[ They are prohibited from creating creatures with souls, to say nothing of how functionally difficult such a task would be. He thinks he could. His unintentional act of creating Hythlodaeus- shade or not - was a bit of creation that had sprouted a little too much, a little too far. Maybe his heart hadn't been truly in it, or the guilt had been too strong, though, because Hythlodaeus had been insubstantial compared to the rest of the city, smoke and mirrors; Emet-Selch tried, tries not to think of that, too, as another on the list of his many failures.
Why it was not allowed doesn't matter; in this moment Emet-Selch is painfully aware he could not hope to adequately recreate this: the way Viktor's breath hitches, the exact curve of his smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the exact warmth of his skin. All of it would be inadequate, no matter how precisely he tried to recreate.
Viktor's hand works through his hair, firm and insistent, and Emet-Selch swallows against the visualization of Viktor winding it around his hand, tugging him firmly where he'd like Emet-Selch to go. Water sloshes and Emet-Selch pauses an instant before reminding himself they're not somewhere that he has to care about the mess they make, necessarily. There's no wooden floorboards of a loft to leak through, threatening to ruin books. There's nothing but cold stone beneath the warmth of the bath.
Viktor requests; Emet-Selch obeys. He brackets Viktor in against the wall of the bath, dares to press as much of himself against the other man as he is able, and thinks ridiculously of wishing to consume him, to keep him safe the same way Zodiark had their people for millennia.
Perhaps the most frustrating part is that his body does not wish to cooperate fully even here; he's hard, has been partially hard since Viktor first stepped in the room and began disrobing, since potentiality became reality. He doesn't expect the unpleasant addition of nerves, though, the flicker of guilt at distraction, at not being able to fulfill Viktor's simple ask. The sensation of bare, wet skin against equally bare, wet skin is not, could not be unpleasant, and he savors it, pressing a hand against the spot between Viktor's shoulderblades to prevent him from scraping his back when Emet-Selch hefts him and adjusts the both of them more comfortably. ]
Is it so obvious?
[ Mortification isn't quite the right word, but there's the faintest hint of embarrassment at being so painfully transparent. He is fond of Viktor's hands, terribly so, but he'd hoped that would be something he'd keep to himself, foolishly. Now, Viktor's given word to the sensation, made it more real and Emet-Selch does not deny the observation.
Worse, better, he doesn't know, is the fact that Viktor gives instructions after the long, stretched out moment of silence between them. A dog, he thinks, and then amends the thought. A worshiper, at an altar. Neither thought does anything to quell the heat pooling in his belly; instead, he finds it acts as breath to a fledgling flame, coaxing it hotter.
With the same attention he'd spent lavishing on Viktor's throat, Emet-Selch takes the outstretched hand with an almost courtly gesture and presses a kiss against his palm, lingering. Another to each fingertip, chasing soapy droplets with his tongue, not overly minding the faintly salty bath tinged sour with soaps and shampoo. Feeling only faintly ridiculous, he presses his face into the outstretched hand, another kiss against the palm and then laves his tongue across index and middle finger, thinking again about consumption, about winding, weaving Viktor into himself so inextricably no one could hope to part them. He licks water droplets from his fingers and then sucks, eyes sliding shut, the hand not grasping Viktor's wrist plotting an idle path up his belly, sweeping up over his chest to graze a thumb against a nipple, nipping at the fingers lightly on the withdraw to catch a breath, to look at Viktor again. ]
I could do naught but watch them while you work and be remarkably close to content.
no subject
Why it was not allowed doesn't matter; in this moment Emet-Selch is painfully aware he could not hope to adequately recreate this: the way Viktor's breath hitches, the exact curve of his smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the exact warmth of his skin. All of it would be inadequate, no matter how precisely he tried to recreate.
Viktor's hand works through his hair, firm and insistent, and Emet-Selch swallows against the visualization of Viktor winding it around his hand, tugging him firmly where he'd like Emet-Selch to go. Water sloshes and Emet-Selch pauses an instant before reminding himself they're not somewhere that he has to care about the mess they make, necessarily. There's no wooden floorboards of a loft to leak through, threatening to ruin books. There's nothing but cold stone beneath the warmth of the bath.
Viktor requests; Emet-Selch obeys. He brackets Viktor in against the wall of the bath, dares to press as much of himself against the other man as he is able, and thinks ridiculously of wishing to consume him, to keep him safe the same way Zodiark had their people for millennia.
Perhaps the most frustrating part is that his body does not wish to cooperate fully even here; he's hard, has been partially hard since Viktor first stepped in the room and began disrobing, since potentiality became reality. He doesn't expect the unpleasant addition of nerves, though, the flicker of guilt at distraction, at not being able to fulfill Viktor's simple ask. The sensation of bare, wet skin against equally bare, wet skin is not, could not be unpleasant, and he savors it, pressing a hand against the spot between Viktor's shoulderblades to prevent him from scraping his back when Emet-Selch hefts him and adjusts the both of them more comfortably. ]
Is it so obvious?
[ Mortification isn't quite the right word, but there's the faintest hint of embarrassment at being so painfully transparent. He is fond of Viktor's hands, terribly so, but he'd hoped that would be something he'd keep to himself, foolishly. Now, Viktor's given word to the sensation, made it more real and Emet-Selch does not deny the observation.
Worse, better, he doesn't know, is the fact that Viktor gives instructions after the long, stretched out moment of silence between them. A dog, he thinks, and then amends the thought. A worshiper, at an altar. Neither thought does anything to quell the heat pooling in his belly; instead, he finds it acts as breath to a fledgling flame, coaxing it hotter.
With the same attention he'd spent lavishing on Viktor's throat, Emet-Selch takes the outstretched hand with an almost courtly gesture and presses a kiss against his palm, lingering. Another to each fingertip, chasing soapy droplets with his tongue, not overly minding the faintly salty bath tinged sour with soaps and shampoo. Feeling only faintly ridiculous, he presses his face into the outstretched hand, another kiss against the palm and then laves his tongue across index and middle finger, thinking again about consumption, about winding, weaving Viktor into himself so inextricably no one could hope to part them. He licks water droplets from his fingers and then sucks, eyes sliding shut, the hand not grasping Viktor's wrist plotting an idle path up his belly, sweeping up over his chest to graze a thumb against a nipple, nipping at the fingers lightly on the withdraw to catch a breath, to look at Viktor again. ]
I could do naught but watch them while you work and be remarkably close to content.