[ Good, he thinks. He wouldn't want to. Perhaps later that will be a fun subject to play with, the wretched Solus-Emet-Selch and the hero the Warrior of Light, but right now he thinks that subject far too sensitive, like pressing fingers into a purpling bruise, or spreading salt into a wound. Better here and now that they are themselves, as much as they can be.
Viktor makes a show of disrobing and Emet-Selch watches intently, a scene, a play, a skit only meant for his eyes. They are, he thinks, both of them playing a bit of a part, people who know what they are doing in a situation like this. Ridiculous, to have thousands of years of memory at his beck and call and to feel that all of it is insufficient, that he is starting from the first step, attempting to make up for lost time and rusted experience.
There have been countless times he's utilized intimacy - not involving him, necessarily, but orchestrating it between others, to achieve his ends. To avoid a serious discussion and sensitive subject through distractions of the flesh is not healthy, but it is, he thinks useful. Effective. ]
We'll have issues if you decide to make a mess inside my quarters each time you disrobe.
[ Mildly, as he takes the wine Viktor's set back down and carefully tilts a mouthful's worth to taste, thinking at length about the lean muscles of Viktor's shoulders and arms, the narrow line of his waist and how good his hands would look upon all the bare, warm skin within reach. He swallows the wine, realizing only belatedly he hadn't tasted it at all, had been far too distracted watching Viktor sling clothing about willy-nilly. He is, Emet-Selch notes with amusement, wearing smalls. Too cold not to, he supposes, and watches soft cloth make its way down long legs, fully forgetting to breathe until the motion is complete.
He's miscalculated - he's spent too much time studying Viktor, drinking in the sight of him that he hasn't thought about the action, the steps to take to facilitate anything other than ogling him like a youth. Viktor rests fingertips against the crown of his head, settled on the stone that cannot be terribly warm on the outside and Emet-Selch gives into the insane impulse to press his mouth against the malms of bare skin presented to him. Water sloshes as he moves, gliding a hand up Viktor's back to trace the knobs of his spine and he lays a kiss at the swell of a thigh, and another against the faintest imprint where Viktor's smalls had pressed into his skin, lingering. He'd forgotten just how much he enjoys the smell of Viktor despite, or perhaps especially because of a day of tasks, duties. Chores. He wants to wash Viktor's hair. Wants to do what he hadn't allowed himself earlier, to look and touch, and it feels all the more satisfying to do it and know there's someone else here who wants at least half as badly and would never stand a chance.
Emet-Selch tilts his head, resting it upon a folded arm on the lip of the tub once again, the hand attached running lazily up and down Viktor's flank, relaxed despite everything. ]
Did you intend to join at any point, or were you enjoying freezing so much you thought to do it naked?
no subject
Viktor makes a show of disrobing and Emet-Selch watches intently, a scene, a play, a skit only meant for his eyes. They are, he thinks, both of them playing a bit of a part, people who know what they are doing in a situation like this. Ridiculous, to have thousands of years of memory at his beck and call and to feel that all of it is insufficient, that he is starting from the first step, attempting to make up for lost time and rusted experience.
There have been countless times he's utilized intimacy - not involving him, necessarily, but orchestrating it between others, to achieve his ends. To avoid a serious discussion and sensitive subject through distractions of the flesh is not healthy, but it is, he thinks useful. Effective. ]
We'll have issues if you decide to make a mess inside my quarters each time you disrobe.
[ Mildly, as he takes the wine Viktor's set back down and carefully tilts a mouthful's worth to taste, thinking at length about the lean muscles of Viktor's shoulders and arms, the narrow line of his waist and how good his hands would look upon all the bare, warm skin within reach. He swallows the wine, realizing only belatedly he hadn't tasted it at all, had been far too distracted watching Viktor sling clothing about willy-nilly. He is, Emet-Selch notes with amusement, wearing smalls. Too cold not to, he supposes, and watches soft cloth make its way down long legs, fully forgetting to breathe until the motion is complete.
He's miscalculated - he's spent too much time studying Viktor, drinking in the sight of him that he hasn't thought about the action, the steps to take to facilitate anything other than ogling him like a youth. Viktor rests fingertips against the crown of his head, settled on the stone that cannot be terribly warm on the outside and Emet-Selch gives into the insane impulse to press his mouth against the malms of bare skin presented to him. Water sloshes as he moves, gliding a hand up Viktor's back to trace the knobs of his spine and he lays a kiss at the swell of a thigh, and another against the faintest imprint where Viktor's smalls had pressed into his skin, lingering. He'd forgotten just how much he enjoys the smell of Viktor despite, or perhaps especially because of a day of tasks, duties. Chores. He wants to wash Viktor's hair. Wants to do what he hadn't allowed himself earlier, to look and touch, and it feels all the more satisfying to do it and know there's someone else here who wants at least half as badly and would never stand a chance.
Emet-Selch tilts his head, resting it upon a folded arm on the lip of the tub once again, the hand attached running lazily up and down Viktor's flank, relaxed despite everything. ]
Did you intend to join at any point, or were you enjoying freezing so much you thought to do it naked?