I Own You

CONRART

“A pleasure and an honour,” Conrart says, with a precise bow. The diminutive king of Small Cimeron blinks and adjusts his violet glasses fussily.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Saralegui says, and goes back to staring at Günter. This is nothing unusual; people stare at Günter all the time, and in Conrart’s opinion the Demon is well-worth staring at. Saralegui makes no attempt to disguise his interest, however, and Conrart can’t help bristling at the lack of manners.

“Perhaps I should introduce you,” Conrart says with an edge in his voice, “This is my husband, Günter von Christ.” Emphasis on husband.

“A ‘von’? That means he’s of a highly noble family, correct?”

“That is correct, Your Majesty.”

“Ah,” Saralegui takes a lock of his hair and twines it about his forefinger. “He’s awfully quiet, isn’t he?”

Conrart curls his lip. Günter is indeed very quiet. He’s also very still. He sits at Conrart’s side, the banquet going on around him. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t fidget. The only movements he makes are the steady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional movement of his eyes.

“If one is going to keep a pet, it should at least be interesting. He’s awfully pretty, but he seems rather dull.”

“He’s not a pet,” Conrart says through his gritted teeth, “He’s my husband.”

“And very affectionate he is too,” there’s laughter in Saralegui’s voice, and Conrart looks away in miserable disgust.

Conrart knows the things this poisonous court says about his marriage; he knows that they think that Günter is a drooling idiot. A pretty drooling idiot, and a valuable pawn and trophy against the Demon Kingdom, but an idiot nonetheless. It makes him upset and angry. Günter loves Conrart as much as Conrart loves Günter. It’s just the shock of finding himself so far away from the Demon Kingdom that makes him so quiet, and the necklace of esoteric stones that King Belal insists he wears that makes Günter so still. Any day now, any day, Günter is going to smile, or laugh, or move under Conrart when they make love. Conrart is certain of it.

“He’s my husband,” Conrart says again, but quietly.

Saraledgui smiles and toasts Conrart, and Conrart’s eyes wander over Saralegui’s shoulder to Beries, Saralegui’s silent shadow. Conrart has never spoken to the man but he has the disconcerting feeling that they understand each other very well.

“I wonder, is he that affectionate when you’re in bed together?” Conrart’s attention snaps back to the young king, and he feels himself flush in rage and indignation.

“I beg pardon, Your Majesty, but my husband and I have a pressing engagement elsewhere.” He seizes Günter’s hand and makes to pull him up, but Saralegui’s words stop him in his tracks.

“I can make it so much better for you, you know. It’d be quite simple to do.”

“What are you...?” Conrart trails off as Saralegui takes off his glasses. Golden eyes seem to draw him in, like he’s swimming in honey. With an effort, he looks away, shudders.

“Don’t you wonder what he’d be like without that collar about his throat?”

There’s a metallic taste in his mouth and every fibre of his being screams in protest, but somehow, for reasons he doesn’t understand, Conrart sits back down and listens to what Saralegui has to say.

Saralegui

It is always satisfying to see one’s dogs jump the way one wants them to.

The apartments that Lord Weller and the von Christ share are spare but of good quality and appointment. Lord Weller didn’t seem the type to want luxuries, and von Christ is not in a position to want anything.

Sara sighs, stretches, feels his joints pop. Lord Weller is tense and unhappy, but also wanting. He gestures to Berius to refill his glass, smiles affectionately at the older man. Everyone is going to get something they want out of this. Well, except the von Christ, but his feelings are irrelevant.

Lord Weller stands before the foot of the bed. Sara seats himself in a comfortable chair, notes the iron rings drilled into the wall at seemingly random intervals, no doubt for ropes and such. The half human, the loyal traitor, has wrapped his mind in so many layers of delusion and fantasy that it’s hardened into a form of madness. Sara has utterly no doubt that when Weller beats and rapes the man he thinks is his husband, he thinks that they’re making love together.

Wiggling his toes happily, Sara thinks of how wonderful life really is.

“Is...is it really necessary for you to be here?”

“It is.”

“All right,” Weller says, obviously deeply uneasy, “What about him?” He gestures at Beries as though Sara’s loyal servant is some form of monster. Sara frowns.

“Yes,” he says tersely, “It is. Take us or leave us. That’s the deal.”

