[ The most irritating part of being known, he thinks, is that Viktor's experience with him instantly dulls the sharpness of his words. He does not want Viktor upset, but neither does he care for situations where he does not maintain complete control. Old habits die hard, and the moment that Viktor takes the lead in their little dance - and he has, undeniably, taken the lead - it leaves him feeling off-kilter, unsure where best to place his feet.
Making up for lost time, Viktor tells him, and Emet-Selch is not so frustrated he cannot acknowledge the truth of Viktor's words. He tries to imagine the opposite - being fractured into dozens of pieces like glass, patching pieces of his soul together, and feeling faint hints of familiarity over someone but never being certain why the sight of certain people winds its way around his heart and tugs tight enough to bleed. For once, no bitter question arises of how can you think we feel anything similarly; Emet-Selch knows they do. His mouth sets in a little line and he kisses Viktor instead of think any longer about it, the hand still against his face shifting until he can grasp Viktor's chin, long fingers splaying against the curve of his jaw, smoothing over his cheeks like he can't bear not to touch him if the option is there. ]
I suppose if I must.
[ Hard to sound like an ageless sorcerer who has experienced everything when he's in this state; he aims for sturdy and ends up somewhere in the neighborhood of flustered, squirming under the weight and attention of Viktor's gaze and touch. He wants to chase the little sound he'd unintentionally wrested from Viktor, wants to lick the taste of it out of his mouth and as there's no good reason not to, does, promptly, hungrily.
Moments later, Viktor's hand starts to move; he hears the slosh of bathwater, however slight, and feels fingertips, then the proper weight of a hand between his thighs, and knows there's no stopping the visceral reaction that occurs at the faintest glancing touch, the threat, the promise of it being more. He is certain he makes his own embarrassing little noise again, wholly unable to swallow it back, and bites his own tongue only when he's certain Viktor's is not in any danger, panting shallowly against Viktor's mouth. ]
You must think yourself so terribly clever, hm? Reversing our positions like this. And you ought to elaborate - where is elsewhere? The princeling's throne, staking your claim? [ For all his complaints, he is at least admiring of the tack. He would do the same thing in Viktor's shoes - has, in a very different situation - and take no small amount of pleasure in wrecking one's carefully held control. Perched above him, Viktor's damp skin gleams in the firelight and Emet-Selch gives into the urge to slouch back against the stone wall, to properly look at him, to drink the sight of him in, before finding an answer to Viktor's question. ] I can promise you the finer details of exactly how you facilitate - [ A pause, a cringe, not liking the alliteration but neither is he able to find a satisfactory word and so he continues. ] - fellatio are not overly concerning to me.
no subject
Making up for lost time, Viktor tells him, and Emet-Selch is not so frustrated he cannot acknowledge the truth of Viktor's words. He tries to imagine the opposite - being fractured into dozens of pieces like glass, patching pieces of his soul together, and feeling faint hints of familiarity over someone but never being certain why the sight of certain people winds its way around his heart and tugs tight enough to bleed. For once, no bitter question arises of how can you think we feel anything similarly; Emet-Selch knows they do. His mouth sets in a little line and he kisses Viktor instead of think any longer about it, the hand still against his face shifting until he can grasp Viktor's chin, long fingers splaying against the curve of his jaw, smoothing over his cheeks like he can't bear not to touch him if the option is there. ]
I suppose if I must.
[ Hard to sound like an ageless sorcerer who has experienced everything when he's in this state; he aims for sturdy and ends up somewhere in the neighborhood of flustered, squirming under the weight and attention of Viktor's gaze and touch. He wants to chase the little sound he'd unintentionally wrested from Viktor, wants to lick the taste of it out of his mouth and as there's no good reason not to, does, promptly, hungrily.
Moments later, Viktor's hand starts to move; he hears the slosh of bathwater, however slight, and feels fingertips, then the proper weight of a hand between his thighs, and knows there's no stopping the visceral reaction that occurs at the faintest glancing touch, the threat, the promise of it being more. He is certain he makes his own embarrassing little noise again, wholly unable to swallow it back, and bites his own tongue only when he's certain Viktor's is not in any danger, panting shallowly against Viktor's mouth. ]
You must think yourself so terribly clever, hm? Reversing our positions like this. And you ought to elaborate - where is elsewhere? The princeling's throne, staking your claim? [ For all his complaints, he is at least admiring of the tack. He would do the same thing in Viktor's shoes - has, in a very different situation - and take no small amount of pleasure in wrecking one's carefully held control. Perched above him, Viktor's damp skin gleams in the firelight and Emet-Selch gives into the urge to slouch back against the stone wall, to properly look at him, to drink the sight of him in, before finding an answer to Viktor's question. ] I can promise you the finer details of exactly how you facilitate - [ A pause, a cringe, not liking the alliteration but neither is he able to find a satisfactory word and so he continues. ] - fellatio are not overly concerning to me.