[ He files that information into place along with Viktor's other requests - ones he doesn't outright address in the moment, but actively tries to enact when and where it is within his power. Long since used to reading from parchment or tomestone while public speaking, the thought doesn't bother him- the avoidance of the idea of studying does, to an extent, but he can push the subject at another time. ]
Only a third.
[ He does recall.
He'd rather he didn't. The difficulty of memory is not one easily solved; they identified and used crystals to store knowledge, but that did not solve the issue of one's own memory failing. Countless new memories overwriting old ones, the most treasured washed away under the weight of those atop. He could store as much as possible within crystals, but it was only a temporary solution.
Foolish, to be irritated at a woman long since dead, and insult to injury to know she is not really the problem. The problem is an intangible one that can't be solved with time, money, magic. ]
Lucilia.
[ He will not make this a fight, or a discussion, or some sort of attempt at a lesson on why their lives are like a candle, just a flicker of time before the next life replaces them. Wilful ignorance about the point Viktor is making is not the course of action. That, he supposes, is progress. Just like sitting here naked in the middle of a bath with company is progress of a sort. Just like the desire to touch and be touched by someone else is progress.
Gently, he fits his fingers around the line of Viktor's ankle, skimming fingers over the thin layer of skin and then further up, and makes an idle path back and forth from knee to ankle. Or, it would be idle were it not for how focused he seems on the motion, dragging his thumb along Viktor's calf to trace muscle, swirling a glancing touch over the bit of knee bared by the water. ]
Thavnair, is it? Awfully warm there. To say nothing of the dragon, with whom I think you must needs confirm my welcome.
[ The bottle ends up in his hand, but he cannot say victory is his clean and simple. Regretfully he tugs the hand tracing Viktor's leg back so he can thumb down the nozzle once, twice, and then after a considering look at Viktor's curls, a third time. Rosemary and something faintly floral are immediately evident, even if the floral notes are overwhelmed by the former. Gingerly, he rises up until he can get his knees beneath himself and reaches out to start working it through Viktor's curls carefully from roots to end, smoothing unruly curls back when they fall into his eyes. While he mislikes the cold in general, so much time in Garlemald means he bears the chill with minimal complaint, far more focused on the task at hand.
In hand. ]
Do not rinse this right away. Sit. Soak. [ Viktor's hair is countless times shorter than hers had been, and so it is not overly difficult to finish quickly, grimacing as his knees protest. Settled again in his spot, he tugs Viktor's leg back into place. Belatedly, not quite hesitant but not a declaration, foggier as he strains for the memory. ] Hers smelled of mint. Imported in frankly absurd quantities. Dried in a room I orchestrated to be next to my office.
[ Because it covered countless smells he would rather not have smelled by someone walking past. He does not point this out. ]
[ The water sloshes as he shrugs. And the smile he offers up in exchange for the name is bright and pleased, unburdened by the weight of the day. The first genuine show of sunlight since they'd arrived on this icy reflection of home. Wildly gratifying, to have earned his answer. He can admit as much to himself.
Even better, to be touched, explored by calloused fingers. All that scholar's focus devoted to the study of skin and muscle, intoxicating. Emet-Selch's hand skirts up his leg, fingertips finding each slope and curve of sinew, glancing off his thigh as they pass up and over his knee, and Viktor does not bother to stop himself from shivering. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the motion, each pass kindling for the fire Viktor is increasingly disinterested in keeping banked low.
Oh, to know all the little details. All the people who have mattered to Hades. But. More pressing is this: to be the sole focus of all that ages old, heavy attention, to be such a distraction that a man who has seen all life has to offer cannot even pretend he wants to keep his hands to himself. Viktor relishes being as precious, as interesting, as the books and reports and odds and ends Emet-Selch is ever poring over, and tries not to pout too plainly when the study session comes to an end.
He opens one eye when Emet-Selch rises, spies the jagged outline of mottled flesh interrupting otherwise flawless skin, and decides it is his turn to learn. With his own hands now free, he does not hesitate to press greedy fingers to skin. Admiring his own handiwork, he thinks wryly, tracing the outline enjoying the warmth of the body beneath his palms. He resists pressing his mouth to skin as well, but only just. ]
Our spring home. [ He repeats, breathing in herbs and flowers. Familiar. It reminds him of his own clothes, his blankets, the inside of his pack. ] Where we will spend a few weeks when it is still miserably cold across Eorzea. Big, open windows, and a v-view of the sea. A little garden and a workshop for all your projects. Mm. [ His fingertips wander to trace the slope of Emet-Selch's waist, not grasping, just mapping his form. ] As for Vrtra, I think you underestimate how readily the people, even dragons, will forgive one who has d-done right by them.
[ He does not doubt it will be difficult, presenting the truth of things to the star. But, it will be worth it, to fight for Hades's place in this world they will have made. Perhaps, for a time, that will be his cause - illuminating all the ways in which Hades belongs, both to the people, and to the man, himself.
Emet-Selch settles back into the bath, guiding Viktor's leg where he wants it, and Viktor takes a few seconds to consider the feel of so much soap-that-is-not-soap set in his hair. He lifts a hand, lights fingers on the sticky substance run through his curls, and pulls a dubious face. Though it feels odd, the smell is nice, and he would endure the torment of sitting and waiting again if it meant Emet-Selch might slide fingers through his hair, working through tangles with a surgeon's gentle precision and shaping curls like an artist. ]
Mint. [ He murmurs, sliding a little closer, slow, testing the distance. How close can he press, before they find the new line? ] Crisp, cooling, green. Unignorable. A good scent for c-clearing one's head. Lucilia... had some good ideas. But I have better ones.
