illithidnapped

I won't weep, but you’ll owe me a new one.

[Astarion rumbles through the edges of his own teeth, all but purring like a scruffed animal, and utterly content in that flicker of incited displeasure.

His hands are still perched on either side of Emet-Selch’s shoulders, weight still settled comfortably across the Ascian's lap— boots to the edge of the mattress, irreverent of everything, always.]

But are you sure you’re not afraid of my fangs? I have been known to bite hard.

I assure you that I have had worse-- not in bed, mayhap, but I am hardly fragile.

[He's experienced death enough times, after all, for pain not to trouble him much-- and he has mentioned what he wants out of this. If he ends up feeling it tomorrow, even the day after, that won't be a detriment. Better that than tenderness, right now.

Emet-Selch takes a moment to work at the clothing he's still wearing one-handed, fabric slipping from his shoulders, arms pulled free of it; this body is not the same as the one that led a military career, free of scarring (save for a large and oddly-shaped discoloration over his torso), but it still bears the same musculature, hidden up til now under the layers he prefers.

And once he's freed of that, mostly bare down to the waist, he pulls something from the fabric. In a smooth motion, he reaches up to set a hand on Astarion's chest, the flat of his dagger resting there.]

And I have been known to bite back.

[He has no fangs of his own, but he can certainly make do.]

[Red eyes gleam at the press of metal— colder than his own skin. The wicked widening of Astarion’s jagged grin the surest sign of his perpetual weakness when it comes to the allure of self-destruction. The rush of it. The thrill.

For all that Astarion likes to boast and brag and hound society’s pampered few, he’s clearly no less hungry for a momentary, reckless high.

But then, given the nature of his bloodlust, that hardly comes as a surprise.

The pads of his gloved thumbs dig reflexively by degrees, bearing into the bare muscle settled just beneath the arch of Emet-Selch’s collarbone.]

My my.

Maybe you do have claws after all. [He leans in by degrees against the flat of the blade, eyes shadowed beneath the heavy hang of long, dark lashes. That his mouth finds its way to the Ascian's ear is, perhaps, inevitable. The closeness of it, the sharp dig of teeth, the way his breath pools over vulnerable skin, chased by his tongue in the gaps between digging statements.]

If I wasn’t so fond of you, I might be worried, given the gossip.

Edited (typos) 2021-10-16 09:03 (UTC)

[The attention earns him a more ragged breath, exhaled before he can think to steady it-- it has been some time, and this body is only human. He keeps himself otherwise composed, but there is a subtle shift in posture, a reflexive tightening of the hand threaded into Astarion's hair, pulling perhaps a little more than he fully meant to.

Not that he thinks he will mind.]

And what, precisely, would you be so worried I would do to you, with those fangs of yours where they are?

[...not that he minds, either. He's unconcerned about it, mouth curled into a small smirk as he speaks; he has not moved the dagger from its position, either, not easing it away as Astarion leans close. A slight motion tilts the blade, now angled so that if he presses further he's certain to come up against it.]

Or mayhap I should ask instead: what is it that you want to think I would do to you.

A world-devouring villain? Hard to say what you wouldn’t do.

[The way Astarion says it, it’s with all the feathering breathlessness of a swooning Noble at a soirée. One part true appreciation for the idea, one part teasing farce.]

Why, for all I know you could be corrupting me at this very moment— swaying my heart, plotting my very demise.

Waiting to plunge that dagger right between my ribs.

But I’d prefer a different sort of death, if I’m honest. The smaller, temporary, orgastic sort. And much as I’m certain you’re capable of sweeping me off my feet, that sort of denouement is a much....mm, harder feat for some.

So.

[His mouth sinks lower, he’s so very tempted to bite deep into the vulnerable, corded muscle of Emet-Selch’s throat— but without the aid of magic, a bite there could easily be lethal.

Instead, with a resolute exhale, his head turns.]

Surprise me.

[Murmured ever so sweetly...before jagged teeth snap themselves into the sloping angle of Emet-Selch’s shoulder, somewhere just above his collarbone.]

I suppose I could be.

