[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?
no subject
[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?