[ Like how to spend the next few minutes, waiting for this new fragrant gunk in his hair to set. Viktor tangles damp fingers in Emet-Selch's hair. ]
[ He wants to point out that maybe, some of Viktor's life would be easier if he were more cruel, if he did not bend so easily to give grace to those who did not deserve it, including himself.
He doesn't, cognizant enough to recognize that is a losing battle. Why would he, when Viktor has reached out and is touching him like he's something precious, tracing the line where mottled flesh sits upon his chest so gently it is almost difficult to imagine those same hands enacting the (somewhat deserved) violence in the first place. Against his will, his skin prickles, goosebumps rising in response to the chill and Viktor's careful exploration. ]
I think that may be true for those who've committed what they might consider less...contentious crimes. For this... [ This is not the conversation they want to have here, now, Emet-Selch thinks. There is too much to go over. There are too many moving parts, too much to consider. They would want punishment. There would be those who would push for a penalty of some kind - he could pay any bill that came due if they assessed what he 'owed' as a monetary cost, easily. They could put him to death, but it would not take, and he has watched this play out too many times not to know what comes next. Those who realized and understood his nature would fall into two groups, maybe three. Ones who deemed him too powerful to exist, and would seek to add limitations, if not outright lock him up in perpetuity. Those who would attempt to shackle his abilities. And worst: those who would disregard the past and focus only on the fact he is, to them, a godlike being. One immune to illness, to death, who has lived countless lifetimes.
The Word of Emet-Selch could be exhausting enough. He did not like to think about what a cult would look like. ]
We shall see, I suppose. No sense borrowing trouble where there is not any yet.
[ If they survive, and if the dragons and those they've left have survived, it would be worthwhile for him to make a visit to Vrtra at the very least. Largely, he'd left the dragons alone out of respect for them, but there were plenty of pies with his fingers in them that had caused them no small bit of hardship. Emet-Selch would understand if the dragons' long memory was not so easily sated with an apology.
Distracted, he nearly misses the shift of Viktor inching closer, the slosh of the water drawing his attention back to the present, focusing on Viktor rather than a thousand malms away, trying to plot and plan. Obedient, Emet-Selch leans in just enough to press a lingering kiss against the inside of Viktor's wrist where his pulse beats beneath thin, soft skin. Another, careful not to jostle Viktor's hand from his damp hair, cheek pressed against Viktor's arm as he obeys the command, looking up at him through the fringe of displaced hair with a little smirk. ]
Would you care to be more specific in your instruction?
[ Wargames, plots, and plans - how busy that mind, making maps of every potential. Had Aepymetes helped him, once upon a time? Run his fingers along the threads that Viktor is still too frightened to touch, guiding his hand toward the best outcomes? He hasn't a clue, and only wishes he were braver, cleverer, so that he might help in some real way - might relieve Emet-Selch of the constant cranking of gears in his head, if only for a little while.
But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?
One of these days... [ He echoes, watching hungrily as Hades climbs closer, working from wrist to shoulder with devoted focus. Slow, reverent, as instructed, coaxing more heat to already bath-warmed skin. Viktor welcomes him in with an outstretched arm, grasping his waist, fingers tapping an urgent, meandering rhythm. ]
We will find the time. And the means-
[ His muscles twitch, palm at Hades waist squeezing. A sharp hitch of breath, then a softer laugh, as Hades presses fingers to his stomach. It is indeed ticklish, gone too long without touch, made newly sensitive. But he does not let it interrupt their work. Hades has a task to complete, after all, and Viktor laces fingers back into his hair, guiding, encouraging. He smiles. ]
-And a place for you to rob me of sense on every reflection. Oh.
[ Viktor lets his head loll back, shuts his eyes as Emet-Selch's teeth graze the point where his pulse roars. ]
G-good. Like that. [ He whispers, dragging fingers through his hair, the movement insistent, and not quite gentle. A match for the sweet prickle of bruising skin.
An impermanent mark, perhaps, but hadn't Hades staked his claim more than a year ago? He may not have had a direct hand in filling Viktor with Light, may not have cultivated the flowers that now sprout from his skin, but it was he who made them permanent. Dark brought to bear against Light, preserving his soul, pressing it to right shape, the way he now presses lilies between the pages of his books. Claimed and kept. And now, while they are here, all who care to look will see what Viktor knows, feels: that he belongs to Emet-Selch, is his, has always been.
A soft hum of pleasure hikes to a wanting whine when Hades pulls him up and into his lap. Heedless of the mess they might make, Viktor wraps his legs around Hades's waist. Water sloshes up and over the sides of the tub, splattering on the stone floor, and Viktor chuckles again, low and pleased. Another bruise, and another — always above and beyond with Hades. Ever eager.
Viktor does not open his eyes until Hades had pulled away, squeezing hair and hip in protest, but even then it takes him a moment, breath shallow and face flushed. He embraces the high, hot, heady feeling that arcs up from the dip between his thighs to every nerve in his body. The roar of his pulse somehow grows fiercer when he opens his eyes, realizes that he's surrounded. ]
Closer. [ He breathes, almost pleading. ] Press against me. I want to f-feel how I excite you.
[ Dimly, he's always been aware of how much taller, broader, bigger Hades is, but sat in his lap, with nothing separating slick skin save soapy water, the difference is newly intoxicating. Made near unbearable, knowing that Hades intends not to fight, to wrestle for control, but to obey.
Viktor licks his lips, stealing composure between thundering thumps of his heartbeat. He stares, lips parted, wisteria eyes fixed with hungry, animal focus. ]
You are fond of my hands, aren't you?