[He murmurs that idly, releasing his grip on Astarion's hair. As his fingertips skim lower, brushing the nape of his neck, they carry with them a strange energy-- shadow gathered to his hand, his touch suffused with it. It doesn't hurt, no more than ice would had he called frost to him instead, but the sensation of darkness is one that's difficult to put a finger on, warm and somehow energetic.

It remains as his hand trails down to the small of Astarion's back, breath held a moment while his mouth lowers, and at that bite-- he exhales a sharp hiss, the magic gathered around his hand flaring for just a moment in a reflexive response, the sensation intensifying in turn. After a moment, though, it calms as Emet-Selch murmurs a quiet curse (those teeth truly are not to be underestimated), taking a moment to gather himself before pulling Astarion just a little closer. Just enough for the length of the blade's edge to press through fabric and cut flesh in return.]

-but what satisfaction would there be, [he asks, his voice rougher,] in swaying you in such a way?

[Not like that. Far better for everything to be freely taken or willingly given. Even if he could still do it now-- that isn't the way he wants him.]

[The groan that escapes Astarion— squeezing itself through the gaps between overlong fangs and Emet-Selch’s skin— is inescapably lurid. That shivering sensation running along his spine, the dig of the knife where it rests sharp between them, cutting like a thorn.

They’re only flirting with the idea of sinking into sweat and surrender, but even in the prelude to it, Astarion’s struck with addiction over the thought-numbing potency of it all. Touch, heat, the dig of his own blunted nails across skin where he rakes them in patterns that are nothing short of demanding, taken to rolling his hips— heedless of the blade, or the way it nips at him at the tail end of every rutting hitch.

And the taste of blood, rich and regal across his tongue. Smooth as long-aged brandy, and laced with something else he can't quite define. His head tips back when he breaks for air, gasping as the world spins peripherally. Dizzy. Drunken.]

Mmph. [Impatient. Impatient. Slender fingers rushing to begin yanking at the loose cloth of his own shirt, dragging it against both that knife and its own fastenings. Fuck it.] Help me get this damned thing off.

Too impatient to manage it for yourself?

[-he says, as if his own body hasn't shifted to meet the motion of Astarion's, as if the words aren't all but dragged from him-- it's meant to sound loftier and more amused than it does, but it's a little too breathless to carry the right tone. There's a breaking point, there always is; the throb in his shoulder from that bite and the raking burn of nails against his back are both dampened by heat, drinking in Astarion's reaction. It feeds into his own, a heady sort of satisfaction at seeing him this way, and it's here that he decides there isn't going to be any turning back.

He wastes no time in helping to remove that shirt, knife slicing easily through fabric in strategic cuts to let it fall away, with an equally strategic depth. A trace left behind here and there, an unpredictable sting. Staining it hardly matters-- and so he uses a part of it to reach up and briefly wipe any excess blood away from Astarion's mouth, because he's not about to get it on his own face, thank you very much.

The taste of it, on the other hand, is something he doesn't mind at all. A hand skims down Astarion's newly-bared chest as he leans in to steal a brief but hungry kiss, his own blood on his tongue, teeth grazing his lower lip as Emet-Selch pulls back again. Far more heat than fondness, an expression of want that he moves on from easily enough, fingertips settling at the waist of Astarion's pants, lips brushing the underside of his jaw as he speaks again.]

Now, will you need help with these, too, or do you think you can manage that much on your own this time.

[For now, he's intent on holding to the rest of his composure.]

Edited 2021-10-20 08:46 (UTC)

[Astarion's lashes flutter for the attention paid to the underside of his throat before he's reflexively snorting at the audacity of Emet-Selch’s sly— albeit somewhat breathless— dig, his own grip tightening so much that perfectly manicured nails bite deep into the muscle framing the Ascian’s spine.

But he’s no new hand at this: much as he gets swept up in the rush of a good rut, there is, admittedly, very little he hasn’t savored in his long, unfortunate life. So when pride seeps in, it’s with a palm sunk flat against the center of Emet-Selch’s chest, shoving him back towards the mattress with a deceptive amount of strength. The fingers of his opposite hand are already at the laces of his trousers, and even in low candlelight— emphasized by the muted glow of the fireplace slotted into a nearby wall— The welling marks left behind by that knife catch bright against pale skin, taut muscle.]

