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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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"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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He frowns at being called sensitive, even though the evidence of such is plainly there. Though he has to admit that Byleth's laugh is really rather charming, the awkwardness of it is endearing in the same way a stumbling baby animal taking its first steps are.
"Yes, well, it is not as though I am accustom to this." He says with a little bit of defiance to his voice, though not enough to truly mean anything, nor is it meant to deter Byleth. Not that it matters anyway, when Byleth goes on to touch his chest and tease his nipples, causing him to suck in a sharp breath through his teeth. The flush in both his face and ears begins to travel to his shoulders and chest as he holds back a moan that's in his throat.
Fortunately for him, the swapping to the feather doesn't result in any tickling, instead the soft, tantalizing sensation feels nice and teases him. Causing his breath to hitch a little as his brow knits and his eyes close. While he attempts to restrain the whine that builds in his throat, he doesn't particularly succeed, and he shifts in place as he can, trying to move his hips to no avail.
Then Byleth moves on, and each spot he gives an answer as is expected of him, and none are as severe at his under arms/armpit area. They are as follows:
Sides are seven, belly is three, hips are six, thigh meeting groin is five, legs are four, feet eight.
With Byleth giving him that momentary break, that reward for his compliance, he breathes out a pleased sigh as he feels that fist around his wanting cock. He cannot move much, but he does try to rock into that stroking hand, wanting to fuck it as he's able. He can feel it, he can feel himself getting close, his mouth hanging open as his eyes screw shut, his abdominals growing tight, the pressure building and—the hand is gone, and he's left whining in displeasure and need as he looks to Byleth with frustration.
Though, his frustration is only beginning with that, as Byleth starts the cycle of edging and tickling, which is honestly so maddening he almost considers attempting to break his bindings and fucking Byleth himself!
He does not do this, however, and instead he endures. Endures as much as he can, even as his dick is left dribbling pre from its tip, throbbing with need, pink with sensitivity from the attention and denial. There's tears in his eyes from the mirth milking, and he's breathing heavily from it all, his body slightly trembling.
Considering the merits of begging for release, his eyes fall to his poor dick, but he decides that he cannot simply give in so easily. He will not be broken by this, no, he will endure.
"Is this all you have for me?" His voice is shaken, strained, and does not sound as confident as his words imply. He lets his gaze meet with Byleth's, and for as watery as his glowing eyes may be, there's affection behind them, enjoyment, and determination.
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He's almost tempted to take pity on him, let him come at least once before he carries on, not ruin the orgasm or force him into overstimulation.
But no.
Nooooo, Emet has to be haughty and glib even though he looks like he's gotten sunburned from the chest up at this point. Oh what a brat. What an utter, adorable fool he is for saying such a thing. Byleth huffs, looking a bit put out for all his efforts. Fine, if he wants to play that way? Back under the arms he goes! Just for a minute to show him who's boss and all that.
"As a matter of fact, that is not 'all I have for you' Emet-Selch." He says, making a wavy gesture mimicking the present company himself, as well as pitching his voice up a bit.
"There then, if you want to cum, you can do it like this." He presents one of the feathers, brandishing it like a dangerous weapon before slowly gliding it down Emet's thigh and pausing. Fingers move to spread him open to make room for that wicked thing to flick and tease against his hole. It will either feel amazing or terrible, and he does not care which at this point.
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That's all he can say as Byleth moves to rise to his challenge. Of course there was initially a glower at that mocking of his voice, but that glower quickly shifted to astonishment as Byleth spreads him and then proceeds to tickle his hole. That causes a full body jolt, followed by desperate thrashing as he tries to do...something, anything, to get away from that sensation. It's not that it's bad, in fact it does feel good in a way? It's less ticklish exactly, more tantalizing and teasing, causing a weird prickle of pleasure to pass through him from the site of contact through his nerve endings. It most certainly affects his dick and makes him need for more stimulation—see the issue that Emet-Selch has with what's happening, why he's trying to struggle and get away from it, has little to do with the sensation at all.
This is just so utterly humiliating in a way he didn't think possible he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He certainly doesn't want to come like this, because this is mortifying. Especially since he enjoys how it feels! Tucking his head against his arm, he tries to hide his face as he bites back a sound that attempts to leave him. He's horrified as he feels his lower abdominals tighten, that building of pressure that's been teased and edged for the past however long betrays him in this moment, and despite everything he feels the threat of an orgasm. He teeters on the edge of a precipice he does not want to fall off of. Not like this.
"Please..." He doesn't specify the request, he hardly has the mind to, he simply is trying his most to not come like this. Willing to plead if he must to avoid it. His voice is high and desperate, pathetic really. Honestly, one would think he'd be more ashamed of that, than the idea of coming like this.
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"You wanted to come, didn't you? It's all right. You can do it. After this, I'll let you come all you want." A promise and a threat. He doesn't let up, and the other quill is taken up to his lips, sliding the tip of it against his tongue, wetting it just so. Enough that when he brings it down to trace along the underside of Emet's neglected cock, it ought to feel at least something like a tongue, though far less substantial. It should be enough to bring him off eventually. With how much teasing he's done, and how wound up they both were when they came in.
"Just let it happen. No need to fight it. Wouldn't it be fun to tell Hythlodaeus you got off from little more than this? Oh I'll bet he'd never let you live it down. Of course, neither will I." He muses happily as he grants no mercy but the gentle encouragement and backhanded teasing comments.
"Wouldn't you have loved to be on that stage right now? What a spectacle you are. I'm sure that would give people something to chatter about."
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Part of him did know, really. Provoking Byleth as he did consigned him to this ruinous end. As Byleth continues, talking as he does, using those feathers on him to ignite his nerves like white hot electricity surging through his body, he feels every scrap of dignity slipping through his fingers like fine grains of sand.
His hands clenching and unclenching as his body convulses and his legs tremble, his breath quick and shallow as his dually euphoric and horrific climax encapsulates him utterly from little more than those twin dancing feathers on his dick and entrance.
It's nothing compared to the shame and humiliation that burns at his cheeks and consumes his mind, and he's utterly incapable of ignoring the image that Byleth has put into his head. Being on display like this, for all to see, this shame exposed to those he respects and adores, and how they must think of him for finding some deranged enjoyment from it. To be made to ejaculate from this...
The edging certainly did its part, of course, and that shows in the sheer amount that he comes. It's generous and coats his belly, even shooting as far as his chest with its projected force. By the end of it all, he's a quivering, breathy mess of a man, his face hot with shame and afterglow, though he does everything he can to keep it from view.
After a long moment, he finally finds some words for Byleth, though he does not look at him, does not remove his face from his bicep, "do not...breathe a word of this...to Hythlodaeus."
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