[ Voice dark, sweet and slow as pomegranate molasses, Viktor puts to words what he has known for quite some time. Proof glimpsed in sketchbook pages, in the fall of Hades's gaze when Viktor works Creation, in how his attention lingers on knuckles, on palms, on wrists. ]
And I do l-love that gorgeous mouth.
[ Viktor lifts a hand, not quite touching fingertips to the soft swell of Hades's lower lip. Wanting to indulge, but holding himself back. Wanting, more, for Hades to indulge, himself. He waits, one second, two, listening to the rhythm of their matched breaths, realizing that Hades truly does intend to make him ask, to coax his want, always so hidden away as to nearly go forgotten, from him. Water beads at his wrist, falls in a fat drop, and the sound as it hits the bath beneath feels almost deafening. ]
Lick them. Kiss them. Sh-show me- show me how much you like them.
[ 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.
[ Water whispers protest as Hades moves. Closer, closer, skin meeting skin, and Viktor feels a little ridiculous for thinking of nothing so romantic as puzzle pieces or the sun spilling light over its much loved earth, but of a dislocated shoulder slotted neatly back into place. A feeling of sharply aching rightness.
He welcomes Hades with an open palm. The hand not grasped slips back to flatten over vertebrae, fingers pressing firm enough to mold clay as they slide down the shape of him, finding the exit scar carved into his back. Surrounded by Hades, his body, his smell, his aether, there is still this: a signature. His signature, his soul - as it is now, not some older, better model - writ across skin, across blood and organ, bone and marrow. A through and through, staking claim, not so entirely different from the 'gGg' embroidered into so many of the little things Emet-Selch has made him over these last moons - a secret for just the two of them, you are mine, mine, mine.
Viktor sighs as he studies, bright, hungry sound, lets fingernails scrape shallow lines into pale flesh as Hades adjusts them both once more. Stars, pressed this close even the barrier between them feels gossamer thin. Like he could look through and glimpse, grasp every thought, every feeling. Like he could dig fingers into the soil of Hades's soul to set roots, to fill the fissures time and torment have left in him with flowers, to build a home and make the both of them more whole.
It's a frightening feeling, but for the first time, he refuses to let it go. ]
Mayhap I have only noticed because I cannot keep my eyes off of you. [ Murmured, soft, sensing the twinge of embarrassment.
Viktor watches, transfixed, as Hades pays each finger a reverence that he would not allow from anyone else, and has to stop himself from miming the motion when Emet-Selch's mouth closes around his fingertips. Small blessings that the bath has already left his skin flushed, because as that tongue curls around each finger, he can feel a newer, hungrier heat creeping up, making every shallow, panted breath hot.
Hades swipes a hand over his chest, catches a nipple as his teeth graze fingertips, and a quiet moan slips past Viktor's lips. From worshiped idol to Emet-Selch's needy creature in mere seconds. Embarrassing. He laughs, again. Likes that he feels safe, exhaling some measure of that still building heat. ]
I suppose I can accept close to con-t-tent.
[ His flushed and flustered features bend into a cocky grin. Viktor leans in, draping his other arm over Hades's shoulder, meaning to press in for a kiss but stopping short. First, he indulges in a bit of simple softness, brushing the bridges of their noses together, and then abruptly he angles his head. Presses his mouth to the sharp corner of Hades's jaw. He makes his way up from there, leaving a line of kisses from cheek to ear, murmuring in-between each one. ]
'Twould by my pleasure to put them to work for you, however you might need.
[ Viktor catches Hades's earlobe between his teeth, nibbling before he tips his chin up and whispers, ] I hope, someday, you will permit me to make a proper mess of you.
[ Briefly, he regrets. Foolish as it is, there is a part of him that thinks this cannot last and he is horrifically torn between two options: end it now before it has the potential to destroy both of them, or let it continue, and know that losing, failing, would shatter him as easily as another sundering.
But is that not the point of what they do? Savoring the small moments, the impossibility of being alive. They do not have time for indulgences, but they must make time. That lesson, at least, he has internalized. They spent so much time in Amaurot thinking they had forever, and then in the wake of everything Emet-Selch could only think about how much time they had wasted, taken for granted. He did not wish to make the same mistake here. ]
Surely you've more important tasks to attend to than watching me.
[ Said, as though the thought of being watched so intently does not act as supplemental kindling to the fire already built in his belly. Emet-Selch hides a smile against Viktor's palm at the noise he manages to wrest from the other man, inordinately pleased, and then tips his head back up in anticipation of the kiss he thinks is imminent only to find Viktor distracted with dropping kisses anywhere but. He cannot truly protest, not when he hadn't realized that his earlobes were so sensitive, a direct line from where Viktor's mouth lingers straight to his half-hard cock, stealing nothing so uncontrolled as a moan from him but there is a sharp, soft intake of breath, the flex of Emet-Selch's hands briefly against Viktor. ]
Oh, I think you've succeeded in that several times over.
[ If Viktor will not close the distance, Emet-Selch will, heedless of the fact it was not a command Viktor had made; he doesn't think Viktor would hold this want against him. Tilting his head, he chases Viktor until he can drop a kiss against his lips, missing the first time and tasting water, conditioner, very nearly snickering as he pulls back before the action can be anything other than a graze. ]
Rinse. There is a perfectly serviceable bed not three yalms away and I would greatly enjoy seeing you spread out upon its sheets.
From time to time I do indulge in what I want, rather than what needs must be done. [ The cheeky grin he puts on is intercepted by a press of lips. The urgency of it sends a burst of warm frisson rushing up Viktor's spine, the clumsiness touching that heat with a sweetness that makes him wriggle his shoulders. Soap and soaking salts are not necessarily pleasant tastes, but they will be filed neatly, forever more, among his favorite things, his most well-savored memories. A mote of bright light in the dark, like dandelions peeking up through cracks in Crystarium streets. ] H-hard to believe, I know.
