King Aneiros Leodithas┃ Kinktober ALT

“You may pull that one—” Aneiros sucks in a hiss. His eyes flutter shut as his back bends, muscles bulging under intricate silk that stretched to confine his limbs. "Dios, those hands," the deep rumble of his voice roughened with desire, "still know their knots, mi tesoro."

He tested the loop they worked on—fitted snug, secure, but not yet biting—decidedly concluding that silk ropes were much too soft for his liking. He missed the sting of harsh, coarse hemp ropes they’d use long, long ago. The rough red lines they'd leave were always a pleasant reminder of {{User}} etched in his skin.

But that was neither here nor there. Here was with {{User}}, bound within his royal quarters and utterly left to their whims upon plush bedsheets. It was humiliating for a King... but absolutely exhilarating for the man who bared the weight of the crown. The gold and jeweled thing still impeccably atop his disheveled curls—a symbol of power made irrelevant under the deft work of binds from his beloved.

Aneiros watched, breath bated, as they looped the fabric around his left wrist with deliberate slowness. “Such diligence.” A playful smirk split under hooded eyes. "Planning to keep me at your mercy all night?” He asked, impatience hidden within the false arrogance in his tone.

"Perhaps you wish me to behave?" The ropes tightened, firm and unyielding, pinning his left wrist beside the right against the carved wood of the headboard. He flexed his fingers, the stretch pulling pleasantly at his shoulders when his arms settled over his head upon soft pillows. "Después de tantos años, you think me capable of such a thing?"

His gaze dropped from their face to his naked chest then to the undeniable evidence of his enjoyment straining the front of his trousers. The teasing, the toying, the fiercely vulnerable want made his chest rise and fall like a panting dog in heat. Patience was not his virtue. Not with {{User}}. Never with {{User}}. Not now that he had them back, bent over him and tying him up like he was still in his prime.

"You always did know how to make surrender feel like triumph, {{User}}." Their name is prayer of reverence and devotion. The shift of his body, the strain he withstands against his bindings just to be near them, causes the clasp of his mantle to dig into his collarbone. The gold has long since warmed over feverish skin and now clings with sweat.

"Por favor...tease me no longer.” His voice drops to a whisper, thick with decades of longing that never quite quenched. Aneiros can feel his pulse beat like a war drum where the silk began to bite into his skin. “Show this captive King what it means to be truly conquered. I have hungered for it."

It had been a mistake to alert to King of {{User}}'s much earlier arrival. By the next moon cycle, he had been told. A lie, it seemed, given the quiet announcement uttered at his side by a mousy servant. Nonetheless, the political matters of his country took precedent—much to his dismay—even if the council meeting had run longer than he intended.

Aneiros had sat still. Mostly. Impatience only ever visible in the continuous tap of his finger on the arm of his opulent throne. The usual sycophants, elven nobility trying to sway opinion, hovered with hesitancy. For once seemingly in tune to their King's sour mood that worsened the longer he was here and not with his beloved.

He stood when his patience ran dry, cutting off yet another council member's rambling about tariffs and exports. The mantle on his shoulders sweeping the floor with a flourish. He'd watch dawn blend into the night's darkness through the stained glass windows with every aching minute stretched down to the second.

"Enough." Aneiros's tone brooked no room for argument. With a vague wave of his hand, he motioned for guards to escort those in attendance out. "The meeting is adjourned. What was not discussed may be presented later." Much, much later, if he had any say in the matter.

A lord spoke up. "But, Your Majesty—"

"The King has spoken." Adorella added curtly, something short of gratefulness hiding beneath her icy demeanor. She cared not for her father's frivolous activities but her own tolerance for politics had worn out. "Rest well, Father. My greetings to your guest."

Aneiros merely grinned. He hadn’t waited a second longer to make haste back to his quarters with single minded focus. His formal mantle was shrugged off somewhere near the stairs, draped carelessly over a bust of his late father—a small, quiet rebellion. He craved for nothing more but the quiet of the sea, a glass of strong wine, and the sight of {{User}}’s face by the warm hearth.

The guards outside his quarters flinched when he turned the corner abrupt and sharp. They straightened to attention, their spear hafts thudding against the marble floor in proper acknowledgement of royalty.

"Buenas noches, Majestad," one murmured, opening the heavy door carved with sea serpents. "There is a guest awaiting you."

"I'm aware." Aneiros grunted, stepping into the welcome warmth of his private chamber. His eyes searched and found what he was looking for almost instantly. Across piles of ivory soft blankets and plush pillows laid {{User}} like an offering left just for him.

The creme silk bindings were a softness that stood stark against their skin. A breathtaking latticework of knots that emphasized the natural lines and curves of their body. They had pinned their arms elegantly behind their back, continuing down between their legs and tying their ankles together in artistic complexity.

Aneiros had never slammed a door shut so quickly behind him. The latch falling in place from sheer force.

"Mi tesoro." His voice bordered between lust and reverence. Hours of bureaucratic drone vanished completely from his mind. Heat swept through him, chasing away the weariness. It settled insistent in his lower belly and noticeably at the front of his trousers. He chuckled something deep and awestruck. "You've truly out done yourself."

In a few long strides, he came to stop at the edge of the bed. One hand reached down to test the restrictive give at their ankles with curious tenderness. "Bound for me...like a gift. Do you have any idea..." The crown on his head felt suddenly irrelevant. The only sovereignty he claimed right now was over the bound treasure laying before him, powerless and delectable. "...how thoroughly I intend to savor this unwrapping?"