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perfectteatime) wrote2022-02-24 05:55 pm
perfectteatime) wrote2022-02-24 05:55 pmAmani Inbox
Greetings. You have reached the message box of Byleth Eisner, please leave a message I will contact you shortly.
perfectteatime) wrote2022-02-24 05:55 pm
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"That's incredible. For everyone to have a place in creating their world. It really does sound like a beautiful place whenever you talk about it. I wish there were some way I could have seen it." He hums to himself in thought, touching a finger to his chin just briefly. "You're already really powerful even here, I can't imagine what it must be like to be at your full potential. Stamps will do. I have to admit- they're fairly fun to obtain, anyways."
He pulls his robes a bit tighter against the wind. He does take a moment to quietly appreciate the atmosphere up here. It is romantic, and he does like the idea of having such a peaceful night out, and then a very peaceful night in after.
To have his curiosity and desire sated in the same evening is an occasion to delight in.
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"It was a paradise." His tone is still settled in that lower register. "I believe you would have liked it. I believe most would. It was not without its flaws, but that is in part what made it perfect."
A seeming contradiction, but it isn't. Not to him. For all his people had their little trivialities and flaws, they ever strove towards a brighter future, one where all might live in that continued harmony, where their contributions, regardless of how small, mattered. Where life was cherished, discovery valued, and creation celebrated. Autonomy was paramount, and such freedom could be trusted.
That cannot be said for mortals, as he has seen time and time again. A grim thought, unwelcome with such a beautiful and romantic view of the city. Sometimes this world makes it easy to forget that it's all a fiction, especially when he has such wonderful company.
"It is strange, I admit, being limited in this way. Not that I am one to eschew restraint, nor one to flaunt power needlessly as that is utterly irresponsible, however having such an innate ability moderated as it is feels unnatural." He sighs and shrugs, there isn't much to be done about it beyond what's been stated.
"But I suppose acquiring the stamps isn't as terrible as it could be." When he says this, he glances to Byleth with an almost playful coyness, before he returns his attention to Grani, directing him to descend until they land before a building. One that looks to be unused, but in fair shape. It's difficult to tell what it's for from the outside, at least.
Grani lowers himself, kneeling as he did earlier to make dismounting no trouble at all.
"Here we are."
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He beams up at him from behind his little mask. He won't push too far, now isn't the time for that, but sharing a moment of conspiratorial flirtation lifts his mood even more.
They land, and he slips off reaching to capture Emet's hand in his own. He's excited to see what this will be like. The relatively plain building outside piques his intrigue even more. Squeezing that apprehended hand, he nods.
"Well then. Shall we?"
This is perfect. Exactly what he wanted. Holding hands! In public! Boyfriends!
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Grani settling down comfortably while they pass the threshold, and it is as if they have walked into a different world entirely. There are no signs of the worn nature of the exterior of the building, instead the open entryway of the building is sprawling and well kept, the architectural styling similar to that of the Hall of Rhetoric, though this looks more like it might be a theatre house than a debate hall.
The intricate detailing in gold with the dark browns and stone grey of the walls certainly make a sight. Though the stain glass windows are truly breathtaking, both in their size and beauty. The care that went into crafting them was not wanting, to say the least, and the results are stunning.
The impressive chandelier that hangs above them is made of glittering crystal, shedding soft light upon them as they make their way across floors of marble. Beyond the artistry of the building, Byleth may take note that they are not alone, and that he is dressed rather appropriately to boot. For there are robed and masked individuals fast at work behind a counter, and when they take notice of the two, they offer a bright smile their mask does not hide as they gesture welcomingly, then motion for the double doors that tower just beyond.
Emet-Selch looks to Byleth, gauging his reaction, watching for every nuance change in expression, or change of focus for his gaze. What he might appreciate most, or what might baffle him.
"Well?"
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"This is..." A lot of things, "So much. It's incredible. You made all this?" The unsaid portion hangs as 'for me', but the look in his eyes visible behind his mask says it all. He's utterly struck by the whole thing. What a grand gesture it all is. His hand tightens on Emet's as he looks back up at him, little else to say for his astonishment.
It's like walking into another world. The shades there make it feel as though he belongs, too. A nice feeling. Belonging somewhere. He remembers when he first felt the notion when he was teaching, and then with Dimitri.
He can't help himself from wanting to look everywhere all at once, his head still swiveling to catch every little detail.
"I'm ah. I'm speechless."
