Untitled cutesy thing for Echenmarch
Title: Untitled
Fandom: Echenmarch!
Words: 725
Warnings: None really, slight nsfw (but not really)
Comments: God I really really needed a break in essay-writing so I did this in Skype in like 15 or 20 minutes. I was gonna go back and edit it and polish it up but I really do not have the energy to and there's a certain kind of charm to it being more impulsive and less polished (this is not me being lazy I swear). Also inspired by Tinycrown's incredible shibari drawing here
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It's long past dark, and most of the castle is asleep as Ameil leads Maelic down to the throne room. Their footsteps echo through the empty halls: Ameil's light and purposeful, Maelic's louder and heavier and loyal, falling in time with his prince's gait. "Are you really sure we should be doing this?" Maelic asks, as Ameil drapes himself over his ceremonial seat. It's not as grand as his father's throne, but since Lisette is the heir apparent it's not his place to sit there. He wouldn't want it, anyway; his own, smaller seat is more suited to his slight frame, and that's where he arranges himself as Maelic looks on in slight trepidation. "We won't be here for long," Ameil responds, slinging his right leg over the arm of the chair. He scoots around, shifting to a more comfortable position, and beckons Maelic forward. Maelic obeys, as he always does, letting the bundle of red rope uncoil and slink to the floor. He follows the end of the rope as he kneels, looking up between Ameil's legs, hands hesitating at the left ankle pressed against the leg of the throne. "You're sure this is okay?" He asks, one more time. Ameil gives him a curt nod, and that's all the encouragement Maelic needs. He winds the rope around his Prince's ankle, tight enough to keep his leg firmly bound, but loose enough that if a late-night snack desire hit anybody, it would be easy enough to remove. Ameil's breath is steady even as Maelic finishes with his left leg and stands up. The next section of rope winds around his arms - a few times around his forearms, pinning them to his hips, and then a few times around his upper arms, so his elbows are snug against his ribs. Maelic looms over him as he ties, and in the emptiness of the room Ameil can feel his knight's breath quickening. He remains calm and complacent even as the knots tighten and the ropes are digging into his skin against the fabric of his nightshirt. Then Maelic runs the end of a rope along the inside of his thigh and Ameil squirms, a very faint blush spreading to his cheeks even as his mouth remains in a collected frown. The ropes go around his thighs and calf easily enough, tying under his knee. But the final piece of rope has nowhere to really tie to; instead, Maelic wraps it around his ankle a few times, just for the feel of the rope against his skin. He ties a slipknot around Ameil's dangling ankle, and pulls the rope up so that the prince's knee slips higher along the arm of the throne, the space between his thigh widening. "What do you plan to do with me now that you have me here?" Ameil asks, and it comes out as a petulant purr. "I don't know," Maelic admits. It was originally Ameil's idea; Maelic had just expanded and collaborated on it. And now here they are and what should he do with the prince tied to his throne? "Maybe I'll just leave you here." "You wouldn't dare," Ameil says. He frowns some more and his eyes narrow and he gives Maelic a defiant look fron under his blond hair. "It's tempting," Maelic responds with a laugh. He pulls on the end of the rope in his hand and Ameil's legs spread a little farther and he slides down into the chair a little bit more. Maelic steps forward, rests his knee against Ameil's groin, and leans in for a kiss. Ameil obliges him, and when their lips separate Maelic leans down and engulfs the smaller frame against the hard line of his body. He sighs into his prince's neck, leans down, and undoes the rope holding the ankle to the leg of the chair. In one easy motion, Maelic picks up Ameil and carries him, ropes and all, back to their room in the tower. His footsteps fall loud and purposeful against the floors, loud enough to cover the lighter sound of a princess stepping out from the kitchen. She jots something down on a handy piece of parchment, smiles, and returns as well to her bed and lover. The end
















