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Passing through the large wooden doors of the castle, Farquaad sighed deeply, catching the attention of his henchman. Thelonious glanced down upon his lord, noting a small scowl upon the man’s face. His tall brows were caught in a slight furrow, and one side of his bottom lip was pinched between his teeth. Neither of them said anything, but Thelonious reflected suddenly on the prior ceremony, which had—before this moment—seemed to go exactly as planned.
The lord had given a flawless and empowering speech before the city of Duloc. He had donned his finest ensemble (the deep red tunic with yellow puffs and singing blue accents). Moreover, he was sporting his favorite blue gauntlets. Yet still, Farquaad’s velvet fist was balled at his side, a bitter and determined visage overtaking his face. The henchman pondered the contradicting input for a beat as they marched onward, the sound of their clicking heels reverberating off of the stone walls.
“Thelonious,” Farquaad snapped, toying restlessly with his fat golden rings, “remind me…”
Thelonious braced himself, sifting through recent memory in anticipation for whatever his lord’s question may entail.
“Who is King of Duloc?” And he asked this with a familiar expectant cadence, each word syrupy and commanding. Thelonious might have quickly surveyed their surroundings if the expression on his lord’s face were any less arresting. Farquaad waited silently outside the door to his quarters, glaring up at Thelonious through his lashes.
Thelonious hastily pushed the door open. “You, m’lord.” He said, only after retreating inside.
Farquaad watched intently from the lighted hall, seeming to consider whether he should step inside at all. Then he smiled—just a twitch of his lips, really—and broke the threshold. Once inside, Thelonious swept the door closed, and no sooner than the light was snuffed out had Farquaad gestured sharply for his henchman to kneel. Thelonious obeyed immediately, bending down on one knee.
“Who is the king of Duloc?” He repeated, grasping blindly for Thelonious’ chin, and Thelonious swallowed thickly, peering up at his lord. “You are, m’lord.”
Like a switch had been flipped, gone was the stoic and pristine demeanor that his lord had carried all throughout the day; Farquaad rubbed lightly at his skirt and breathed in deeply. “Who,” he growled, “is King?”
“You are, your majesty.”
Farquaad gazed fixedly at Thelonious’ cowl and nodded slowly. He sighed, and gripped Thelonious’ shoulder, leaning into his palm. His lord’s excitement sometimes came on suddenly and not without a touch of disorientation. The familiar pressing weight was enough to center Thelonious momentarily, but not before Farquaad spoke again, his voice quieter now: “Who is king?”
Thelonious found himself shaken, the blood having long since rushed from his head. His eyes darted rapidly between Farquaad’s daring glare and his gently flicking wrist, his tongue dry and thick in his mouth as he observed. He reached tentatively for his lord’s waist and thumbed the cool leather of his belt. “You are.” Came his quivering voice.
Farquaad closed his eyes, features twisting, and Thelonious’ heart stuttered at the decadent sigh his lord gave. His hands maneuvered along the length of the belt, enchanted. The intricate engravings of the large gold buckle glinted in the low light. The thing was wide, and looked altogether too heavy, and Thelonious traced it unrestrainedly with gloved fingers.
Farquaad emitted a garbled tone, breaking Thelonious’ trance, and suddenly his lord was wrapping ringed fingers around his wrist. “There.” He said, lowering his henchman’s hand to replace his own. Thelonious scrambled to recreate the motion, eyes flicking up to gauge his lord’s response. Farquaad’s mouth hung open. He worked his jaw sluggishly as if to form words, ultimately producing nothing but a frustrated grunt.
Thelonious stiffened as his cowl was suddenly pulled taut. Farquaad peeled the lip of it back and wasted no time in crashing noses with his henchmen. He hummed brokenly, gnawing at Thelonious’ open mouth, and swallowed the responding moan he gave.
“Who…” Farquaad trailed off distantly, his hips bucking clumsily into Thelonious’ knuckles. He angled himself to better the friction and winced. Thelonious could hear in the hitching of his lord’s breath that he was getting close. It occurred to him that his lord’s silky black head was empty of his crown.
“Thelonious,” Farquaad breathed into his stubble, “where is my…”
Thelonious instantly understood his lord’s request. He untangled (not a little reluctantly) from their embrace and rose unsteadily to his feet. The crown, an ornate golden headpiece, sat upon its velvet cushion atop the mantle. The tall weight of it nearly knocked him off balance, he was so tender.
The rapturous look upon Farquaad’s face brought Thelonious to his knees, his grasp tightening protectively around the bejeweled metal. His lord was rubbing against his cupped palm once more with eyes soldered to the glinting crown. Thelonious made to proffer the crown with outstretched hands just in the way he had done so many times before, but Farquaad’s eyes widened with a dawning realization, and he swallowed noisily. “Go on.” He urged, straightening his back with a wince.
And so Thelonious did as he was instructed, uncaring of the tremble in his hands, and with immeasurable satisfaction he placed the heavy crown upon his lord’s gently bobbing head.
Farquaad let out a guttural groan from deep inside him. He shivered visibly, his arm twitching with exhaustion, and blinked very slowly. “Who is your King?” He managed, finally.
“You are, your majesty.” Thelonious said it too automatically. He was worked up and mostly unable to participate in the conscious forefront of his mind anymore, which left him slow and still in amazement. Farquaad brought both hands suddenly to grope and adjust his crown, and when he sighed in satisfaction at having touched his prize, he extended a burning arm to Thelonious. His rings danced along his drumming fingers, and Farquaad chuckled without any breath. This gesture registered with Thelonious a moment late, and he hastily cupped his lord’s wrist in quivering hands, making to kiss his rings. In the moment after he latched his chapped lips to a glittering diamond, Farquaad’s warm weight was thrust roughly upon his knee, and Thelonious nearly crumbled to the ground.
“Aha,” Farquaad groped for Thelonious’ thigh with his free hand and began to rut in earnest. “Am I not the perfect King?”
“You are, your grace,” Thelonious fervently agreed, touching the underside of his lord’s arm as if in a trance.
Farquaad’s neck strained with the effort of keeping his crown balanced atop his head. This aspect of the ritual excited him, and he laughed hoarsely. His knees were buckling against Thelonious’ shin. His henchmen seemed to have forgotten entirely where he was if the unrestrained sucking and licking of Farquaad’s rings could be any indication, and the sight amused him.
It was very soon now—Farquaad felt the tight coiling in his gut about to snap, his skin ablaze beneath his weighty royal garb—and he was enjoying the sound of his own grunts when Thelonious spoke suddenly.
“Your highness,” he breathed out ruggedly, latching onto his favorite ring once more. Thelonious was completely out of himself with no intention of returning. The utterance shocked Farquaad, who felt a flash of scalding white heat over every scarce inch of himself, and he came in the next moment with a gasp.