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"Perhaps I did. Not that it matters, but I am glad you approve." He says a bit modestly, as if he rather not dwell on the particulars of the how, but rather focus on what's before them. He does take note of the aw, of how affected Byleth is by this, and it makes his heart swell with affection. That he would appreciate such a silly show of sentiment means a lot, and maybe it makes him feel a little less silly for indulging.
"Good evening, most esteemed Emet-Selch. It is always an honor to see you within our humble theatre house, and what a bold outfit you've chosen to wear...but it is of no moment. Pray come, take your seats! The play will start anon, and we would not have you miss any part of this glorious production. I am certain your most honorable guest will find it quite the moving spectacle, if he is not already familiar, perhaps even if he is!" The theatre attendant who speaks does so in a voice unfamiliar to Byleth, for he never knew this man. Emet-Selch, however, did and so the voice is one his mind could replicate with ease. One such member of Altima's office—advocates of the arts.
"Indeed, well, I usually find this theatre rather agreeable, but would tonight prove different, I wonder? You will speak not of this singular flamboyance, yes? After all, starting rumors about the Convocation is wont to reflect poorly on the gossiper, more than the gossipee." He offers to the illusion, as if electing to be part of the show for Byleth. Playing his own bit part for this whole experience. Nervously, this man nods and bows his head, a little embarrassed by speaking so bolding to a member of the Convocation.
Glancing to his company, a small curl pulling at his shapely lips as he nods towards the door, "shall we? I would hate for you to miss any part of the show."
As if he isn't in complete control of that happening...
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He manages himself though, and he understands. It is for the authenticity of it all. True immersion. He did say he would like to have seen what his home was like, and this is a glimpse into it. He will not put him off of this showmanship. Instead he chooses to play along. He will tease him for this later. When he has him bound and helpless.
As of now, he lifts his chin and tries to put on what he would assume might be the air of Emet-Selch's guest. He nods up to him.
"But of course, my Honorable Emet-Selch. It is my pleasure to be at your side this evening, I wouldn't want to miss a single moment." He's not a terribly good actor, but the sentiment is true to his heart. He is glad to be here, and in this company. He allows Emet to take the lead and show them into the theater proper.
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No pressure.
That Byleth plays along, indulges him as he indulges them both, means much to him in ways he hasn't the words for, and he has words for almost all things. There's a desperation to the details, a love letter to the characters upon this double stage, a homage to his home, at least an aspect of it. Even after an eternity, he remembers it so clearly, remembers each person he's spoken to, each person he's helped or argued with. He wouldn't allow the pain to convince him to forget, that would be the same as if he were the one who took their lives, allowing them to die a second and final time. He would not suffer that.
With Byleth's agreement, he leads him through the large double doors, gesturing with a hand to compel them to open. Beyond them are rows of seats in an impressively large auditorium, which almost looks more like a colosseum than what most might be familiar with theatre stages. The stands are certainly full, or nearly so, quiet chattering is being had between the shades, though whether or not they can be understood is another matter. It's certainly passable chatter, but low and indistinguishable enough that what's being said cannot truly be gleaned.
Or so it seems, because who would actually put that much detail in this to have all of them having their own conversations? Really, who?
As they draw closer to their seats, the conversations do actually become clearer and they are indeed talking about their own little lives. One talking about a new concept they submitted to the Bureau of the Architect, something about a multi-legged shark that is waiting approval. Another couple speaks of their studies under Mitron of the Convocation of Fourteen at Akadaemia Anyder. While others have more banal conversations about daily activities or conversations they had with colleagues.
Though as Emet-Selch approaches and steps past them to get to their seats near the front of the auditorium, the conversations hush as wide eyes behind those masks glue to him, whisperings among them quickly turn to wondering if that's Emet-Selch, and some few comment on his choice of clothing. Some seem surprised yet impressed by the boldness, some few criticize the slipping integrity of the Convocation, if this is how they are to conduct themselves in a public venue.
He ignores it all as he finds their seats, gesturing for Byleth to take his and Emet-Selch is soon to follow as he sits besides him, waiting for the large circular curtain that hides the stage to rise.
"Never you mind their chattering, 'tis but an Amaurotian pastime to gossip, and I am performing a rather flagrant social taboo."
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He sits, once again, apprehending Emet's hand to fold between his own.
"Were I not on my best behavior I'd give them something really interesting to chatter about." He says, his voice warm with humor and mischief. "Shucking the social rules just for me though... I'm quite flattered. Though I think perhaps I may get distracted looking at your handsome face instead of the play."