Lord Weller’s mouth thins into a hard line. He strokes the von Christ’s shoulder, trails his fingers through all that silver hair. Leaning down, he whispers something into the Demon’s ear, something that’s doubtless psychotic and romantic. He presses a kiss to that pale flesh and stands straight.

“Fine,” he says, “Fine. Let’s get to it, then.”

Sara hands the glass of wine to Beries and rises. He steps gracefully over to the von Christ and leans over. Deliberately, knowing that it’ll drive Weller crazy with jealousy, he strokes pale cheeks and runs his thumb over the von Christ’s mouth. The Demon is truly attractive, and Sara is just a touch miffed at seeing someone as pretty as he is. Perfection that does not belong to him is irritating, and he has always wanted to smash the beautiful.

“Yes, let’s get to it,” he murmurs, takes off his glasses, and brings his golden eyes level to the von Christ’s violet ones. It takes longer than he expects; even drugged and weighted with the esoteric stones around his throat, von Christ is a powerful foe, and his mind is strong despite the sluggishness. It takes all of Sara’s skill and dexterity to weave the magic though the slow twists of the von Christ’s mind, and when he finally comes back to himself he’s tired. Beries’ hand on his elbow; he’s steered back to the chair and the wine is pressed back into his hand. The glass shakes a little before he can stop it.

Lord Weller toes off his boots and kneels in front of the von Christ, and lovingly slides his palm up the Demon’s leather-covered ankles. Up, up, his hands on the von Christ’s knees, von Christ’s thighs, von Christ’s flanks. He traces the elegant loops of the necklace of esoteric stones and his fingers tremble as they unclip the latch.

Sara smiles with satisfaction as the von Christ’s eyes come alight with desire and adoration, and the Demon leans forward to press his mouth against Lord Weller’s in a desperate, hungry kiss.

Günter

If there is one thing Günter has learned, it’s that nothing he once thought belonged to him actually does.

He lies beside Conrart, exhausted, drained, filled with quiet horror and an overwhelming despair as the sweat dries on his naked skin. He isn’t sure what came over him; the screaming need, the all-consuming lust that threw him willingly into Conrart arms is so different, so alien to Günter’s essential being that he knows he was ensorcelled. He doesn’t know how, exactly, but he suspects it has something to do with King Saralegui’s golden eyes.

Beside him, Conrart’s rapid breathing suddenly slows. The half-Demon heaves a great sigh, rolls over and, to Günter’s utter disbelief, a soft snore drifts into the air. Movement, so easy a scant minute ago when he was writhing uncontrollably against Conrart, is once more an impossible task. It takes everything he has to turn his head and look at his audience.

King Saralegui is seated, an approving smile on his lips. He taps the glass in his hand with his thumbnail and sighs in obvious satisfaction. “That went well, I rather thought.” Günter shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at the little King, but Saralegui speaks again: “Go on, then.”

“Your Majesty?” A deeper voice, one that Günter hasn’t heard before.

“I arranged this for you, didn’t you realise? I could see that you wanted him; you’ve done so much for me, served me so well, that I wanted to do something for you.”

“I...I don’t know what to say, Your Majesty.” The voice sounds uncertain, and Günter opens his eyes and sees a strangely vulnerable expression cross the dark one’s face.

“Do whatever you want,” King Saralegui says, and Günter watches with dawning horror as the other one- Beries? Is that his name?- begins to undress.

There’s hope for a second, and Günter clings to it even as Beries comes closer. Perhaps it’s Conrart and not him that’s the focus of this whole game, but then Beries merely touches his ankle and Günter jerks, gasps, shudders, realises that his body is still not his own. Like a good whore, like a good puppet, his arms come up and wrap themselves around Beries’ shoulders and his mouth opens for kisses.

Despite everything, despite the abject hatred he has for his weakness in not being able to resist King Saralegui’s spell, for Conrart, for King Belus, for Beries, for King Saralegui himself, for everyone who’s raped him since he came to this hellhole country, he still feels a certain satisfaction.

“I have you now,” Beries mutters into Günter’s throat.

Conrart is sleeping beside them both, and the man’s utterly unaware of being made a cuckold by King Saralegui and Beries. Günter moans and arches his back, shuts his eyes, and tries to pretend he’s with someone else, and that he’s doing it because he wants to.