Oh, my darling...I think you’ll find I can manage a great many things on my own.

[Low and smooth, almost rumbling in the back of his throat. A different sort of performance compared to all his songbird lilting.

And once shed, with the predatory fluidity of a stalking beast settling across its prey, he sinks himself overtop of Emet-Selch: pinning with his hips, the density of his own weight— one palm heavy where it rests overtop the former Emperor's wrist.]

[He goes without complaint, not bothering to try to sit up again once pushed back; Astarion pins him there, and the way that Emet-Selch relaxes beneath him is a purposeful thing, a stifling of any reflex in favor of remaining as he is. Almost reclining, unconcerned, watching him with an expectant demeanor as he stretches out to the extent he can-- he may only be a former emperor now, but he's still fully capable of that regal sort of bearing.

His gaze roams over Astarion's exposed skin, lingers appreciatively on the marks left behind there by his blade. For the moment, though, he doesn't intend to add to that collection; he frees his remaining hand, letting the knife fall onto the sheets. Within reach if either of them opts to take it up again, but there are things he would prefer to do with that hand in the meantime.

Fingertips brush along Astarion's jaw and come to rest beneath his chin, his touch light as he answers,]

Then I am certain, my dear, that you won't mind showing me.

[It's less of a dig. More of an invitation, this time, though still with that expectant air.]

If you ask nicely. [Astarion croons, showing the overly long edge of a jagged incisor— before he reaches across to snag that hand beneath his own jaw, keeping it held fast between cold fingertips.

A levering of pressure as he leans forward by degrees.]

I’ve always wanted to subjugate royalty.

Many have desired the same.

[He remains where he is, pressure or not; his gaze is intent as he watches Astarion, even through half-lidded eyes.]

But surely you do not expect royalty would simply succumb.

[There's no struggle, still. That isn't what he wants-- but he's curious.]

Edited 2021-10-22 07:54 (UTC)

Former royalty, with nothing to lose and everything to gain in the unfamiliar bliss of surrender?

[He has a mouth full of sharp teeth— obvious any time he speaks or smiles or even breathes a touch too quickly— a hurdle for certain intimate activities, but one he’s learned to offset through an age of deft (and dangerous) practice. This, however, when he sets two of Emet-Selch’s fingertips to the smooth flat of his tongue, is far less risky a maneuver. A low exhale through his nose, and they’re drawn back towards the edge of his throat, a slicker, indulgent offering.

A promise of the sort of control he possesses.

The sort he might exercise with good reason.]

A little advice. You might like what you find when you opt to... [A feathering breath, those fingers pressed to his lips for a narrow beat.] swallow your pride.

Putting that mouth of yours to better use may well be the most tempting prospect yet.

['Swallow your pride'. Honestly.

But there's no denying the way his breath catches in his throat at that gesture, or the appreciation in the moment for Astarion's little show of control, the heat in his gaze. He enjoys the idea, certainly-- though given where Astarion is settled and the involuntary shift of his hips that display earns, he undoubtedly already knows.]

But if you insist upon hearing it, then... you may have me as you wish.

Cheeky bastard. [And the level smoothness of that chiding remark seems like the laid track for something else entirely. Something withheld and upcoming— haughtiness, or amusement, or enjoyment, or impending punishment— all or none, like the ratcheting pull of an already taut rope being wound tighter.

Whether that’s true, though, or yet another aspect of Astarion's dramatic proclivities, well. Only time will tell.

For now, Astarion lets go of his hand and the warmer brush of those fingertips. One last teasing lap before his own weight shifts, sliding lower. And while he still craves the taste of regal blood, he opts to sate himself on something else: fingers hooking in the lipped edge of Emet-Selch’s trousers, pulling and working until he’s been freed— until Astarion’s lips kiss feverish, velveteen skin. The rise of him, tongue smoothing over the underside of his length, a performative prelude.

All of it drawn out into a show.]

Would it be enjoyable for you if I weren't?

[A small smirk curves one side of his mouth, but there's certainly an anticipation sparked by that tone, whether it ultimately ends up with any promise or not. Something that leads him to make that idle push and see where it goes in the end.