[ He chases, just an ilm, before he is the one given orders. Viktor stops short of stealing another kiss, derailing their whole conversation again, and does not bother to mask how pleased he is to be directed; smile broad and hungry, as much hot chili in it as as sugar. ]
It is quite cold, you know. You best be prepared to keep me warm.
[ Still lingering in Emet-Selch's space, Viktor reaches back, haphazardly groping for the stone stopper plugging the tub drain. With a rattle, groan, and gurgle, the water level begins to drop. Viktor fumbles next for the faucet without looking, grin still pointed Emet-Selch's way as he turns knobs behind him. Fresh water spills from the tap, and he bends back without waiting for it to warm, ducking his head beneath the stream, gripping his ears with one hand to protect them from water, and wringing conditioner from his hair with the other until the water runs clean.
He sits back up, reluctant to leave the warmth of the tub just yet, even as the water level continues to fall. Viktor wastes a few seconds squeezing excess water from his hair, gentle waves springing up into tight curls for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Perhaps there is something to all these silly little bottles after all. Perhaps there is something to a bit of luxury. Perhaps Lucilia was right.
Only once he's girded himself against the cold does he rise, performatively slow, even if he mislikes the cold air. He fetches a towel, hip jutting out at an angle as he dries his ears, then his shoulders and torso and tail, before slinging it around his waist and climbing finally from the tub.
Here, he stops in spite of the chilly air. Turns to watch Emet-Selch with the sort of interest of someone whose paid to see a show, and takes two steps back toward the bed -- their bed. ]
[ He infuses every bit of dubiousness he can into repeating Viktor's words, but leaves it alone afterward, unwilling to unintentionally strike a chord when he only means to poke fun. His reward is Viktor's smile, just the sight of it twisting something in his stomach. It's not arousal - or well, it's not just arousal he feels, but a vicious greedy sort of satisfaction for being any bit of why Viktor looks like that - looks at him like that. ]
Rest assured I've no intention of freezing to death or losing any limbs to the chill.
[ Nor does he have any desire to wrest himself from the warmth of the bath even as it drains, too focused on chasing waterdroplets with his eyes as they bead and roll down Viktor's skin once he's done rinsing his hair clean. A shame, to muss it when the curls are almost neat but there is nothing that prevents them from taking a second bath. Leaning against the bathwater-warmed stone to watch Viktor's little show, Emet-Selch grabs for the wine and, after a beat of hesitation - of weighing need, necessity, and the simple desire to show off - snaps.
Where candlelight used to give off nothing but a vague, wobbling light, it feels as if each one has doubled or tripled in size. The fireplace coughs ash upward through the chimney and fresh logs appear, already blazing within the hearth. As Viktor approaches the bed, he'll notice it, too, radiates a low, warm heat; fire crystals have appeared tucked in the corners of the duvet, ensuring the bed is as warm as the room is soon to be.
Only then does he rise, a towel snapped into position around his hips. He doesn't need modesty where he's going - where they're going, but old habits die hard. Goldenrod had called him a prude with witch-cackling delight and irritatingly, he found it wasn't a wholly inaccurate summation. Even all these years later he hasn't fully shaken off the desire to be clad head to toe in shapeless, formless robes. For now, a towel will have to do. ]
What would be your general disposition if I stated I was far more interested in indulging in you this evening? As opposed to a more - [ he pauses, stepping out of the bath, trying to find a less clinical set of words. ] - mutual agreement.
You heard me, silly man. [ Light, bright, he answers that bit of teasing with an exaggerated wink and smile, delivered with a flourish, pressing his pointer finger to his cheek, every bit the clown.
It has been an age, it seems, since he could indulge in the simple joy of silliness. Shocking, how easily he slides back into it, but perhaps it shouldn't be. Though his heart sits cracked and fissured by loss and lack, what holds it together - the one who holds it together - is stronger than the darkness around it. Viktor has only ever burned as bright as the love afforded to him might allow, and the love presently afforded to him is fuel enough for whole stars.
He delights in the simple show of magic - is not sure he will ever be bored of watching Emet-Selch coax aether for the sheer pleasure of it. The air warms, and his grip on his towel loosens ever so slightly. Viktor's mismatched eyes drink in every ilm of Hades presented as he steps from the tub, fair skin flush with warmth and gilded by firelight. So gorgeous, Viktor only half hears the question asked.
But half is more than enough. He blinks, eyes darting up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze.
It is not fear, exactly, that plays across Viktor's features at that question, though the pace of his heart does speed to a gallop, thundering in his throat and catching all the air before it can escape his lungs. Caution and curiosity take equal credit for the widening of Viktor's eyes as he beholds Hades with renewed interest, but the way his lips part, the way his tongue darts out to wet them as he studies the perfect lines of Hades form - his form, the one that feels most like him, starburst scar and all - is all hunger. ]
Good. [ Viktor finds his voice somehow, and it arrives sturdier than he expects. Calm and certain, for a moment, at least. ] I'd say good. But- are you sure? It's just that... I've never- no. I usually-
[ Malleable. He makes himself malleable. Reforges himself to fit his partner's desire. The worshipful healer for Relle. The relentless fighter for Estinien. A fearless adventurer for G'raha, for the Exarch. Conquering hero or tamed monster for every random body inbetween.
But here, now, Viktor finds that he can think of nothing he could remake himself into that might best please Hades. Even were his soul rejoined again, to try and make himself any more Aepymetes than he is now would, he knows, be a step backward. And if he brushes aside the noise of worry and doubt, he is not entirely sure that more Aepymetes is even what Hades wants. What does it mean if he cannot make himself into something better than what he is? If he cannot offer something for what is given? If Hades seeks to indulge without taking in turn?
