish, not just quiet. He knew his shock was written on his face, amidst scattered locks of hair. He quickly shuddered his expression when he realized he’d given his surprise away. His confusion. He cleared the hair away from his face with his two delicately curled fingers and stood straight, as though the disruption had not happened. As though his heart were not now hammering in his chest.
“Where is it?” the King repeated, his voice a cold threat as he peered down at Salas as though he’d stumbled upon an unimpressive garden snake. The King didn’t explain why he’d hit Salas, and it was unnerving.
Salas was used to explanations paired with gentle punishment. Had he been hit because he had spoken too much? Said the wrong thing? Moved without permission?
It took every bit of effort to not bring his fingers to the side of his face and clutch the stinging skin there protectively. To show anything other than willingness and desire would turn a partner off, he’d been taught. So Salas’ eventual smile was false and pretty, and he wielded it like the weapon it was.
“The Crown Jewel,” Salas said slowly, his mind scanning the memory of what he’d babbled to the guards as he attempted to figure out the ‘it’ this man spoke of. He leveled a look at the King as though they stood at exactly the same height, and Salas was not two and a half heads shorter. As though Salas was not a whore who’d just been backhanded by a king. “I have just the one. The one your father was so displeased to part with. It would be an honor to return it to you now, my King.”
“Your King?” the man repeated flatly. The cold words were bitten out, unbelieving, and Salas ignored the fire behind them as he brazenly sauntered over towards the bed.
The man’s disbelief was not unwarranted, though Salas wouldn’t be giving this crucial fact away. No one had, or ever would be, Salas’ ‘king.’ Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that, under the right circumstance, anyone could be.
Are you devoted?
Apparently not enough. Not if it meant dying inside a hanging cage. Not if it meant the death of the birds, or permanent imprisonment. Not if it meant the fog of nothingness returned.
Salas paused and turned when he reached the massive, quilted bed, throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure the King’s eyes were on him. “I have the jewel,” he amended with a wicked smile, “but you will have to take it from me. It is your prize, Your Majesty.”
“You have it on you now,” the King repeated, clearly disbelieving as his eyes roamed the sparse tattered draping Salas still wore. “Where?!” The last word was barked, impatient.
Salas’ secret smile grew wider, all the while hoping all of this unnecessary hostility would sizzle out swiftly once the man put his desires to use.
Salas didn’t understand the violence in this country, but he knew all about measuring mens’ impatience when they were kept from what they wanted, and therefore knew that the patience of this man was wearing thin. So, without a reply or further preamble, he pulled aside the flap of his skirt that floated around his rear, bent over the bed with his chest to the quilting, and exposed himself. His back was arched as he moved a hand to his ass and pulled his left cheek gently, revealing the red jewel that extruded from his puckered hole.
Silence.
It was a force of will to not glance over his shoulder, to see the King of Diagor’s reaction, which, Salas was sure, would be pleased. Salas knew how he looked—irresistible. He’d been told a thousand times. His presentation was perfect. He’d been prepared hours ago. Though his makeup must have been smudged with sweat, his silken clothes rumbled and pressed with dungeon grime, and his gold in disarray, he knew the illusion would still be there, much like it had been the days after festivals when he’d awoken in the mayhem of a party’s aftermath.
Furthermore, in addition to himself, he had with him the object the King sought. King Jareth would be further pleased with the return of the lost artifact.
Salas remembered the day that a magnificent crown had been sitting on a particular side table, gleaming against the midday sun that peaked through the windows of the Emperor’s bedroom. “This is a pretty toy,” he’d said with no small amount of wonder as he’d scooped up the headpiece and carefully placed it atop his own head, turning to the Emperor with a giggle. “How do I look?”
The Emperor’s eyes had been amused as they ran over Salas, stopping at the crown. “Like an insatiable slut who’s not been satisfied with his partner’s gifts, so he’s demanded the whole of the Northern Kingdom.”
Salas had reached to touch the delicate, swirling tips of the crown. “This crown is from the Diagor?”
“It was King Malvock’’s. And I’m still deciding what to do with it. Melt it down for silverware? Horseshoes? You’re creative, Salas. What do you think should become of it?”
Salas had smiled. “I have a few ideas, Your Grace.”
The Diagorian crown had been melted down and forged into a phallus. It had turned into a bedroom toy, the same one that had been oiled and pressed into Salas after he had bathed less than a handful of hours ago.
It is the perfect offering, Salas thought, fingers curling into dense bedding with anticipation.
When another moment passed, he finally couldn’t help but to glance over his shoulder to decipher the King’s reaction.
What he saw made him stiffen and straighten up.