He does however, turn his attention to the stage. His hands idly playing with Emet's, moving his fingers, rubbing, or tracing little patterns into his palm. It's all slow and slight enough to not be annoying, not be too distracting.
As a hush falls over the crowd of shades, Byleth leans himself just slightly against his shoulder. Just enough to allow his warmth to be pleasantly felt. This? This is lovely. He allows himself to settle into this play within a play, relaxing his mind into a comfortable fuzzy state where he can just imagine everything is real.
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To bear the yoke of the duty he was forced to was a horror nearly without end, but only one beaten by the loss of paradise and its people. By his failure to them, and such failure will be carried with him until the Underworld consumes him completely.
"I do not dispense of social rules lightly, though perhaps it would be best if I don my mask? I cannot have you distracted from the spectacle, now can I?" He says with a slight smile, his golden eyes fixating on their hands. He flexes his fingers slightly, giving Byleth's own a light squeeze, then easing the grip to better accommodate whatever fiddling he chooses to do with his hand at any given moment.
His attention is grabbed similarly as a hush falls over the crowd, and the lighting in the room notably dims. The usual queue that the show is about to begin. Similarly, a scent wafts through the theatre, that of flowers and a field, the fresh smell of pollen as if you were laying in a field of flowers yourself. Then the reason becomes clear: as the red curtain rises, the stage is that of an expansive field, with real blades of grass blowing in the wind. The light in the room beams down upon the stage replicating with the authenticity of natural rays of sunlight while the actors—dressed in simple tunics which have the slightest suggestion of proto-Amaurotian styling and notably without masks—lay upon the field, gazing to the illusionary sky above them.
Truly, should Byleth look to the ceiling, he will see a blue sky, puffy clouds slowly floating by as if they had simply removed the roof of the building. They haven't, but when you are a race of people with impressive and boundless magical ability, why wouldn't you use that for an immersive theatrical performance?
Doubly so, in Emet-Selch's case.
As the play goes on, the stage will continue to shift with each lowering of the curtain, the story being of a time before Amaurot, before the Convocation, though whether or not this is purely theorized fiction or historical account is hard to say. Especially for someone unfamiliar with Emet-Selch's world and its history.
Through its characters it tells of a man from humble beginnings, who through his hard work and dedication does he create a most beautiful concept, the crowning jewel of his life's work, though this concept is left a mystery. Regardless, as the populace learns of this humble creator's supposed brilliant design, it becomes coveted by all, especially so when the man refuses to allow others to replicate it, let alone see it (the audience gasps at such bold selfishness). He does not allow even the audience this glimpse.
For it is his, and his alone.
Such scarcity gives rise to further conflict, and the greed of this man and the envy of others brings strife among the cast of characters, such avarice breeds distrust and the yearning for this secret treasure likewise breeds discord. Yet the man refuses to give up that which belongs to him and no one else. Those who wish to have this marvel are a slave to their endless curiosity and insatiable desire both. Going so far as attempting to steal it, or harm him for it, but he successfully gets away with cleverness each time, growing more and more stubborn and possessive of his creation all the while.
As with all tragedies, there is an element of loss. That with the protagonist's obsession with protecting his creation from all, he has let slip the love of his life, a man he has known since those simple days in the field. When they were but boys without a care in the world, without such grand aspirations or worry. A man, whom of which, has stood ever by his side during all of this, whom he should cherish beyond his creation and yet does not. Cannot, for he has allowed his greed and pride to possess him, losing track of what truly matters. Thus with it his greatest love deserts him to his singular passion, the man bereft and mournful, yet pragmatic in his decision to leave his lost friend and love to an isolation of his own making. To an obsession that has ursurped him from his rightful place within his beating heart, their love never coming to the actualization that the accursed creation has.
As the story ends, it is with the protagonist—Moneta—standing alone on the stage reciting a soliloquy of his regret, of the love he once held for this spark of brilliance that was his, but the cost was too steep: the loss of his true love, of friends, and peers alike. He looks mournfully at the crystal in his hand, that which holds not only the singular concept matrix but so much grief and sorrow. A reminder of his folly, of his greed, of everything he could have had if not for this...
Then he allows it to roll out of his hand, the crystal dispersing into nothingness, dissipating, and in a single moment the crux of conflict, the root of his damning fixation, is no more.