Stars, he suddenly feels every ilm of his own nakedness. The room warms, and Viktor's skin with it, rosy blush left by the bath insisting upon lingering, on growing hotter the longer he stands there.
Viktor's brows do a funny little dance on his forehead, flattening over his eyes. The absurdity of it all, of the Warrior of Light finding himself mortified, shy as the flowers that peek up beneath the boughs of the Everschade, makes his expression crack into an incredulous smile. ]
-I usually give.
[ And he cannot fathom receiving, taking, being loved without promising something, without providing worth, in return. But worse than that uncertainty is the idea that Hades might decide not to touch him, to taste him, to savor him at all. ]
[ Silly is not a word often used to describe him, but there is, he supposes, a first time for everything. A far more suitable word for Viktor, who seems not just to delight in the levity but actively relish it. Blessedly, there is no comment about the use of magic, no inquiries about why, if he had the power to make the room a little less cold and miserable, he had not adjusted the temperature until Viktor had arrived.
But then, Viktor seems awfully distracted by him. He was, and is, relatively attractive for a given meaning of the word. Enough so that he'd had no shortage of people seeking courtships until he had been firmly off the table and even then, found himself complaining to Aepymetes or Hythlodaeus about those who were unsatisfied with a rejection - as if they could ever hope to match the two of them in any meaningful capacity. It is, he thinks, not wholly unpleasant to be wanted so viscerally, so obviously. Certainly less disagreeable than he had anticipated.
I've never, I usually-. Emet-Selch lets him work through the response he wants to give on his slow prowl from bath to bed once he's considered the room and snapped into place a rug, massive enough to provide ample warmth instead of bare feet on cold stone to the bathroom later. Only then does he pad across the distance to the other man, considering the warm flush to his skin, the scatter of freckles and the insane desire to ensure he doesn't leave this room without kissing each of them. ]
I had assumed. [ Mildly, not judgmental, exactly, but there is a tone there; judgmental of those who came before, maybe.
Of course, others had not cared for Viktor in the same way. Of course, they were more concerned with the petty day-to-day or even pettier wants than Viktor's own. Emet-Selch leans in close enough to graze a kiss against the furrowed brow, rewarded with the warmth of Viktor's smile, far eclipsing any magical heat he could muster. Mine, as gods have worshippers. Mine, as a hound's master.. It is, he thinks, not so horrible to be kept, to belong to someone so inextricably that it has lasted countless lifetimes and souls. ] I was clear that night, was I not?
[ Gingerly, he hooks two fingers into the front of Viktor's towel, not pulling but there is a tension, the threat, or maybe promise of removing it. ]
You give until you've nothing left to give. What I desire is for you to reach out with both hands and to take.
[ There are a few incontrovertible truths about their star. Or there should be. Or, people take comfort in saying that there are. And so there are. Until too many folks find out that even the incontrovertible is exactly the thing it claims not to be - perfectly wrong in a few interesting instances and probably wrong in some boring ones, too - and then there's trouble.
(And while trouble is certainly something Viktor bumps into on the regular, his preference is to avoid that particular sort. Toying with status quo of common wisdom is a bit below his pay grade at this point, if he's honest.)
But, incontrovertible truths - like the notion that a soul is stripped of all it was upon its return to the Sea; memories dismantled as the soul sinks, as it dreams, flaking away like so much paint, 'til only the blank canvas remains. Unless-
Unless you are two souls who so love to lie in sunlight together that you find each other across ten thousand years, from an island in the sky to a more conventional one set in the sea, to nap. Unless you are a brilliant, too soft-hearted scientist, overseeing the creation of new life upon a vast, flying research center, over and over, in search of meaning. Unless you are the split threads of the same beleaguered smith, the same gallant knight, the same cutthroat merchant, the same stern scholar, dancing the same dance across time, across worlds.
Then, the incontrovertible starts courting controversy. And that's not Viktor's business. He can enjoy the quiet satisfaction of knowing without ruining anyone else's day.
Anyway, the point is, twelve thousand years ago, AzemAepymetes Viktor made a game of reaching out, of grasping and plucking threads to make the music that most pleased his ear, of choosing and taking. Of chasing what he wanted, even if it meant leaving what he loved in the dark. And for that grave sin - or perhaps for no reason at all - he and all he loved was made blood, burned to ash, and split fourteen ways.
He does not remember any of this, precisely - and he shouldn't imprecisely, either, if the incontrovertible is truly thus - but it is all there. For ages upon ages, across eras and bodies, he felt it, did his best to show the star he'd learnt a lesson. He did not want. He walked. He did not take. He gave and gave and gave. And the star responded by burning up again and again and again, each time putting the match in the hand of the man he'd loved most. Until he forgot how to want, how to take, entirely. Until this, too, seemed to become incontrovertible.
It's a good thing that forests sometimes need fires to grow. It's a good thing that, in the span between ashes and new sprouts, one can see the incontrovertible for what it is - something that's only waiting to be controverted in just the right way. Souls are not always wiped clean, and penance does not always mean healing.
Sometimes, a love is too fierce to be blanched away. Sometimes, wanting, taking, and giving are all the same, and have no bearing on whether the world turns to ash.
Viktor reaches up, pressing palms to the line of Hades's jaw and taking his face gently in both hands. He leans in, until the fingers curled around his towel press to the bare skin beneath. He stares up, a hound adoring, a god embracing its most devoted. He needn't reforge himself into something new. He needn't set himself aflame or flee.
