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It is Her Majesty's idea. Or rather, she is the one to voice it. It is also Logue's idea, but he cannot bring himself to ask it of anyone. He does not even have the words to ask, just the need.

Her Majesty calls on him one evening after she has finally reached an accord with the Church. "Olifen has told me about the dragon. His name was Umbra, wasn't it?"

Yes, was. It has been weeks since he -- they -- truly conquered the dragon. Umbra's influence is gone, though sometimes, he still hears the echo of the dragon's voice. It is a relief to finally be free, though he still carries much of his tension, like a part of him expects the dragon to return, so he must be ready to maintain control of his own mind, his own body.

He kneels before her, bows his head. "Majesty, I --"

"There is no need for such formality." She moves to kneel with her, and her hand is so tiny on his. "Besek changed me as Umbra changed you. I am Lenarshe, and you are Logue, and that is how we should speak to each other in these moments."

He swallows. It is one thing to be so informal with Olifen. Their years of friendship, their training together, allows them a level of intimacy he has never had with Her Majesty.

"Must I order it?"

He shakes his head. "No...Lenarshe."

"Good." She squeezes his hand. "As I said, Olifen has told me about Umbra. It is...difficult to be free of his influence after enduring it for so long, is it not?"

He cannot look her in the eye. His throat is dry, voice husky, and his whole body trembles with his need. "Yes."

"Olifen and I would like to help you." She rises, and Logue lifts his head to watch her. She crosses the short distance to her wardrobe. "I think this may help you." She opens the door, and --

For a moment, time stops. The only item in the wardrobe is a costume. Majin. And then Logue makes out the silver fur, the antlers, the snarling muzzle of the mask. A wolf Majin, like the witch's companion, Raki.

Logue shakes his head. "No." It is not a dragon, and for that he is thankful. "I cannot wear it."

"It is sized for me," Lenarshe says.

He meets her eyes then. "You?"

"You have already conquered your beast. Perhaps submission will help you find peace."

"Yes," he says before he can even think. The confession loosens something in his chest.

She removes the mask from the wardrobe and holds it up to her face. "Then tomorrow night, come rescue your fair king from me." Her voice deepens, and she almost sounds like witch's Majin. "Commander."

* * *

Lenarshe and Olifen had prepared for this. There are no servants as Logue makes his way to their quarters. Most of the torches are extinguished, and it is only his familiarity with the palace that lets him stride down the hall with any confidence.

He stops outside the door to Lenarshe's chambers. He is not as nervous as he feared he would be, but he is still nervous enough. What if this is too much for Olifen? Lenarshe? His queen is hard to read, but he does know Olifen. He is no damsel, for all his delicate features make him look the part on a first glance, and Logue knows the rumors about their...involvement were worse on Olifen than him.

"It seems my kin have dealt with your brave commander, Your Majesty." Lenarshe's voice is too high to match Raki's rumbling pitch, but the inflection is the same. "Such a pity. I had hoped for a satisfying challenge."

Olifen's reply is muffled.

Logue takes a shaky breath. He wants this, can already feel himself hardening in anticipation, despite of -- or maybe because of -- his nerves. He pushes the door open.

The room is dark. The only light is from the fireplace, and Olifen is on a fur rug in front of it, naked and on his stomach, hog-tied and gagged.

He has a role to play here. "Your Majesty!" He hurries to Olifen without checking for Lenarshe. It is not what he'd do in a real rescue, but making such a foolish blunder's as thrilling as the idea of his submission.

Olifen squirms, and oh Goddess, Logue doesn't want to untie him. He looks too enticing like that, nicely vulnerable, and yes, there's an echo of Umbra telling him to take Olifen, but the kind of knight sent to battle a dragon has to be a beast himself. Logue cannot place all the blame for his desires on Umbra, as tempting as it is.

The knot binding Olifen's hands and legs is simple. Olifen could free himself if he truly wished it. Logue's hands still tremble as he works it loose. He can feel the pulse in Olifen's wrist, steady and grounding.

"So you made it past my brothers." Lenarshe is wearing boots, or something, that click along the stone floor, like claws. "I am impressed, commander."

Logue shudders. He doesn't turn, pretends, instead, to be paralyzed with fear. Olifen's managed to position himself so he's looking up at Logue, cheek pressed against the black fur of the rug, and he's a poor actor. He looks more excited than afraid, and that makes it easier for Logue to enjoy it when Lenarshe kneels behind him, her breath heavy and hot on the back of his neck.

"But it ends here. You are no match for me."

"No." Logue licks his lips. "I suppose I'm not."

"A Falsin who knows his place." She nips the back of his neck, and he makes a little noise of surrender. "Perhaps I will let you live."

She pushes at his shoulders, and he leans over Olifen, who echoes his sound of surrender.

"I have always wanted a Falsin plaything. Serve me well, commander, and I will let you take your king." She reaches around and unfastens Logue's pants, pushes them down over his hips. "A toy for my pet." She nips at his neck again. "Shall I make you beg?"

"Please." His voice is raw with need. There's no echo of the dragon now, just his own desires, his own choice. "Please, will you use me for your pleasure?"

She strokes him until he's half-hard. "Not yours?"

"Your pleasure is my pleasure."

She rests her chin on his shoulder and growls. "Well, then, let us test that, commander." She licks his ear, then pulls back. "Pin your king's wrists. You are not allowed to touch yourself as I use you."

Olifen raises his hands over his head. Logue pins him, runs his thumbs along the back of Olifen's hands.

Lenarshe presses a slick finger against his hole. Logue tenses momentarily, then forces himself to relax and enjoy Lenarshe's care. And soon enough, he's opened to her satisfaction. Lenarshe rises to mount him. The phallus she's wearing is thick and ridged, a striking contrast to her slim fingers. She's oiled it, but the stretch is still shocking, and Logue revels in the fullness. He shivers and clenches around it.

Lenarshe growls and leans over him. She scratches at his shoulders, bites at his neck, and...and it's easy to forget how small she is with that phallus inside him. It's easy to forget everything as she fucks him, long deep strokes that hit him just right. He doesn't need to touch himself. His cock thickens, and it's not long before he's painfully hard. He can come like this.

"Please," he manages, "let me come for you."

Lenarshe's laughter is breathless. "Yes, commander. Mark your king for me."

Olifen makes a needy noise, and that, combined with Lenarshe's order, is what Logue needs to come on Olifen's back.

Lenarshe tenses behind him. "Good, commander." She takes a moment to catch her breath, then withdraws and places a firm hand on the back of his head and forces him down. Logue lets her smear his face in his come. "Now be a good pet and clean up after yourself."

He obeys. There's no echo of Umbra mocking him. There's just the salty taste of his come, Olifen's smooth skin, and Lenarshe's fingers threaded in his hair. It's enough for now.

But he'll want this again.