Then the room goes dark as the curtain falls and silence fills the auditorium.
Emet-Selch all the while, who has seen this play enough times to memorize it and all its moralistic tragedy, enough to put on this illusion by that memory alone, is enraptured. Whether or not that is part of the act to sell the immersion, or if this is truly genuine, it is impossible to tell. His eyes fixated on the play, though during certain parts he does steal a glance or two from at Byleth, to gauge his reactions, to see how he might be enjoying the play.
As the curtain rises again, the stage holds the cast, still costumed as their characters, giving respectful bows as the audience gives just as respectful applause. It might seem understated compared to how mortals might cheer, but Amaurotines are reserved people, and the energy in the room is still that of excitement and passion, even if it's not unbearably loud.
With his attention thus spared, Emet-Selch looks to Byleth with a soft, genuine smile, his eyebrows raised as if to ask "What did you think?"
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Despite his quip, his eyes rarely leave the stage, and even his fidgeting quiets after some time. The story is a classic tragedy. He's read them, and been read them by his father before. They follow a formula, and he is pleased to see that some literary devices do seem to be universally appreciated. The morals are quite clear and perhaps a bit on the nose, but the cliché is cliché for a reason- it works. The story is still good, and it leaves Byleth with a sense of fulfillment when the curtain falls.
He looks up, when Emet asks him, and for a moment he is caught staring. What a smile it is. It sends a shiver through him, a glimpse at that genuine happiness at least for a moment, for a man so dour. His eyes flutter as he extracts himself, and he places his hand to his chin to think.
"I quite enjoyed it. The tragedy of losing appreciation for what you have, the tangible, in lieu of the ideal. Intangible, yet to exist, yet to be realized, and in the end, never to become. The sets were like nothing I've ever seen. Though most of your world is nothing I've ever seen before, so I suppose that's moot. But still- it was incredible." He hums. "I know how these kinds of stories are, but I admit I was still rooting for him to abandon his pride and take his would-be lover into his arms. You know... ride off into the sunset. But I suppose that would have been less effective storytelling." There's the look on his face that says 'but still', because he really is a romantic.
"I suppose I will just have to take you into my arms and ride off into the sunset instead." He says this as a whisper, mindful of the still applauding crowd. Even then, he leans in, pushing his mask up just enough to allow him to steal a kiss, hidden by the long sleeve of his robes.
"Thank you for this. It was incredible."
By the Goddess he is going to make this man scream tonight.
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Byleth's hope for a happy ending is...cute, if a little childish, but perhaps he too wished that the protagonist might have thought better on his actions, that he might have realized sooner the mistakes he made, before he was left with nothing. Not even the coveted concept which had cost him everything. Yet, that would cheapen the message, he believes, and to the Amaurotines in the audience, they would be left without the ache in their bosoms they were promised.
Of a loss mundane enough to be real, to make them think better of their own self-serving aspirations. Of the loves they might be taking for granted. That Byleth would then turn this into sweeping Emet-Selch away, inspired by the play no doubt, furthers the warmth that radiates from his chest.
As Byleth lifts his mask to kiss Emet-Selch, he feels his heart flutter a bit, allowing himself to be lost in the performance he himself is at the center of. The modesty of the robe covering them sets him into that Amaurotine mindset, the way embarrassment creeps up his neck and warms his face, knowing full well that the robe does nothing to truly hide what's happening.
Eyes are upon them as they break the kiss, and Byleth thanks him. The actors have receeded from the stage, and the lighting returns to the dim, warm glow as before, but that's enough to allow those around them to gawk at such a display.
One audience member grunts in disapproval, some few others begin to whisper in hushed tones, while some few others question whether that really is the Esteemed Emet-Selch. At least the audience members further away are beginning to empty out, but those around them seen pretty keen on staying put and seeing whatever juice gossip fodder they can get their peering eyes on.
"...Mayhap it would indeed be best that you did just that, for now it is we with the audience. Shall we exit this stage of our own making?"
As much as he may be into the whole public humiliation thing, if Byleth is to make him scream, he much rather do so when he isn't also maintaining such a grand illusion! Things might get a little...weird.
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"I think that's a fine idea."
As they do file out, Byleth's mind is split between pondering the play and thinking about what's to come next. Thinking on the whole experience, every little detail and minutia so carefully placed, and the reminder that Emet really did create all of that. Illusion though it may be, it was an impressive one. Incredible.