He needs only to be here, in this steadily warming room, enjoying the feeling of being enjoyed for exactly what he is - enough, and worth keeping. ]
Is the rug not a little excessive? [ Leveled with teasing glee, smile noon sun bright. ] Come here.
[ He props himself up partway on tip toe and pulls Emet-Selch down the rest of the distance to plant that grin against his mouth. There, he lingers, tipping his head to deepen the kiss, to taste as though he hasn't already sampled this a dozen (a hundred? a thousand?) times already. Because he wants to.
With the ease of one well acquainted with both dances and duels, Viktor turns the both of them until Hades is the one with his back to the bed. One hand drags down, fingers tracing every dip and curve, pressing to skin, until he flattens his palm upon the scar marking Hades's chest. There, he pushes, urging Hades down to the bed with a firm hand, and if the towel around Viktor's waist slips away with him, well- that's just getting their work done faster. ]
Tonight, you are going to imp-p-press me with all the things I know you've been trying not to let yourself think about doing to me. [ Still wearing a smile that is all playful warmth, excitement, he chases, slotting himself into place on Hades's lap, draping arms over his broad shoulders. ] First, though, perhaps a practical exam. Let's see how well you recall my first lesson.
[ He wishes, foolishly, to have had a robe on for all of this. Some sort of barrier even after the bath, perhaps especially after the bath; at least there they had a purpose to distract.
The purpose of coming to the bed is not to sleep, but Emet-Selch is called and so shall he answer, feet moving before his brain has time to even process the gentle command he's given. Only when he's physically pulled does he give some manner of resistance - a moment, can't make it too easy can he? - and then he gives in, gratefully accepting what Viktor offers, heedless of whether or not it is deserved. He'd never admit it, but the kiss serves to ease some of the discomfort of being bare; maybe it's the distraction, maybe it's the want. He doesn't particularly care about the reason so much as the fact that it allows him to be guided, shepherded, he thinks wryly, to sit. ]
And you expect me to recall with perfect clarity while you're - [ There goes the towel, just as Emet-Selch reaches the word you're, abruptly aware of the fact that the only thing Viktor's wearing is that smile. His own - wonderfully plush, thank you - stays set upon his hips through sheer luck but does very little to hide the half-hard swell beneath. This feels a stark contrast to the moment Viktor refers to; where Emet-Selch had the barrier of layers of clothes, a little room and the certainty that he had resisted for thousands of years so he could resist this too. ] Which part would you have me recall first? Your alleged propensity for not wearing smalls during negotiations?
[ Even if he feigns ignorance, the memory is not so old he has forgotten it. Emet-Selch had avoided his ears where possible when washing Viktor's hair; less out of disgust and more out of a desire not to accidentally injure. Now, with a brow furrowed in concentration as if he is magicking a particularly complex item instead of mimicking how Viktor'd touched himself earlier, Emet-Selch traces fingers along Viktor's ear, remapping the path his hands had taken, slower, lighter at first and then he seems to shake himself out. Ridiculous.
His heels plant against the ground, scooting back against the bed ilms and then fitting both hands beneath Viktor's thighs to ensure he brings Viktor with him, giving his knees more purchase upon the bed. Then, it seems a waste not to at least attempt to fulfill the other request, greedily exploring the yalms of bare skin, tracing constellations of freckles on his shoulders, pressing intermittent kisses against them with quiet reverence. ]
There was a question I wished to ask then, but did not. You mentioned we were close to one of your favorite imaginings. [ His fingers trace each knob of Viktor's spine on the path down to his tail, seemingly languid were it not for the intent way Emet-Selch looks up at him. ] I would know what it was.
[ Oh, how Viktor loves his little moments, delicious comfit bits of insight and experience, made all the more delectable for how fleeting they are. And here, now, he is spoiled for them. A hitch of breath, a hesitation, the stubborn mote of resistance fizzling before the heat of want, and then the inevitable, impossible slowness of much longed for indulgence. Viktor watches, rapt, as Emet-Selch obeys his guiding palm, studies each minute change in so stern an expression, savors every ilm of what sits beneath his thighs when he finally settles. Knowing, certain, unresevedly, that this, that he, that Hades is his.
And in the next moment, he laughs, delighted. ]
I thought the star held no m-mysteries for the most eminent Emet-Selch? [ He grins as he slides fingers between strands of platinum hair, moving a few out of those firefly eyes, unable to stop himself from feeling, memorizing now that he's been given permission. The other hand busies itself studying the starburst scar that sits beneath his heart, as though repetition might make a muscle memory of its shape upon his fingertips. ] Can't even figure the pattern of when I'm wearing s-skivvies. Hm. You need to look closer.
[ A breath, shallow, excited when they move. He shuts his eyes, slender fingers threading further into Hades's hair, encouraging diligent exploration of sensitive skin. His ears twitch, almost ticklish, under a feather light touch. And Viktor remains, as ever, all motion. Not shy at all about directing Emet-Selch to linger against one stretch of skin, not quiet when he lands somewhere he likes, sure of what attentions he enjoys most. ]
Here. [ He murmurs when Emet-Selch's mouth finds the point where his throat dips and pulse roars, urging with a press of his palm for him to lavish attention there. But the focus is fleeting. Fingers drag down the length of his spine and he arches into the movement, stretching to draw the journey longer. ]
My...? [ Another chuckle, all air, a little sheepish. Viktor tips his chin down, lower lip caught between his teeth to bite down on a smile, embarrassment plain. ] I- I-
[ But he needn't be embarrassed. Not with Hades. And so, he starts, quiet, careful, not wanting to stutter too much. ]
You, working late on something terribly important. And I- I stop by and I am... a horrible distraction. But one that you cannot- do not want to resist, though you do try. [ Viktor's grin bends, crooked, liking this vantage point - gazing down at him. Easier to call to mind the exact fantasy he had replayed so, so many times when the faintest hint of a smile from Emet-Selch had felt like water in a drought, when the thought of thinking that at all burned his face with shame. Easier to find the confidence to recount his daydream at all. ] And so, instead of sending me away, you- push things aside. Papers. Bottles. S-set me upon your desk and slowly peel me out of my clothes.
[ He curls his fingers around the edges of Emet-Selch's towel. ]
You t-touch me, k-kiss me, every ilm. Ravenous. You part my thighs, press in, and- [ A soft sigh, euphoric. His hips shift, and though he feels mortification pooling at the high point of his sternum, he cannot look away. ] -you taste. You eat. You- [ Viktor hesitates, voice gone soft. ] -you savor.
Will you not afford me the time to explore, or is Azem the only one allowed such indulgences?
[ Murmured, amused against a spray of freckles on his shoulder as Viktor gives instructions.
Emet-Selch is as avid of a student as he was back weeks ago when Viktor gave him instruction the first time. He grazes a kiss against Viktor's throat as he laughs, lingering, savoring the way he can feel it resonate through Viktor's body pressed as close as they are. The chill of the room has mostly ceased, though he slowly lifts a hand from the curve of Viktor to snap into place another log for the fireplace to consume. Sparks spit across the stone floor as the log settles.
Once again, Viktor's hand settles upon the scar he had carved, that Emet-Selch had brought forth once again to this body, touching it like a worrystone. He makes note of where Viktor prefers attention but keeps to his slow, methodical exploration, grazing kisses against both nipples, pressing teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, nosing into the corner of Viktor's elbow to lay a kiss against the soft, thin skin there, trailing down to his hands once again, unable to stop himself from lavishing attention upon each finger while Viktor speaks.
Later, he thinks. They will have a later. They are building a path to a later that they will grasp with both hands. ]
You do make me ravenous. [ Murmured aginst the spot Viktor had pointed out earlier, lips pressed against the thunder of his pulse, adding another bruise to Viktor's small collection of them for the spoiled lordling to see tomorrow. The staff will note the shared room if they both come out of this one tomorrow, and the thought brings as much brutal satisfaction as other plots, but with far less stakes. Petty, but he does not particularly care when Viktor's settled upon him like this. ] We've no desk to upset, but I can fulfill at least a portion of that request. Though I fear you would need to relocate to a more suitable position.
[ Their positions reversed partially - Viktor upon the bed, Emet-Selch kneeling - has no small amount of appeal, but for a moment, hands tracing Viktor's muscled thighs, Emet-Selch thinks about lying upon the bed, Viktor's knees on either side of his ears, and the ability to eat, to savor, until Viktor has had his fill and his stomach twists with want so violent he shudders out a breath, fingers pressing tight into Viktor's thigh while he masters himself. ]
Angling for my job, is it? Then you should know, sometimes the star needs-
[ Dizzying, watching Hades commit to the work of worship so thoroughly. No matter how he wishes to see every ilm covered, the feel of teeth sinking lightly into flesh steals his breath. Interrupted, Viktor slumps into Hades with a soft, wanting whine, composure nothing but loose loops and tangles as Hades continues his journey, finding places Viktor had not expected to hold lighting.
It takes him a few seconds to find even the desire to say more. But he does, eventually, voice hoarse and barely louder than a campfire whisper, though his grin is wide and wild. The words themselves come unthinking, fervent. ]
S-sometimes, the star you so love needs you in one p-place when you would rather be in another.
[ Passingly, he thinks of what a truly remarkable Azem Hades might've made. And in the next moment, that thought is gone, dandelion fluff blown away by the feeling of a new bruise blooming - a new monogram signature, set to skin by teeth and tongue, proof of whose he is. Between panting breaths, he braces himself against Emet-Selch's shoulder, trying with mixed success to refind his composure, and settling instead on lunging in for a proper, hungry kiss. ]
Mayhap- [ A boyish snicker escapes him as he breaks away, just ilms, already laughing at his own terrible joke. ] -you are needed in the Underworld, next.
[ Viktor rights himself, intending to move, but stops again. Makes a nonsense sound of approval as fingers dig into his thigh, deliciously sharp, delightfully painful.
Always, always Hades fights these most human moments. And he needn't. Viktor will not pretend that that, too, is not delicious in its own way, watching the imperturbable Emet-Selch struggle against an almost animal want. But, stars, to unleash it - to revel in every wild moment as he unravels... ]
Fuck. Hades- Hades... [ Whispered, wanting, grasping for purchase on anything approaching sense. He cannot get away from himself, not yet. Viktor knocks two fingers beneath Emet-Selch's chin, tips his head up to gaze into his eyes. ] Much as it delights me to see your effort, you needn't s-struggle so. N-not with me.
[ His hand slips down again, this time just to Emet-Selch's sternum. He doesn't quite urge him back, not yet - not after so many moons of flinching against touch, of gloves and countless layers - though it quickly becomes clear that their imaginations had been aligned. He hesitates, unsure of how best to ask, and then deciding it does not matter, so long as the question is leveled syrupy slow. ]
[ The little taste of Azem's job he'd gotten over the years was plenty. While he could, while he did travel the shards, taking note of what was found to later show Hythlodaeus and Azem, he was better utilized as Emet-Selch. He certainly didn't have the patience of Azem, nor the disposition required. ]
The star can keep itself together for an evening. [ He almost sounds like he believes it when he says that, even. The star survives each night that they rest, each night they don't spend feverishly searching for the next option. He does not imagine it would be any different if they choose to spend their evening not entirely asleep. Much as it pains him to admit one can, in fact, take time for leisurely activities, the distraction is not wholly unwelcome.
