[ He'd intended to break the Warrior with Light should he not be able to hold it, as if forcing his Mother's Light into him could act as penance, punishment for the simple, unavoidable sin of not being who he once was. Now, he finds he has little to no desire to break Viktor, to drag submission or deference or Azem out of him kicking and screaming. This is, against all odds, enough. This will always be enough, come what may. The certainty of the thought settles some of the anxiety twisting him into knots.
Viktor closes his lips around Emet-Selch's finger and the sensation is not unfamiliar like it used to be, but that doesn't make any less distracting, jarring. Emet-Selch swallows loud enough his throat bobs, clicks, and drinks in the sight of him. Thinks about birdcages, thrones, and a little house together in Thavnair, full to brimming with flowers fed by the oppressive sun outside and the sun within, and dares to want no matter how heretical such a thing feels.
Insanely, his mouth wants to shape the words you're welcome like this is some sort of transaction like he's ordered a meal off the menu and had it brought to him piping hot. He swallows down the words viciously, instead tilting his head down with a lazy, indolent little roll of his shoulders and neck, and focusing on sensation. At least he'd re-created the damned thing correctly. For a moment he thinks certainly, certainly he's miscalculated; he's made his cock too sensitive, or Viktor's mouth is just too warm but he amends the thought near as soon as he has it. It has been years; he's allowed, he supposes, to feel a little overwhelmed.
His had is poor competition against even the breath skating over it, but the wet-hot press of tongue, the hungry noise Viktor makes are near enough to unmake him. His cock twitches in Viktor's grasp, the hand in his hair loosening until he recalls that his fingers are carded there, alternating petting and half-heartedly trying to straighten the mess he's made of Viktor's curls and then all thoughts of propriety and where his hair falls drops right out of his head, a trembling breath hissing out of him. He doesn't, blessedly, come instantly. He digs his teeth into his cheek again, thighs tensing, forcibly resisting the urge to buck up into Viktor's mouth and risk choking him, but it's a near miss. ]
You're lovely. [ Rasped, almost esaping like he doesn't mean to say the words out loud, he just thinks it so strongly that the words slip out. Once out, he doesn't take them back, no shame unfurls in his chest at the admittance, nothing but intent as he watches Viktor mouth at the aching swell of his cock. Finally. ]
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Viktor closes his lips around Emet-Selch's finger and the sensation is not unfamiliar like it used to be, but that doesn't make any less distracting, jarring. Emet-Selch swallows loud enough his throat bobs, clicks, and drinks in the sight of him. Thinks about birdcages, thrones, and a little house together in Thavnair, full to brimming with flowers fed by the oppressive sun outside and the sun within, and dares to want no matter how heretical such a thing feels.
Insanely, his mouth wants to shape the words you're welcome like this is some sort of transaction like he's ordered a meal off the menu and had it brought to him piping hot. He swallows down the words viciously, instead tilting his head down with a lazy, indolent little roll of his shoulders and neck, and focusing on sensation. At least he'd re-created the damned thing correctly. For a moment he thinks certainly, certainly he's miscalculated; he's made his cock too sensitive, or Viktor's mouth is just too warm but he amends the thought near as soon as he has it. It has been years; he's allowed, he supposes, to feel a little overwhelmed.
His had is poor competition against even the breath skating over it, but the wet-hot press of tongue, the hungry noise Viktor makes are near enough to unmake him. His cock twitches in Viktor's grasp, the hand in his hair loosening until he recalls that his fingers are carded there, alternating petting and half-heartedly trying to straighten the mess he's made of Viktor's curls and then all thoughts of propriety and where his hair falls drops right out of his head, a trembling breath hissing out of him. He doesn't, blessedly, come instantly. He digs his teeth into his cheek again, thighs tensing, forcibly resisting the urge to buck up into Viktor's mouth and risk choking him, but it's a near miss. ]
You're lovely. [ Rasped, almost esaping like he doesn't mean to say the words out loud, he just thinks it so strongly that the words slip out. Once out, he doesn't take them back, no shame unfurls in his chest at the admittance, nothing but intent as he watches Viktor mouth at the aching swell of his cock. Finally. ]