That is still contending with the thought of this man bound up so lovely in bed, trembling under his touch. What sweet sounds he'll make, and the kinds of expressions that will pass over his face.
The moment they are outside however, he does take the chance to wrap him up in a deeper kiss, something more needing and heated. When he breaks it, he's a bit out of breath himself. An expression of clear desire even through his mask.
"Shall we, then?"
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Maybe that's a backhanded compliment? That Emet-Selch made towards himself? Don't think too hard about it.
Either way, once they are out of the building, the magic that maintains the illusion dissipates, leaving the inside of the building dusty and empty. A far cry from the wondrous splendor it was just a moment ago. Not that it matters, when Byleth pulls Emet into that kiss, and he fully allows himself to indulge in it, kissing him back with a similar fervor, lacking the usual restraint he ordinarily has.
Grani stares at them. Silently. Waiting.
Once the kiss breaks, Emet-Selch glances towards Grani, trying to recapture his restraint again, though he's likewise a little breathless from the kiss.
"Yes, shall we return to your abode or mine?" He's trying really hard to act like he doesn't have the same desire that's in Byleth's expression dripping from his own voice. He's so emotionally charged at the moment, so romantically fulfilled he can barely stand it. The heat to his cheeks and ears betrays his attempts to remain subtle about it almost as much as his voice.
Or if one were to be so inclined to peer below his waist, despite the layers of fabric, one might notice just how his excitement is beginning to manifest. He doesn't seem to notice, or he's trying to silently will it under control. Who knows!
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He's reluctant to part from him, hands sliding against his jawline and then down his chest, shamelessly feeling him up. At last though, he excavates himself and moves toward Grani, softly stroking his head with a quiet greeting.
"Thank you for waiting so patiently, Grani."
He looks back to the other man expectantly, eager to get home and get them both undressed. Having him so pent up will do well for the kind of play he intends on. When they do mount, he makes a point to sit flush against Emet, and that damned hand has returned to stroke his thigh.
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Those hands feel like fire on his skin, and even as they go over his clothes, there's a warmth that rushes through him as hot as magma. When Byleth draws away from him, part of him wants to grab him and keep him close still, but he also wants to get to his home so they can shed these clothes and address the erection that's about to make climbing onto Grani rather uncomfortable.
Grani in the meantime watches Byleth and gives little reaction to being touched, though there is one. The slightest lean into that stroking. So slight, in fact, it might leave Byleth questioning if it was real or imagined.
Emet-Selch considers just teleporting them, but there's something fun about the wait, the denial. Thus he situates himself onto Grani's back with awkward movements to accommodate his affliction, not at all offering his familiar the same acknowledgement Byleth gave him.
He's a man on a mission, and a man with another man's hand on his thigh, making his mission all the more harrowing. His breath becomes a little shuddered, but Grani rises and stares on his way at Emet-Selch's behest.
It's laughably absurd how turned on he is, how the press of Byleth's body against his own and that damnedable hand is making him unravel. Is this just how he is now? Some easily affected pervert who gets sexually aroused because a man enjoyed an intimate memory with him?
Oh how he has fallen...
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The Ascian isn't the only one suffering from a terminal case of cripplingly horny, but Byleth... well. It's just harder to tell with him.
Less hard to tell when they get inside and he's pushing him against the nearest wall, mouth on his neck. Starting a haphazard, stumbling trip toward the bedroom, trying to get his hands under that damned robe in the process. There's a temptation to just throw him down and ruin him right away, but the idea of having him tied is too good to pass up. To turn that need against him to truly bring him to his knees.
"Did you- do you have your bindings?" He says, now panting very clearly, and also distracted with kissing just below Emet's ear. He is ready to go.
If being turned on by emotional fulfillment is wrong, Byleth doesn't want to be right, pal. It is after all, his biggest turn-on. Sincerity, vulnerability, emotional connection? Oh yes, he'll take that over a strip-tease any day.
(However if a strip tease was thrown in as a bonus that would be fine too.)
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Well, he does feel shame, but not the kind that would stop him. This is the sexy kind of shame which spurs him ever forward into that house, allowing himself to be pressed against the wall, his breath hitching as he feels Byleth's mouth on his neck. He contemplates dissipating his clothes here and now, but he doesn't. It's part of the tease, of the thrill.
The desperate passion fueling their way to the bedroom reminds him of younger days, when he more pretended to be exhausted than what he truly was. Where his passion could be rekindled so easily, where he would chase and indulge in secret that unrelenting desire in both his heart and loins. He feels that now, here with Byleth.
