illithidnapped

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.]

INBOX

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject