[ They have such hideous curses here. Emet-Selch does not point this out because he is behaving, but maybe he'll teach Viktor a swear or two from Amaurot just to never have to hear gobshite again.
He finds himself tumbled back a little too easily when distracted by a kiss, chasing the taste of wine in Viktor's mouth - no leverage to stay upright, tipped back into the bed with laughably little force as Viktor chases him, leans over and looks him over, a predator with his prey. It is, Emet-Selch finds, a novelty to be looked at so. To be so wholly out of control of the series of events, to make no effort to machinate or plan or orchestrate past getting to a bed instead of letting them prune in the bath. ]
A little more of the former, a little less of the latter if y-
[ He knows, abstractly, about a circus, about the implications of the circus, but it's one thing to know a fact and something else entirely to see it demonstrated with such clarity, ilms away. One leg settles, Emet-Selch taking a hand away from Viktor long enough to gather his hair back, twisting it out of the way so Viktor doesn't put weight on loose strands. Task complete, his hands make their way back to Viktor's bare skin wherever he can touch, while Viktor drags nails up his chest, little lines of heat and awareness that are not unpleasant in the slightest. Were he willing to allow himself the indulgence, he might even wish for more, later. ]
You may be frustrated to know I do not need my mouth to speak.
[ There are countless enchantments to project thought to spoken word; Emet-Selch knows over half of them, and could likely look up any he does not. That is not what he wants to do right now, though, not when confronted with Viktor knelt above him glistening, mint and soap and the heavy scent of want hanging thick in the air. Weeks ago, Viktor'd had specific instructions. Be in the moment, not in his own head. Touch, taste, breathe. Commands he finds himself all too happy to obey, curving one arm and bending it at the elbow so he can splay a hand on his waist while the other traces a line idly up and down the back of Viktor's calf.
He doesn't need to worry about wanting more than his due, doesn't need to concern himself with too much when Viktor rests atop him, able to remove himself should he need to. He must only concern himself with putting his mouth to use at the task at hand. At mouth, he thinks despairingly; Viktor's horrific sense of humor has rubbed off on him.
Coaxing Viktor to finally settle with faint pressure on his hip, Emet-Selch finds the motion - however quick - too slow and leans up to press a kiss against the inside of a thigh, another, another, until he finally gives into what they both want and allows himself to be as ravenous as someone twelve thousand years without could be. He tastes, he eats, he savors as instructed. Emet-Selch may be out of practice with the actual mechanics in practice but he had paid fervent attention to how Viktor enjoyed touching himself. Listening to the noises Viktor makes and adjusting is no hardship, and the scent and taste of Viktor's want heavy in the air makes the wine they'd been sharing seem barely better than vinegar. He finds himself making a noise, a hungry, pleased moan - no pressure against his cock save the fleeting one of the towel, nothing but the relief of a want he hadn't dared acknowledge finally, finally in the process of being sated. ]
no subject
He finds himself tumbled back a little too easily when distracted by a kiss, chasing the taste of wine in Viktor's mouth - no leverage to stay upright, tipped back into the bed with laughably little force as Viktor chases him, leans over and looks him over, a predator with his prey. It is, Emet-Selch finds, a novelty to be looked at so. To be so wholly out of control of the series of events, to make no effort to machinate or plan or orchestrate past getting to a bed instead of letting them prune in the bath. ]
A little more of the former, a little less of the latter if y-
[ He knows, abstractly, about a circus, about the implications of the circus, but it's one thing to know a fact and something else entirely to see it demonstrated with such clarity, ilms away. One leg settles, Emet-Selch taking a hand away from Viktor long enough to gather his hair back, twisting it out of the way so Viktor doesn't put weight on loose strands. Task complete, his hands make their way back to Viktor's bare skin wherever he can touch, while Viktor drags nails up his chest, little lines of heat and awareness that are not unpleasant in the slightest. Were he willing to allow himself the indulgence, he might even wish for more, later. ]
You may be frustrated to know I do not need my mouth to speak.
[ There are countless enchantments to project thought to spoken word; Emet-Selch knows over half of them, and could likely look up any he does not. That is not what he wants to do right now, though, not when confronted with Viktor knelt above him glistening, mint and soap and the heavy scent of want hanging thick in the air. Weeks ago, Viktor'd had specific instructions. Be in the moment, not in his own head. Touch, taste, breathe. Commands he finds himself all too happy to obey, curving one arm and bending it at the elbow so he can splay a hand on his waist while the other traces a line idly up and down the back of Viktor's calf.
He doesn't need to worry about wanting more than his due, doesn't need to concern himself with too much when Viktor rests atop him, able to remove himself should he need to. He must only concern himself with putting his mouth to use at the task at hand. At mouth, he thinks despairingly; Viktor's horrific sense of humor has rubbed off on him.
Coaxing Viktor to finally settle with faint pressure on his hip, Emet-Selch finds the motion - however quick - too slow and leans up to press a kiss against the inside of a thigh, another, another, until he finally gives into what they both want and allows himself to be as ravenous as someone twelve thousand years without could be. He tastes, he eats, he savors as instructed. Emet-Selch may be out of practice with the actual mechanics in practice but he had paid fervent attention to how Viktor enjoyed touching himself. Listening to the noises Viktor makes and adjusting is no hardship, and the scent and taste of Viktor's want heavy in the air makes the wine they'd been sharing seem barely better than vinegar. He finds himself making a noise, a hungry, pleased moan - no pressure against his cock save the fleeting one of the towel, nothing but the relief of a want he hadn't dared acknowledge finally, finally in the process of being sated. ]