The question is nearly missed with how he is allowing himself to be lost in the intimacy, both physical and emotional, the way it feels as though Byleth could devour him, and he'd let him. Lifting a hand from its place on Byleth's back as he tilts his head to give the man better access to his sensitive ears, the aetheric rope appears in his hand with a crackle of magical energy.
"Always." Excitement runs down his spine at the thought, at what Byleth may do to him. Truly in this moment, there is almost nothing Emet-Selch would say no to. Byleth has knocked down a considerably large emotional wall in indulging him this evening, and it is time for him to reap the bounty.
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"Robes off. Now, please." He says, as he moves to fetch a few things from the closet. A small box and a long metal bar. He sets them on the bed as he joins Emet at last, carefully arranging them.
"We're going to play a few games." He guides the mans hands up above his head, pinning his wrists to give him a demanding kiss that trails down toward his ear, so he can continue in a low, near-whisper. "You are going to do exactly as I say. You don't come until I say you do. If you fail... I'll make you regret it. Understand?"
With that, he lifts away and goes about actually binding his wrists. First together, and then to the bar across the headboard of the bed. Once he's tugged on them a bit, making sure they're secure, he moves down. Hands stroking Emet's thighs, coaxing them to part.
"The other game we're going to play, I have adjusted to suit your penchant for organization. For discovery and proper documentation." He chuckles, binding one of his knees to that metal bar. "I am going to test you in different spots, and you tell me how sensitive it is, on a scale of one to ten. One being not at all, and ten being neigh unbearable."
Once his knees are bound propped apart by that bar, unable to close, Byleth surveys his handiwork with a small sense of satisfaction. Now he can truly begin. Eyes drift down to the now quite full erection.
"Well. Someone's excited. You look good like this. Do you want me to touch you now?"
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Byleth returns, telling him of a game, pinning his hands and kissing him with such command, before trailing to his ear that's red from his arousal, and he has his undivided attention for it all. He nods in silent submission, his breath hot and heavy while following Byleth's direction with tantalizing excitement throbbing through him as he is properly bound (he is surprisingly pliable) and instructed of the parameters of the game.
Part of him is a little embarrassed that his love for organization is being brought into this, but that isn't a bad thing. It's like being seen, but in such an intimate way that leaves him both feeling realized and mortified. It's a fantastic sensation of both warmth and ice running down his spine. Duality at its finest. Giving him goosebumps, raising the hairs on the back of his neck as a shiver runs through him.
The compliment and question issued once he's fully bound makes him pause as he stares at what Byleth is still wearing. He was so caught up with everything else, he failed to notice in full that he still donned the communal robes and mask. His throat and mouth goes dry seeing it, wondering if he plans to do all of this dressed that way.
He certainly hopes so. The way his dick twitches doubtlessly makes what he's staring at clear in its affect on him.
Oh right, the question.
"Aye, I want for scant more than to feel your hands upon me."
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"Oh do you?" Emet gives him the absolutely perfect setup with that comment. "You mean like this?"
Without further ado, he pounces on him, tickling his sides with cruel efficiency. Only for a moment though, before he lets up. No, that isn't the plan here. Yet. It's just enough to give him a taste of his intentions, to jolt him just a touch.
"Or perhaps you'd prefer something softer." He moves, opening the little box and extracting a couple of striped grey and white owl feathers. They're pleasing to look at, and pleasantly soft as he slides the tines between his fingers. With those in hand he climbs up to straddle Emet's chest. "I did promise you the more sensual side of this, did I not?"
He did, he knows, and he starts with something light, starting at his bound wrists, trailing both feathers down his arms, over across his shoulders and up his neck to trace and tease those sensitive ears.
"So. On a scale one one to ten, what about here? You seemed to like my mouth here, didn't you? You blush from your ears first, too. Just like me."
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As soon as it begins, it stops. He's left a little breathless, even more than he was before, and he watches with curiosity as Byleth opens that box and draws forth a few owl feathers. Sucking in a breath as Byleth straddles him, he watches him for a moment, before his gaze flicks to those feathers.
"You did, aye." He huffs out, curious what he might do, where he might start. That curiosity is short lived, as that feather dances and sweeps across his wrists and arms, making him shudder a little from the sensation as they get closer to his neck and eventually his ears.
