illithidnapped

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject