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It was then that Salas realized that Jareth must have interpreted his silence as brooding over the event in the woods, which wasn’t the case. He shook his head. “It’s the party,” he lied. “It…” Ended poorly, he almost said, before he realized that the King would take blame for this, as well. He gave up and shook his head again. “I’m just tired.”
“There will be other parties,” Jareth said gently, still seeming troubled by Salas’ attitude.
“Yes, other parties,” Salas agreed, trying to sound enthusiastic but merely wanting to drop the subject of his mood.
His thoughts were eating him alive, and he would let them, if he did not find a distraction soon.
“Come,” he said suddenly, grabbing Jareth’s hand and guiding him to the bed.
“Are you tired?” Jareth wondered, bemused.
“Yes, tired,” he replied too quickly. Too urgently.
Yet if the King noticed, he didn’t say anything. The King, he knew, was lost in his own thoughts, his own guilt that Salas would do his best to ease.
The moment they were laid out on the bed, the candles put out and they were tucked into the warmth of a woolen duvet, Salas made his move.
Moving closer, he pushed himself into the folds of the King’s arms, which opened to him naturally as he edged closer, as though they had been waiting for him.
Normally, they kept their touches within the folds of the sheets soft and affectionate: light pets, Salas wrapped in strong arms, gentle morning caresses.
But that was not what Salas wanted tonight (he couldn’t walk away, with what he was going to do tomorrow, with just that) and he knew that he was about to display his intentions to the King in order for the other man to catch up.
Jareth was tired, brooding and disturbed by the evening’s events, eyes slipping shut when Salas landed on his lips a kiss.
The King, as Salas expected, returned the kiss, with some surprise. There was a hesitancy there, as though Jareth were attempting to unfold the curled petals of a flower without breaking them apart, but the hesitancy fell away. Sitting up, Jareth’s hand landed on the back of Salas’ head, tangling into his locks in a vice grip as his lips crushed upon Salas,’ brutal and plundering.
Salas felt himself hardening between his legs, as he had the last time he and the King had shared a kiss, and it was as bewildering of an occurrence this time as it was last time. Soon, he felt himself gasping until it became too much. He neededsomething, he needed…
Taking the King’s free hand, knowing that rejection and his hopes shattering might follow within the next instant, Salas guided the hand to the stiff cloth between his legs, delicately letting the King feel his arousal.
The King instantly pulled away, his eyes wide, searching, as they fell upon Salas’ face.
Salas’ looked up at him through his lashes, feeling as though he were holding out his heart made of thin, folded papyrus that would break with a breath. “Touch me,” he said. He hadn’t intended for his voice to come out as such a soft, fragile whisper.
But he could see the hesitancy there, circling in the King’s eyes, and it crushed Salas.
But then something seemed to change in the King, a kind of recognition or a basic understanding of something he saw in Salas’ face that made the King act.
The King’s hand pressed upon his erection through the fabric, his fingers gently outlining the shape, as though mesmerized by its weight.
Salas whimpered, arching up into the too-soft friction, yet just as he recognized the touch as insufficient, it firmed.
“How can you want this,” murmured the King questioningly, his firm grip tantalizing and not weakening, even though his words were soft, “after what I have just done?”
Because who knows what tomorrow will bring?“Because of what you didn’t do, Your Majesty,” Salas said instead.
Want and a warm, deep affection flashed in the King’s eyes before they became hooded, his look taking on a more sinister determination as his eyes languidly roamed over Salas’ slim, curved form beneath the sheets, the mood shifting to something darker and exciting that riveted Salas.
Without waiting for the King’s response, Salas tore back the sheets and pulled the King’s pants away, sloppily and haphazardly under the King’s weight, until it was just the warm brown skin before him; a corded muscled body so much larger than his own. The man hadn’t bathed before coming to bed, and the smell of pine and sweat still clung to him, arousing Salas further.
He felt nearly perverse inhaling the musky scent, and as he crouched between the King’s legs, he felt like a quiet, practiced servant who’d just been lucky enough to carry out a mundane ritual to a golden god.
The King’s manhood was stiff and wanting, dripping in excitement and far, far too large, as Salas remembered it. Still, it was a more acceptable size in his fully-human form, and Salas wasn’t timid beholding it, but gracious.
Salas grabbed Jareth’s cock at its base, and then met the King’s dark eyes, already focused on Salas, hawkeyed in their intensity.
He didn’t want the King to be gentle with him. He wanted to show Jareth all that he was and had been in Suscon, a Susconian bird, and to not be rejected by him.
