[ He cannot help but sass back, though when Emet-Selch closes an arm around his waist to draw him in, it rather dampens the desire to give him any trouble at all. A hum, low and pleased, rolls out of him as he feels his shoulder blades press to skin. Embraced wholly, every ilm of him cradled by warmth, his skin prickles where they've slotted together, matched pieces.
And in the next breath, in the heartbeat of silence that follows, doubt bubbles up in the hollow of his chest; his lot is to serve, not receive such decadence. He is undeserving, has been spoiled, and the star will take its due for this excess.
Viktor shuts his eyes more tightly, lights his fingers on the back of the palm draped over his stomach, and pushes back on that feeling. This is worth it, and it will not be taken from him so easily.
Hades asks a question, and Viktor remembers to breathe. The tension set into his muscles unwinds, and he echoes the yawn, unable to help himself. ]
Our... kitchen, maybe. [ He offers, low and thoughtful, welcoming the distraction from darker thoughts. ] Our cups and plates. Our hearth. Our window garden. Our bath. [ Each item he lists draws a bit more tension out of him, and he echoes Emet-Selch's yawn, unable to help himself. ] Your shoebill. But, our... [ He starts to drift toward dreaming, voice going quiet as he slips into unconsciousness. ] ...little sprouts.
no subject
[ He cannot help but sass back, though when Emet-Selch closes an arm around his waist to draw him in, it rather dampens the desire to give him any trouble at all. A hum, low and pleased, rolls out of him as he feels his shoulder blades press to skin. Embraced wholly, every ilm of him cradled by warmth, his skin prickles where they've slotted together, matched pieces.
And in the next breath, in the heartbeat of silence that follows, doubt bubbles up in the hollow of his chest; his lot is to serve, not receive such decadence. He is undeserving, has been spoiled, and the star will take its due for this excess.
Viktor shuts his eyes more tightly, lights his fingers on the back of the palm draped over his stomach, and pushes back on that feeling. This is worth it, and it will not be taken from him so easily.
Hades asks a question, and Viktor remembers to breathe. The tension set into his muscles unwinds, and he echoes the yawn, unable to help himself. ]
Our... kitchen, maybe. [ He offers, low and thoughtful, welcoming the distraction from darker thoughts. ] Our cups and plates. Our hearth. Our window garden. Our bath. [ Each item he lists draws a bit more tension out of him, and he echoes Emet-Selch's yawn, unable to help himself. ] Your shoebill. But, our... [ He starts to drift toward dreaming, voice going quiet as he slips into unconsciousness. ] ...little sprouts.