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It isn’t uncommon in Akielos, Laurent has learned, to leave balcony doors and windows open overnight when the summer heat gets too stifling. The guards, too, are less vigilant, unlikely to notice anything amiss. It makes it all too easy to sneak in through a side gate, climb a wall or two, and make his way across the roof until he’s right above the king’s balcony.
The curtains billow in the wind, bright red against the off-white stone. Carefully, Laurent lowers himself down, and lands on the floor with a muffled thump. He stands still for a moment, listening for footsteps in the king’s chambers or the halls beyond it, for shouts indicating someone spotted him.
There’s nothing.
Good. Silently, he slips into the bedroom.
King Damianos is asleep, lying spread out across the sheets. Even in the limited moonlight, it’s all too apparent that he isn’t wearing a shred of clothing. It’s boorish—barbaric—and yet Laurent’s gaze can’t help but to be drawn to the sculpted muscles bulging beneath his skin, the length of his cock, the shape of his thighs.
He isn’t unattractive.
The king’s bedchamber is expansive, but tidy, with most of the king’s possessions neatly tucked away. That’s alright though—Laurent is practiced at sneaking around, at quietly going through dressers and drawers in search of valuables. He’s never done it while someone was asleep in the same room before, though. It would, perhaps, be safer to take certain precautions to ensure the king won’t be able to stop him should he wake.
A cord lies atop a nearby windowsill, thick and silky—a forgotten tie-back, carelessly left behind. King Damianos truly ought to keep a tighter rein on his household; such sloppiness is unseemly. With security so lax and servants so inattentive, one could almost believe he’s asking for someone to break in.
The tie-back is short, though—barely enough to bind one wrist, let alone two. Laurent turns the cord over in his hands as he steps closer to the bed. A glint around the king’s left wrist catches his eye. A bracelet? No, a cuff.
Golden and oddly similar to a slave cuff, he finds on closer inspection. It has a clasp at the inner wrist, and the king is, very conveniently, lying on his back with that very arm raised up. Right beyond it, barely visible through the abundance of pillows, is a short length of chain affixed to the headboard.
Yet another careless mistake. Really, it’s too easy.
Leaning over the king’s motionless form, Laurent reaches for the chain. It’s masterfully crafted; the links nearly soundless as he draws it forward. The click it makes when he clips it to the cuff is nearly inaudible. That’s one arm taken care of.
There isn’t time to waste. He has to move quickly—the king could wake up at any moment, and even though Laurent is more than capable of taking care of himself, he’s under no illusions as to which of them would win should there be a scuffle. He has no intention of getting himself arrested.
Then again, breaking out of prison could present an entertaining challenge. Another time, perhaps. Maybe if he ever finds himself deep in the throes of boredom.
He ties one end of the cord to the bedpost, then tugs on it for good measure. The knot remains unyielding; it should hold even with the brute of an Akielon king yanking at it. The bedpost, too, is sturdy; solid wood that Laurent can’t imagine breaking without exercising considerable force.
The biggest feat will be getting the other end of the tie-back around the king’s wrist before he wakes up. It would be easiest to knot the rope ahead of time, so that he only has to fit Damianos’ wrist into the loop and tighten it before he wakes.
The king’s eyes fly open the moment Laurent’s fingers make contact with his bare skin, his face tucked into the crook of his right elbow. Each and every muscle in his body tenses, and he turns, wildly, towards Laurent.
Before Damianos can get his bearings, Laurent tightens the knot, immobilizing his right arm. The next second, he heaves himself up onto the bed and straddles Damianos’ thighs, holding him down with his own body weight. The king’s eyes land on him, finally, scanning his face in whatever dim light the moon has to offer.
And then—then—he relaxes.
“Hello,” Damianos says, voice gruff with sleep and the aftermath of panic. There is a smile playing around his lips, the barest hint of a dimple on one of his cheeks. He looks soft, sleep-mussed, and not at all alarmed.
It’s insulting.
