[ Wargames, plots, and plans - how busy that mind, making maps of every potential. Had Aepymetes helped him, once upon a time? Run his fingers along the threads that Viktor is still too frightened to touch, guiding his hand toward the best outcomes? He hasn't a clue, and only wishes he were braver, cleverer, so that he might help in some real way - might relieve Emet-Selch of the constant cranking of gears in his head, if only for a little while.
But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
no subject
But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
[ A brand for a brand. ]