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The King’s endowment was massive, swollen thicker than even the muscled bunch at the hilt of Salas’ forearm. Dripping with the glossy wetness of excitement, the King’s cock was positioned toward him, hovering between his legs like a promise.
The beast seemed to realize his own goal at the same time Salas did, and with a grunt, he shifted forward, dropping Salas’ arm in favor of tugging at Salas’ hips to better position himself.
Now in a full-on-panic, Salas used his freed upper limbs to scramble back. “N-No,no. NO!” he shouted. Elbows scraped over the jagged edges of the forest floor in a haste to get away.
But he was dragged back into place, his delicate skin feeling as though it were breaking over the blades of the icy ground.
His struggles were disturbingly no use, as the King, his mind obviously crazed with the one goal in mind, simply grabbed at Salas, manhandling him as though he were merely a cushion to be arranged beneath him for his own comfort.
The King tossed Salas onto his stomach, his chest biting into snow. He felt the open tug as the King grabbed the flesh of his ass and stretched him open. He shrieked again when he felt pressure at his entrance, and knew right away, without the King’s cock even having breached his entrance, that there was no way that his great length would be fully seated without tearing him apart.
It was at that moment that thepain, old and new, tore through him. It was not the King having made his move, but the other kind of pain. His magic eating him alive near his heart, the magic-induced sensation slaying him through and he shrieked, letting out a cry so guttural, he knew immediately that he had never made the sound before.
The magic twisted in him until he was blinded, his senses blurring until he thought that he might slip away.
From a distance, he heard himself crying, sobbing openly, though it took a moment to come back to himself. The pain was finally easing, but with reluctance.
“Salas?” asked a voice from behind him.
It was then that Salas realized that he had been whispering, ‘it hurts,’ over and over again, like a prayer.
“Come back,” Salas said a little louder, shaking in the snow and not daring to move, less it sparked a stroke of excitement in the beast’s instincts. “Come back to me.”
“Salas, I…” The King began again, his voice still gravelly, yet not quite as rough.
The magic pain within Salas was lessening now, diminishing a few moments later, as the King used gentle, normal hands to turn him over onto his back.
King Jareth had returned to normal as well; his animalistic features pressed back into him, his mass declining. But it was his eyes, Salas knew, that revealed that King was once again himself. They were filled with utter shame and regret, his face so twisted that Salas feared that the man would fall apart. Salas had never seen anguish in this shape before, and knew immediately that from this day forward, he never wanted to see it again.
Salas swallowed, wiping his eyes and staring up at him. “Are you back?” Salas asked carefully, his voice a stuttered breath he had no control over.
Wordlessly, as though all he wanted to say were stuck in his throat, the King nodded.
Salas shot forward, springing up and throwing himself into the King’s arms. The King, as though he were catching life itself, pulled him in and clung to him desperately, and yet so delicately. His entire body engulfed Salas, yet the pressure was feather-light, as though Salas were a baby bird he feared his grip would crush, yet he had to hold on, for fear that that bird would fly away.
“I’m sorry,” the King breathed, close to his ear. The two words were thousands.
“It’s all right,” Salas said back, hoping that his own words packed all that he meant by them, as well. He glanced up at the King to check. But by the King’s face, he knew that the words fell short.
Salas instead stood up, standing before a kneeling King, and kissed him. With his body stiff with cold, all his heat was at his lips. He wrapped his arms around the King’s head, fingers curling into dark locks, and pressed himself forward.
The King’s responding movements were ever-gentle, his hands, as they grabbed Salas’ waist, fluttering and delicate.
Moments later, it was the King who pulled away, breaking the kiss with a still-distraught, yet happier expression. “I understand your point, little one. Come, let’s get back inside so we can warm you up.” He rose to his feet and caught Salas’ hand.
Salas, heart hammering and with an eclipsing sense of unease, squeezed the hand back.
It was not the King’s actions that left him with a swelling feeling of dread, yet the pain that consistently erupted inside of him. He couldn’t ignore it anymore, he knew, as it would continue to grow within him, tearing him apart.
Until he died.
The insistent, awful pain was the magic inside of him, calling out, sending out reminders like a trumpeter signaling a battle. And the battle was close to raging inside of him, and it was one he could not win.
And he knew why this battle would commence.
Though he tried to suppress it, and tried to push it away, there was no stopping the memory that surfaced, flowing into his mind, no longer a trickling stream, but the entire ocean.
“I am jinx,” Salas said, happy to be able to answer the question, as there were many he could not.
