Had it truly been a lifetime of waiting?
…For a moment like this?
Lord Cutler Beckett sank onto the cushion, and when he raised his eyes to meet the soft gaze of Lord Farquaad…it was as if a spell was broken.
The two fell toward each other like twin tall, proud trees in a virgin forest. Their limbs locked, grappling with one another, and their clothes were torn ruthlessly from their bodies.
Little bottles clinked along the floor of the witch's hut as their hats, coats, shirts, and breeches scattered. But the whole world around them may have vanished for how entwined they were.
Beckett let out a weak gasp as Farquaad fell to his knees. Farquaad met his gaze with an adventurous smirk, and then with all the determination of a boundless explorer, he ventured his way into Beckett’s chamber of dewiness.
Beckett clutched his chest, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he fell back upon the lounge. Farquaad pressed on, forging into the other man’s swaths of unclaimed territory, with wet pops sounding around the quiet hut as he did. The lounge creaked, rocking on its chipped legs. He was using both hands now, preparing Beckett’s lands for incursion, and from the folds of his own clothes he drew out his scepter of divine authority.
Beckett’s gaze wandered down, and he let out a moan. Farquaad hushed him, a finger tracing upon his alabaster petals. “Silence,” he breathed.
Their eyes flicked to the cracked door, from which the sounds of the bayou—and the three sailors—drifted in.
There was only the briefest pause in Farquaad’s onslaught before he pressed into Beckett’s illicit garden of illusions again.
But the freshly-minted lord could only tolerate so much. Beckett’s fingers dug into the cushion, diving into the tears and drawing up feathers in fistfuls, and his legs shook and his breath quaked, and he finally let out a wheezing, “ No! ”
Farquaad stilled for a moment, his hand upon Beckett’s pendulum of temperance. “Yes?”
With a grunt, Beckett drew himself upright, and he glared in a ferocious fury down at the other lord. “Not like this.”
Before Farquaad could readjust, Beckett fell upon him on the floor, and he seized Farquaad’s rod of veracity.
Farquaad let out a cry—it was stifled by Beckett’s own hand, and with his other he sank lower to grip Farquaad’s orbs of mercuriality. He fondled these, achingly, terribly, tugging and threatening to twist until Farquaad began to vibrate in awful, wretched need. Farquaad reached up and wrenched Beckett’s other hand from his mouth and dragged it down, pressing it upon those globes of manifest destiny.
“Pull,” he hissed.
A moment’s pause passed, and then Beckett pulled.
Farquaad kicked and writhed on the floor, his mouth twisted, his eyes bulging out of his skull. He was a lamb braying for release of Abraham’s blade, and yet it (and he) was yet to come; Beckett’s grip shifted, and his fingers wormed their way into Farquaad’s pocket of territorial expansion, charting a new nation.
“And I have you,” Beckett breathed.
But only a short, tentative venture into the Farquaad’s lair of desolation followed, for the man flipped over, locking his short legs onto Beckett’s center and pulling him down, ending with both of them face down and gasping for air. Beckett was the first to recover, and he crawled on top of the other man, his wig in a tangle and laying off-kilter upon his sweaty brow.
He brought his lips very close to Farquaad’s ears—the feeling of the other man’s hot breath against his skin sent a shiver down Farquaad’s spine. “ I am a lord now, ” Beckett warned.
He thrust himself into Farquaad’s pearlescent portal, and Farquaad cried out in ecstasy.
There they wrestled on the floor of the dim, dark hut, vying for power, each of them seeking to conquer the other’s fertile lands while their dominance waxed and waned. The trinkets on the walls and ceiling swayed faintly as Farquaad once more found the bridge to the corner of Beckett’s empire, but no sooner had he done so than Beckett countered with an assault upon Farquaad’s gateway to redemption. They pushed and pulled, cried and hissed—they wound their way into each other’s caverns of formless shadows and emerged enlightened with the knowledge of man. Tears lined Beckett’s face. Farquaad braced himself against the side of the chaise lounge, his whole body threatening to crumble.
Finally, horribly, they fell breathlessly back on the floor side-by-side, neither with the will left to speak.