With a single swift movement, Laurent draws his knife from the sheath at his thigh and presses the tip of it to Damianos’ bared throat—not drawing blood, but threatening it. He uses the flat of the blade to tilt his head up.
“Not another word,” Laurent whispers, leaning down so his words brush against Damianos’ lips. “And don’t even think about calling for the guards.”
“They’d have you in chains faster than you could blink,” Damianos says. He stretches his arms over his head until the tips of his fingers graze the headboard. The motion makes the muscles of his chest move in a way Laurent—though he will deny it till his dying breath—is not immune to.
“Not before I put this knife through your neck.” He applies more pressure to it for emphasis, which is clearly something Damianos is in dire need of. “What good would having me arrested do you then?”
Damianos’ gaze flickers between Laurent’s eyes, as if he’s weighing his options. When Laurent doesn’t move so much as an inch, he relaxes further into the bed, his breathing slow and steady.
“You’re very attractive when you’re threatening to kill me,” he says, voice gone low and husky.
Laurent narrows his eyes, adjusting his grip on the knife. “Flattery won’t get you out of this.”
“It’s not flattery,” Damianos says, lying through his teeth, the corners of his lips still curved upwards. “It’s an observation.”
“You think I won’t do it?” Laurent asks him, dragging the sharp tip of the blade down the length of Damianos’ throat.
Damianos hums noncommittally. “Then I suppose we’re at an impasse.”
“Really? From where I’m sitting, it looks as though I have the advantage.” Laurent says. He punctuates his words by trailing the fingers of his free hand down the curve of Damianos’ torso. Beneath him, Damianos shifts—not trying to get free, but rather to get comfortable. It makes Laurent hyperaware of Damianos’ cock pressing up between his thighs.
Somehow, he’s already half-hard. Not a self-preservation instinct to be had.
“Then it would appear I am at your mercy,” Damianos agrees. Too easily. “What will you do with me now?”
Laurent tilts his head to the side, pretending to consider. With a flick of his wrist, he resheathes his knife; Damianos has already seen how quickly Laurent can draw it should the need arise.
“I came here for the royal jewels,” he says, trailing his hand lower until it’s tucked between Damianos’ legs. “Though I think I might prefer a set that doesn’t come in a crown.”
The corners of Damianos’ lips twitch, his chest shaking with mirth. With the knife gone, he throws his head back into the pillows and lets a single laugh escape, rich and loud and entirely unapologetic.
“You shouldn’t be so cavalier when you’re being threatened, you know. It’s unbecoming,” Laurent tells him, more than a bit miffed.
Immediately, Damianos attempts to school his expression into some semblance of concern. It goes poorly, with the merriment still dancing in his eyes, up until Laurent wraps his hand around Damianos’ cock. This time, when his breath stutters, it’s for a different reason altogether.
Laurent swipes his thumb over the tip of Damianos’ cock, already leaking in his grasp. Slowly, he starts to move his hand, stroking the hardening length.
“I need—” Damianos starts to say, but Laurent presses the index finger of his free hand to his lips. Obediently, and almost unexpectedly, Damianos quiets.
“I’ll tell you when I wish for you to speak,” Laurent says, tightening his grip punishingly; he doesn’t let off until a groan makes its way past Damianos’ lips, hot against Laurent’s finger. He trails it down like he did the knife, over soft lips and a chin and the unblemished skin of Damianos’ throat, begging to be marked up.
Laurent lifts himself to his knees and leans forward until the ends of his hair brush against Damianos’ face. It’s uncomfortable, with his hand between their bodies, but worth it for the way Damianos looks up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, and entirely at Laurent’s mercy. He tilts his head up as though angling for a kiss he has done nothing to deserve yet—Laurent allows him closer, till their mouths are only a hair’s breadth away.
And then he pushes down sharply on the middle of Damianos’ chest.
Damianos huffs as he’s shoved down into the mattress, his expression a study in frustration. He doesn’t move again though, nor does he voice a protest, perhaps smart enough to have realized that Laurent will give him the opposite of whatever it is he wants and will take pleasure in drawing it out.