The shift of his weight is more promising in the moment, though, golden-brown eyes fixed on Astarion as he moves. He has always quietly acknowledged there is a beauty there he can appreciate, but in the warmth of the low light, with that air about him, with the clear intent there as he works at Emet-Selch's trousers-- the thought occurs to him more directly, a certainty that he doesn't want to take his eyes off him for a moment.

He doesn't reach down to help, allowing him to do as he pleases, and at that first touch of his lips and tongue, cooler against heated skin... there's a reflexive tension at the sensation before he relaxes into it, a sighing sound drawn from him. Soft, but unmistakable. A hand rests on top of Astarion's head, though not threading into the curls this time, a small signal that this isn't a gesture he means to use to direct him.]

[A question destined to go unanswered, as Astarion doesn't break for a moment from the focus of his efforts— mapping every delicate contour with the slide of his tongue, catching and circling ancillary points of interest.

Truth be told, he prefers passion to patience, but Emet-Selch has long been out of this particular arena, and they've time enough left of the night to burn. If it takes hours to deprive an emperor of his own self-control, then it'll be time well-spent as far as Astarion's concerned.

So every movement is agonizingly slow. Drawn out like the threaded pull of a bowstring to absolute tautness: mouth sinking down to encompass him, tongue guarding against the edges of his own fangs— until he’s pressed his profile flush to skin, hands sprawled and fanned across Emet-Selch’s stomach.

Working with devilish intent.]

[It likely will take Astarion time. As unused as he is to this, to indulging in it rather than sex being a means to an end-- he is accustomed to slipping into roles as needed. To playing aloof and regal, to pretending he is unaffected despite the way his breath hitches at the intent attention of Astarion's tongue.

His fingers comb through his companion's hair, a repetitive motion that may well be meant, in part, to ground him as well in the face of this. If anyone has ever paid him this sort of detailed, focused attention, it was a very, very long time ago, made new through the passage of time and the distance of memory-- his chest heaves as he draws in a long breath, exhales it as steadily as he can.]

...Enjoying yourself, are you.

[Emet-Selch doesn't doubt that drawing reactions from him is something of a success; his voice is low, a hint of roughness to it, eyes still fixed on Astarion. On how close he's pressed, now. He shifts his hips slightly, experimentally, seeing if Astarion will welcome it or opt to try to keep him still.]

[That question is going to be rhetorical, given the current state of things. And much like the slow rake of fingertips scrubbing through his curls, Astarion imagines it’s done for Emet-Selch’s own dignity, rather than any earnest urging.

Whatever the man needs to inch himself closer to the idea of letting go.

The rise of those hips, for example. Not an intrusion or a nuisance, only a welcome show of appreciation for the welling rise of sensation. For the press of Astarion’s lips and the slicker drag of his tongue leading down into his throat. Some partners prefer obedient conquests; Astarion’s no stranger to the notion, having filled both roles on demand many, many times before—

But given a choice, no. He’d rather indulge than suppress any day.

And to that end, as his shoulders roll and his mouth works in consumptive tangent, he slips one hand lower to work at himself, turning his sparser exhales into shuddering things. Vulgar things, crimson eyes slipping shut for a time.

When he breaks away at last, panting light through his teeth, flush written across his face, he lifts his spare had to arch a few delicate fingers towards the sill just behind Emet-Selch.]

One of those phials. Pass them to me.

[Astarion's eyes slide closed, but Emet-Selch's remain open-- half-lidded still, but focused, lip caught momentarily between his teeth as he continues to watch. Skill alone is one thing, but it's the combination of it with his clear indulgence in doing so that speeds the former Ascian's pulse, ensures his attention stays fixed upon him. Whether just a show or not, it's equally affecting as the efforts of his talented mouth and tongue, and there's a matching flush dusting Emet's cheeks when Astarion looks back up again.]

-well, if you cannot rouse yourself to do so, I suppose I must.

[His voice comes low, still, breathy, as he props himself up on one arm to reach behind himself with the other. After a moment, his fingers find purchase on a phial and draw it forward, easily offering it out.]

INBOX

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definitely now officially putting a warning here for bonetown city limits

bonetown population: 2 (as far as i'm aware)

The lion the witch and the audacity of this bitch

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