[ Emet-Selch touches him, fingers flashing against skin as he undoes the little metal bindings holding Viktor's clothes - his composure - together, and he exhales, low, slow. Heat he'd thought chilled out of him by the cold, by their terse exchange earlier, breathed out as though it might burn if allowed to escape too quickly.
Talk is messy, rife with misunderstandings. Too many words, meaning too many things, too easy to talk around honest feeling. Touch, though - he knows touch, and is all too ready to forget hurt and fear and anger if it means he can be warmed by a body he loves, to feel as though he is more than enough, just as he is, for a man who had once known his own version of paradise.
In another wing of the estate, an unfit princeling makes plans to charm his unusual guest. Here, now, Viktor doesn't think of him at all, stares into firefly eyes, lit brighter than he remembers, and shrugs his robes down off his shoulders, exposing clavicles. ]
I would prefer you watch.
[ Before the bath chills too much - as though between the two of them there wasn't talent enough to heat the water with a thought. A faint smile plays across Viktor's face as he wraps his arms around his torso to hold his robes closed and rises. Unrushed, he turns, showing Emet-Selch his back, and allows his robes to fall a little further, to his elbows, skin of his shoulders prickling to gooseflesh from the cold, but flush with excitement.
Yes. They had argued. Yes, it had left him sullen and Emet-Selch surely irritated, but Viktor will not allow them to linger there. This moment, long, long awaited will not be anything less than joyful. With teasing intent, he wriggles out of his trousers, his stockings, hiding the awkward movement behind flourishes of his coattails, tossing each item over the back of the room's lone armchair with an exaggerated fling of his hand -- an improvised little dance for Emet-Selch's amusement.
Lower drop the robes once he is free of his leggings, gathering at his waist, held in place by one arm. He peels himself out of the hempen undershirt, stretches, because he has seen how many pages of Emet-Selch's sketchbook contain quick drawings of flexing shoulder muscles, and finally turns to face him again.
Here, Viktor pauses to grasp the wine bottle by the neck, and in so doing, allows his robes to drop to the floor. He grins, knowingly, as he lifts the bottle to his lips for a drink - because today, it just so happens, he is wearing smalls. He is, of course, something of a sculpted work, all lean muscle and gentle lines. Freckle dappled skin free of scar and blemish, save a few places where the veins beneath his skin are not veins but green vines, the threat of sprouting flowers ever present. ]
It's bleeding c-cold. [ He complains, this stutter more a shiver, as though he isn't the one holding himself hostage in the icy air right now. The wine is nice, though. Warming. Sweet. He sets the bottle down and hooks a thumb into the waistband of his perfectly ordinary hempen bloomers. This is nothing Emet-Selch has not seen before, but it has been moons since their first and frenzied "lesson" - it feels like a lifetime ago. Like Emet-Selch, like Hades, looks at him with new eyes, seeing for the first time. And so, Viktor gives the moment the time he thinks it is due, slowly hiking down his smalls and stepping out of them once they've hit the floor.
He elects to sit on the edge of the tub, giving Emet-Selch ample time to observe him as he turns, hissing as he slips his legs into water that feels almost too hot when compared to the frigid cold air. He becomes aware, abruptly, of how heavy the beat of his heart is, how shallow his breathing. Viktor lights his fingers on Emet-Selch's hair, forgetting entirely how to be charming or brave. Afraid, for the briefest moment, that Emet-Selch will see him here at a precipice, toes dangling over the cliff's edge, and decide he is not ready - decide he is still angry, still disgusted, repulsed. ]
no subject
[ Emet-Selch touches him, fingers flashing against skin as he undoes the little metal bindings holding Viktor's clothes - his composure - together, and he exhales, low, slow. Heat he'd thought chilled out of him by the cold, by their terse exchange earlier, breathed out as though it might burn if allowed to escape too quickly.
Talk is messy, rife with misunderstandings. Too many words, meaning too many things, too easy to talk around honest feeling. Touch, though - he knows touch, and is all too ready to forget hurt and fear and anger if it means he can be warmed by a body he loves, to feel as though he is more than enough, just as he is, for a man who had once known his own version of paradise.
In another wing of the estate, an unfit princeling makes plans to charm his unusual guest. Here, now, Viktor doesn't think of him at all, stares into firefly eyes, lit brighter than he remembers, and shrugs his robes down off his shoulders, exposing clavicles. ]
I would prefer you watch.
[ Before the bath chills too much - as though between the two of them there wasn't talent enough to heat the water with a thought. A faint smile plays across Viktor's face as he wraps his arms around his torso to hold his robes closed and rises. Unrushed, he turns, showing Emet-Selch his back, and allows his robes to fall a little further, to his elbows, skin of his shoulders prickling to gooseflesh from the cold, but flush with excitement.
Yes. They had argued. Yes, it had left him sullen and Emet-Selch surely irritated, but Viktor will not allow them to linger there. This moment, long, long awaited will not be anything less than joyful. With teasing intent, he wriggles out of his trousers, his stockings, hiding the awkward movement behind flourishes of his coattails, tossing each item over the back of the room's lone armchair with an exaggerated fling of his hand -- an improvised little dance for Emet-Selch's amusement.
Lower drop the robes once he is free of his leggings, gathering at his waist, held in place by one arm. He peels himself out of the hempen undershirt, stretches, because he has seen how many pages of Emet-Selch's sketchbook contain quick drawings of flexing shoulder muscles, and finally turns to face him again.
Here, Viktor pauses to grasp the wine bottle by the neck, and in so doing, allows his robes to drop to the floor. He grins, knowingly, as he lifts the bottle to his lips for a drink - because today, it just so happens, he is wearing smalls. He is, of course, something of a sculpted work, all lean muscle and gentle lines. Freckle dappled skin free of scar and blemish, save a few places where the veins beneath his skin are not veins but green vines, the threat of sprouting flowers ever present. ]
It's bleeding c-cold. [ He complains, this stutter more a shiver, as though he isn't the one holding himself hostage in the icy air right now. The wine is nice, though. Warming. Sweet. He sets the bottle down and hooks a thumb into the waistband of his perfectly ordinary hempen bloomers. This is nothing Emet-Selch has not seen before, but it has been moons since their first and frenzied "lesson" - it feels like a lifetime ago. Like Emet-Selch, like Hades, looks at him with new eyes, seeing for the first time. And so, Viktor gives the moment the time he thinks it is due, slowly hiking down his smalls and stepping out of them once they've hit the floor.
He elects to sit on the edge of the tub, giving Emet-Selch ample time to observe him as he turns, hissing as he slips his legs into water that feels almost too hot when compared to the frigid cold air. He becomes aware, abruptly, of how heavy the beat of his heart is, how shallow his breathing. Viktor lights his fingers on Emet-Selch's hair, forgetting entirely how to be charming or brave. Afraid, for the briefest moment, that Emet-Selch will see him here at a precipice, toes dangling over the cliff's edge, and decide he is not ready - decide he is still angry, still disgusted, repulsed. ]