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They spoke about sensations in reference to him, something about being a ‘maker,’ yet because he could not puzzle this particular information, he ignored it. He was instead focused on what had been discussed directly afterwards.
The King was planning on him leaving the apartments, for him to find residence at another, unknown destination.
Salas couldn’t allow it.
He looked around at the room: the thick fur throws, the too-dark stone walls, the overly ornate, ghoulish carved wood paneling. He knew it to be a gaudy, ugly space, and yet in this country, it was a room designed for a king.
He had been told, once, that the space in a King’s bed was no less than he deserved. That opulence would always be available to him. He never thought his position could waver around so freely, as it did now, like a flag in changing winds.
He thought back to his previous nights staying in the room with the King. He rarely saw the man, yet he had learned that Jareth did, in fact, sleep beside him. He’d made a point of staying up late, pretending to sleep, to see what the King would do while believing Salas to no longer be present of mind.
He remembered smothering his surprise when the heavy weight of a body pressed down beside him, jostling him on the bed. A moment had passed before the next shocking thing had happened. The King had leaned over, his fingers feathering over Salas’ jawline, and he’d gently pressed his face close to Salas,’ the King’s nose rustling the soft wisps at his hairline. He’d breathed in, as though wanting to inhale all that Salas was, his fingers then caressing Salas’ skin.
And then he’d pulled away, as though nothing had happened, and fell asleep with deep, heavy breathing, leaving Salas equally astonished and perplexed.
Was that what Beatrice had meant when she said that Diagorians were ‘drawn to him?’
It must have been.
The only question was, could he do something with this new information? Could it benefit him, so that he was no longer flailing in the wind? Could he secure his station?
Jareth remained missing for the next hour or so.
With the new storm in his mind, Salas barely thought about what was happening to the guard, if he was being punished for reasons that still confused Salas, or perhaps praised, which would make more sense. He simply no longer wished to think about the incident and the odd, mixed reactions that stirred in him because of it.
Finally, he decided to get into bed and wait, forming a plan in his mind.
When the doors finally creaked open, signaling the return of the King, he shut his eyes.
It was a little while later before he felt the familiar weight of the man beside him.The King went through his ritual of pressing up to Salas, breathing him in, and Salas had to struggle to not lean into the touch. But then the close presence was gone, and it was quiet.
Salas waited a while longer, for the King’s breathing to even and gentle its rhythm. He was not tired himself, and instead lay wide-awake, ready to take action.
Finally, he made his move. Carefully, Salas moved closer to the King, sitting up on an arm and hovering over the great sleeping body, hoping that the man was breathing in whatever he so craved from Salas’ skin until he was filled up with whatever that was.
Then, Salas moved again. Lower, this time.
Limbs like snakes, he slipped further down the bed, placing his knees on either side of the King’s legs, careful not to place any of his weight there lest the man stir.
The King slept nearly naked, save for a pair of pale braies tied at his center, near his groin. Salas wore similar nightly attire, though he preferred to sleep with nothing. After a stern word from Jareth, however, he’s been forced to make the braies habit as well.
Salas’ fingers went to the knot that held up the King’s own, and then Salas was letting the folds of the fabric over Jareth’s crotch gently fall away.
Salas squirmed a bit under the heavy weight of the blankets, his face already dampening with the dew of sweat as he tried to make out in the dark his new find.
He could see nothing, as it turned out, yet the heady scent of musk as the King’s groin was made available served to entice him.
When the King didn’t stir, Salas kept moving.
His fingers fumbled in the dark, moving through rough pubic hair, until they discovered what they sought. The length of the King’s cock was heavy and thick in his hand, even when flaccid, and warm silk to the touch.Vulnerable, even. A sleeping thing, waiting to be awakened.
Salas tested the flesh in his hand, giving it the gentlest of pumps, encouraged when the motion brought about the first pressure of firmness within the length he held. It seemed to warm even further, and Salas liked to think he heard it when the blood rushed to the area, coming to meet him.
When the King shifted, Salas held his breath, thinking that the man was rising, though the King only moved to lay straight on his back, his legs moving slightly apart as though even in sleep, he was welcoming Salas’ touch.
Salas got to work, moving his hand in practiced strokes until the King’s endowment was fully erect and ready for him.
Satisfied, he leaned forward, kissing the slick head and licking the budding, salty substance that leaked from there. The breath of the man beneath him became uneven, and Salas felt it was time to go down.