There he tilts his head into it, bringing his shoulder up as he can, eyes slipping closed as he instinctively and involuntarily fights the tickling sensation there. He's certainly sensitive, and while it doesn't inspire a laugh from him, it inspires arousal and taunting tingling that further makes him shudder.
A number, though? A number. It's...a little difficult to consider the numeric value while he's being tickled, each tingle and tickle making him shudder and squirm against it, his face scrunching a little, his hands balling into fists, as he tries to maintain control of himself.
"Six!" He manages with obvious strain to his voice, peeking up at Byleth as if trying to gauge what he plans to do next. He doesn't dislike this, but it's certainly different, certainly engaging with sensation he isn't entirely familiar with pursuing. Well, it's familiar in some ways, yet starkly different in other.
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But he deserves a reward for playing. So Byleth moves down to seat himself against the underside of Emet's cock, rocking against it slowly.
"You're adorable. You know you can laugh, right? A six, hmm? That's not too bad." He groans softly, grinding down on him with a little more force. "All right. Six it is."
He moves painfully slow, telegraphing where he's going to go next, letting Emet anticipate it to build tension. The next place those feathers land is under his arm, tracing haphazard patterns.
"How about this?" He hums, then abandoning the quills and using his fingers to see if he can break the man. He remains seated, and every time the man under him moves, he's treated to the conflicting sensation of delicious, wet friction. This is also part of the game.
"Hmm. I wonder what everyone would say if they knew you had such a cute weakness. The esteemed Emet-Selch."
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"Adorable? Please, I would not name me such. I am...well aware I can laugh. I simply have elected not to." Not yet, he can't give in too easily, that would ruin the chase, he thinks. He's certain Byleth wants to bring him to his knees on his own, so to speak, not be handed an easy victory.
He does watch the telegraph of that feather, however, and his eyes grow wide as it begins to go closer to his arms then touches them. Immediately he jerks against the aetheric bindings, and they glow brightly as they strain to hold him back.
If he was after where he's sensitive, this would be it, and while the wet friction of Byleth against his dick is heavenly, it isn't enough to stop him from what happens next. As Byleth goes from feather to fingers, Emet-Selch lets out a strained sound that's almost like choked laughter, squirming and jerking from side to side, pulling at his bindings with alarming strength.
But then as the sensation (not to mention that last comment Byleth made) becomes far too much, and he can't seem to keep his senses about him. Thus he ends up accidentally engaging his glyph, and while he doesn't break the aetheric rope...he bends the bar holding him with a horrific metal sound.
Oops.
Assuming both the gylph and the metal bending gives Byleth pause, he likewise stops in that moment, surprised at himself. Peering up at the bar, he blinks at it, looks to Byleth, then snaps his fingers—fixing the bar and reinforce it.
"...Mine apologies. I think it is safe to assume that is a ten."
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And then he laughs. It's beyond that huffing, hiccupping sound he usually makes when something hits him just right. No this is still quite unpracticed, but far more elevated. Brief as it is, before he gets a hold on himself, and Emet has already repaired the broken bar.
"Oh my. You are... magnificently sensitive, aren't you? Well- ha. I'll have to come back to that one now, won't I? You'll have to tell me more about that red sigil. Later though. Much as my curiosity needs sated, I think there are other things that need sated sooner." He smooths his palms over the man's skin, affording him a moment after that, before his hands wander toward his chest. Kneading and squeezing it shamelessly, he takes a moment for his own enjoyment here, before he moves to teasing Emet's nipples to stiff peaks. The sword-calloused pads of his fingers no doubt making it all the better.
"What if we tried a feather here, hmm?" He of course, doesn't wait for an answer. He picks up his little weapons and draws each of them over the sensitive rises, using the soft edge of them to flick and tease. For some, this is unbearably ticklish, and for others, it's a heavenly feeling. He's curious to know where Emet falls in this. Either way will be a treat.
He doesn't linger for too long though, and he sets on his merry way again, working systematically down his lover's body. Testing his sides, belly, the cups of his hips, the soft crease of skin where thigh meets groin, all the way down his legs to his feet. Carefully waiting for each answer, and when he receives it, Emet is rewarded with a warm hand on his cock. Stroking him until he's at an edge, and then abandoning him to continue extracting as much mirth as he can. It's a terrible back and fourth, and Byleth is all too happy to drive him utterly mad with it.
He wonders if he could make him beg, or if Emet's stubbornness would keep him from doing so. Again, both options are wonderful. Byleth wins either way.
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