Laurent will have him begging for it before the night is over.
He draws his hand across Damianos’ chest, flicking one perked nipple with his thumb as he goes. His face, he presses into the crook of Damianos’ neck, nosing at the underside of his jaw until he has Damianos trembling. His neck is so very sensitive—his hips jerk sharply upwards when Laurent presses his lips to Damianos’ pulse, lingering there with his mouth working over the skin until a bruise starts to form.
Laurent withdraws with deliberate slowness, watching Damianos struggle to steady his breathing. He blinks up at Laurent from his sprawl on the bed, his eyes unfocused. Slowly, Laurent starts dragging his hand along the length of Damianos’ cock again, if only to hear his breath hitch.
The longer it goes on, the more Damianos tenses, his abdominal muscles turning to stone. His hips move in stilted, restrained thrusts, chasing after Laurent’s touch, and then, when he looks to be on the verge of becoming undone, Laurent draws his hand away.
The whine that leaves Damianos’ lips is needy and not at all kingly—it brings a smile to Laurent’s lips to hear it. His fingers hover, just out of reach, teasing Damianos’ with only the lightest of brushes against his cock.
“Patience,” Laurent chides. “You’ll be useless to me if you come now.”
Damianos opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, but must think better of it. He looks at Laurent beseechingly, eyes dark with lust. Seemingly inadvertently, he tugs at the bindings around his wrists; Laurent raises an eyebrow and he stops immediately, obediently resting his arms atop the bedding.
Once Laurent is sure Damianos will stay still, he removes his hand entirely and lifts himself up onto his knees again. There is a slight breeze coming in through the balcony, ruffling both the drapes and the chiton he is wearing. It’s short—short enough that when the wind lifts it again, Damianos, from his position on the bed, must be able to glimpse what’s underneath. He fixes his gaze on the bulge between Laurent’s legs and can’t seem to tear his eyes away. He opens his mouth, once, quickly, before closing it again, looking up sheepishly as though he is afraid Laurent will punish him for his misstep.
“You can speak,” Laurent says, magnanimously.
“I—” Damianos breaks off and swallows loudly. “There’s oil, in the bedside table. In the drawer.”
Laurent looks down at him, at the tension in his muscles, the way his chest rises and falls in time with his uneven breaths. “I won’t be needing it,” he says, lacing his voice with every last bit of condescension he can manage.
He shuffles forward, until he’s kneeling just above Damianos cock. With one hand, he reaches back, steadying himself against Damianos’ thigh. The other, he wraps around Damianos’ cock, giving it one long, firm stroke, before bringing the tip of it to his hole.
It’s a smooth slide, made easy by his earlier preparations. Damianos’ cock is thick and heavy inside him, and the king himself is staring at Laurent wide-eyed, mouth open around a bitten back moan.
“You’re—” he starts, gaze flitting between Laurent’s spread thighs, where his chiton has ridden up, and his face.
Laurent’s cheeks feel warm, though whether it’s from the arousal or the soft, awed expression on Damianos’ face, he isn’t sure. Loathe as he is to admit it, it’s likely both.
“I like to be prepared,” Laurent says. Even to his own ears, the words come out sounding just this side of breathy. It’s been a while since he’s done this; he almost managed to forget how overwhelming it is at first, the fullness. Beneath him, Damianos’ hips hitch once, then again, before he tenses and forces them to still.
So obedient. So compliant.
Laurent starts moving, rolling his hips unhurriedly until he gets used to the sensation. Damianos has gripped the bindings around his wrists in his hands, and with Laurent’s every movement, his hold on them tightens, the skin on his knuckles paling. Before long, his hips start hitching again, in small, aborted movements he can’t seem to help. Laurent leans forward then, placing both hands on Damianos’ chest for support, and kisses him. Damianos opens for him so easily, lips parting for Laurent before their mouths even touch. His breath is warm against Laurent’s skin, shaky.
