You needn't worry about a scandal, the worry you ought to have is whether or not I will allow your crumb-laden body into my pristine bed.
[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.
no subject
[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.