illithidnapped

[That, at least, is a slower process. More reluctant despite the fact that no one is present that will bat so much as an eyelash at Astarion’s shard.]

Royalty, apparently.

Though I hadn’t planned on it. Hadn’t even considered it until recently, when I was tallying the score, so to speak.

[The glove falls away, and Astarion shifts forward to sprawl as lazily as the cat drawn out somewhere off in sunlight, folding his forearms across Emet-Selch’s chest: the man is significantly taller than Astarion himself, which means he’s a luxury of space to admire.

And, come to think of it:]

Tall royalty.

[It's a process he pays more mind to, once he notes that reluctance; he spends a little more focus on it, long fingers entangled with Astarion's, working the glove off at a more leisurely pace rather than simply pulling faster to get it free. He still finds it more comfortable to leave his own on, around others-- this is something he doesn't question, much as it makes him wonder.]

Well, you do have a taste for the finer things, do you not?

[The fact that he hasn't been royalty since he cast off his last mortal identity is something he chooses, for now, not to make a point of. Astarion rests against him, and the hand at his hip shifts for that arm to drape around his waist instead.]

Here I thought I had a more unique manner of appeal to you, and now I find I am merely one among a list of the same.

[Said lightly, amused; the exaggerated sigh that eases its way from him carries no true disappointment in its tone.]

It’s a short list, if that helps. And you were—

[A pause, his chin sinking down against Emet-Selch’s collarbone.]

Oh. No, actually. You were the second, come to think of it.

[He’s teasing again. The way he digs in figurative claws to demand a rise of attention or response: unconcerned with the nature of it as much as the baseline promise of a reaction at his own prompting.

The arm around his waist feels snug. Comfortable.

Contentment comes easily.]

But I wonder, does an emperor trump a king?

[He leaves his arm there, comfortable enough himself with the arrangement. It may not be as warm as it would be with others, but that hardly bothers him; the closeness is something he indulges in more, in allowing this of anyone.

There's a roll of his eyes at that tease, not addressing it immediately with a verbal reaction-- he just reaches for Astarion's other hand to repeat the process and remove his other glove, his gaze dropping to follow as he does.]

I'm sure I don't know, [he hums out, the contemplative tone of his voice just overdone enough that it's clearly for show; he glances back to Astarion, then, when he continues.] Did this king of yours put forth a better showing?

[The answer itself isn't particularly important, especially when he half expects it to be 'yes' regardless of whether that's the truth.]

Oh my darling, I could never compare you two. It’s like night against day, or a wine against brandy: you’re both beautiful in your own ways. Tantalizing, distinctive— gravitational.

[And Astarion adores indulgence for what it is. For the comfort it brings, even if the silence left in its wake is a wicked mistress.]

But...if I had to name a victor...

You.

[The sweetest lie ever spoken as he sets his mouth to the warmer span of Emet-Selch’s chest, one long fang gently catching at the edge of his own attentive grin.]

Yes, I'm sure.

[Still faintly amused, a smirk pulling at his own lips. His other hand lifts, thumb brushing Astarion's cheek-- that answer is taken no more seriously than it would have been if he claimed Emet-Selch to be the loser between the two.]

And no doubt it has naught to do with flattery, nor with ensuring nothing here is cut short. Are we truly incomparable if you can name a victor regardless?

How do you expect me to look into that handsome face of yours and say something reasonable?

Honestly. [His cheek presses against the Ascian’s touch, as fond of it as a plant stretching out in search of the barest glimpse of sunlight.]

Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to.

[He continues the touch, at that reaction-- finishes brushing over his cheekbone and cups the side of his face, allowing Astarion to lean into it if he likes.]

Oh, I did want the answer. It just didn't particularly matter which it was.

[Just which he chose, and Emet is pleased enough with the decision.]

Oh.

[Impressed. Approving. Smile widening by degrees as he sinks in against the curve of that palm, relaxed down to the very marrow of his bones.

It's not often he finds someone so thoroughly devoid of pretense without also lacking in spine.]

Well in that case, how free are you this afternoon?

Free enough for what you have in mind, no doubt.

[Though, as he observes the way Astarion relaxes further into that touch, he adds:]

Or free enough for you to simply stay, if you can tolerate the place long enough.

[It doesn't have to be anything more; this can be an indulgence of its own.]

The former, darling. Always.

[Teasing. Coy, to say the least. He’s in a good mood, having been granted a peerless gift, flattery, indulgence— and a glimpse of tangible sorrow. Few things satisfy as much.

Or whet his appetite so.

He draws himself up, then, pulling away the loose fabric of his shirt— discarding it with the darkest of chuckles in the brightest streak of daylight. And when he pounces, catching the former emperor’s mouth with his own, it’s in anticipation of wickedness that will undoubtedly span an entire afternoon.]

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