As with everything else, Laurent takes his time with the kiss, taking Damianos’ bottom lip between his own and licking along the edge of it. He scratches lightly at Damianos’ chest and undulates his hips, then drags his hands up Damianos’ body, over his shoulders and biceps and wrists, all the way to his hands.
Damianos unclenches his fists when Laurent prods at them, leaving him free to interlace their fingers. When Laurent tightens his grip, Damianos does, too. He keeps a steady pace until Damianos’ movements start to become uncoordinated, lips slow to match Laurent’s; until Damianos’ gaze has gone just the slightest bit hazy.
“Beg,” Laurent says, nipping at Damianos’ lip. He moves back just enough to be able to see the entirety of Damianos’ face.
Damianos blinks at him once, then again, the words taking a moment to penetrate the daze. His tongue flicks out, wets his bottom lip.
“Please,” Damianos says, voice hoarse with desire. “Please. Laurent, I—”
The taste of his name is all too sweet on Damen’s lips. Laurent sits back, sinking all of his weight down on Damen’s cock. He frees one hand from Damen’s and undoes first the pin holding up his chiton, then the belt. The fabric flutters down to the bed, briefly covering the muscled planes of Damen’s stomach before Laurent pushes it to the floor. He wraps his hand around his own hard cock, already a leaking mess.
There was a time when he was reluctant to lay a finger on himself, before. He still has those days, sometimes, usually when he’s on his own for too long. With Damen, though, it’s different. Better. Everything is better with him.
“I want—” Damen says, gaze fixed on where Laurent’s hand is stroking his own cock in time with each roll of his hips. The fingers of his free hand twitch, almost replicating the motion. There’s no doubt about what he’s asking for.
“Next time,” Laurent tells him, less collected than he would have wished. Moving is becoming harder, his own thighs aching with the strain. “Next time, you can have me any way you want, but tonight—tonight you’re mine.”
The words do something to Damen. He groans, loudly enough to be heard by anyone unfortunate to be passing underneath their balcony. His hips jerk once, roughly, punching a gasp from Laurent’s chest. Damen’s entire body tenses as he comes deep inside Laurent, before collapsing back onto the bed, boneless.
It doesn’t take Laurent long to follow. His own cock throbs in time with his racing heart, and he clenches down on Damen’s cock, no doubt oversensitive after his own orgasm, as the pressure grows. Another roll of the hips, and he’s gone, collapsing forward to hide his face in the crook of Damen’s neck.
They take a moment to catch their breath. Laurent wipes his hand, sticky with his own come, on the sheets; they’ll need to be changed anyway. Damen is pressing soft, shaky kisses to any part of him he can reach—Laurent’s neck, his jaw, his cheek. He waits patiently for Laurent to collect himself enough to undo the bindings—both of them hiss when Laurent lifts up and Damen’s cock slips from his body—then again as Laurent fetches a wet washcloth and two cups of water, and undresses.
“You weren’t supposed to be back till next week. There was to be a feast,” Damen whispers into Laurent’s ear once he’s settled back into Damen’s arms, sounding at once fond and annoyed that Laurent has thwarted what must have been a great deal of planning. “To welcome you home.”
Home. There was a time when the word had lost its meaning to Laurent. He doesn’t miss those days. “I can always leave and return again in a week, if that would make things easier for you,” he teases, if only to feel Damen’s hold on him tighten.
“Don’t you dare,” Damen grumbles against Laurent’s throat. “I’m already of half a mind never to let you go again. Though, as much as I loathe being apart from you, there is something to be said for our reunions.”
“I worked hard to make this one memorable.” Laurent trails his fingers over Damen’s uncuffed wrist, where the tieback left faint imprints, attempting to commit the shape of them to memory.
Damen lets out a low laugh—the kind Laurent has ached for more than he’d care to admit. “You succeeded. Perhaps next time, I’ll return the favor.”
Laurent hides his smile in the pillow, unable to suppress the warmth spreading through his chest. The soft fabric brushes against his cheek as he exhales, feeling the weight of their time apart melt away in the quiet comfort of Damen’s presence. A month truly was too long. “I look forward to it.”