And Viktor is, undeniably, a distraction. Just as Emet-Selch starts to work the thought over in his mind - duty, responsibility, the weight shared but still immensely heavy - Viktor steals a kiss from him and Emet-Selch cannot let it go unanswered, unaddressed, hungry to see what other noises the two of them can wrest free from Viktor. ]
Don't coddle. [ Emet-Selch doesn't quite wither under the too-understanding gaze, but he does scowl, imposing were it not for the fact his lips keep rebelling, Viktor's easy laughter and levity and incredibly bad jokes not entirely ineffective. ] I'm not struggling. Struggling implies - I am not.
[ He is, in fact, struggling with the reality of the answer he doesn't give: he's startled by the depths of his want. At how much he could want, when he allowed himself even the vaguest consideration. He wants what he once considered impossible and in the form he'd imagined it, it was; that time is past. But the shape of this new want, how easy it is, will take some getting used to.
Emet-Selch nearly misses the question, focused on thoughtlessly stroking fingers where he'd dug in earlier, marveling at the fact that Viktor's touched him throughout this entire process and the little jumps of disgust, of guilt, have been so far to the back of mind as to nearly be forgotten. Being pedantic is undoubtedly easier than focusing on any of those revelations, and so Emet-Selch lifts both eyebrows and asks, ]
I don't know, hero, would it? I am, for most intents and purposes, yours to command as you see fit.
[ Despite the colorful choice of word, Viktor's voice is too soft, too fond by half, hewing far closer to something more like I love you, that last sharp T clipped in his haste to catch Hades's mouth with his own. One firm, insistent kiss, the weight of his body thrown into it, until Emet-Selch is flattened back against the bed.
He draws away, less than an ilm. Purrs, between light brushes of lips against Hades's mouth and jaw, ]
Mine. To command or coddle as I see fit.
[ Viktor shifts, sitting straight and drawing one knee up to press against Hades's chest, pinning him in place. Predator quiet, Viktor studies him, memorizes the way his hair falls around his face, the set of his shoulders pressed into blankets, the look on his face from above. Coddling and commands, restraint and unbridled want - talk of those things can be saved for later, when the flame kindled low in Viktor's belly doesn't make any words at all half impossible to get out.
Once he's satisfied that he's committed the sight of Hades conquered beneath him to memory, Viktor slips his pinning leg ilms forward, over his shoulder - all the grace of an acrobat. ]
Now-
[ After softly exhaled breath, unsuccessfully trying to slow the rabbit pace of his heart, Viktor climbs forward, one palm flattening on Emet-Selch's stomach at he moves, dragging fingernails up to his chest, until he is settled, knees grazing ears, his other hand threading into long platinum hair. ]
You are going to p-put that lovely mouth of yours to work on something other than sass.
[ 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. ]
[ It's been a while. Not so long that he has the luxury of claiming an eras-spanning devotion to one (or two) soul(s), unfortunately. Just long enough to be embarrassed by how hotly sensitive his skin is, how he has to stifle another whine when Emet-Selch's fingers press to the skin of his hip, how impossible it is to recall the sense memory of being on the receiving end of such attention, instead of giving, before it happens.
Let it never be said that Viktor cannot roll with the proverbial punches, though. He accepts with some trepidation that he can no longer imagine what to expect, and catches himself approaching the encounter as he might any battle - tense, hyperaware. But even resignation does not adequately prepare him for the feel of lips pressed to his thighs, moving higher as he settles. There is music in his breath when he sighs. ]
If you- If you m-must- [ A little gasp slips out of him, his composure falling to pieces despite his best efforts. Words escape between siezed breaths as Hades's mouth finds its mark, tongue splashing bright, twinkling color across Viktor's senses. ] If you want to complain so- ah- s-so badly, you are only allowed to do so if you- oh.
[ Viktor's fingers curl into the duvet, knuckles clenched near to white around fabric as he leans into the lapping of Hades's tongue. His lack of practice means little when he so diligently responds to each panting whimper that steals from Viktor's lips. ]
Lift our veil if you've more to complain about. Otherwise- [ He means it to sound teasing, flippant, but the intent is swallowed up in a low hum of pleasure. The hand not clinging to the bed for purchase grasps a handful of Emet-Selch's hair as Viktor rocks himself against his mouth, heat between his thighs building, climbing up his spine, until he's forgotten what he'd meant to say at all. ] That. Keep- keep doing-
[ Emet-Selch's muffled moan reaches Viktor's ears, sound wholly unexpected, and they lop back against his curls as lightning zings from his stomach up to his throat. Viktor lasts precisely five seconds more before he shudders, shoulders to feet, toes curling as he chokes out a sound somewhere between a curse and his lover's name. His thighs clench, fingers tightening in platinum hair, and he presses down, buckling over as he comes. He's barely caught his breath, still doubled over, before he urges, ] Keep- k-keep going.
[ That's a level of articulateness that he is not necessarily best pleased with when it comes to his performance, but the sound of Viktor's breathy exhale, the hitch to his words, the sting from the clench of his hand in Emet-Selch's hair, well. He supposes he cannot be performing too poorly, judging by the noises he wrests from the other man.
For a petty moment, he thinks to utilize one of several enchantments to throw one's voice but the urge fades just as soon as Viktor gives voice to needy instructions. The hand grasping Viktor's hip skims upward, feeling the tight line of his stomach clenching and his skin's warmth like it's not enough to stay still; he has to touch as much of Viktor as he can.
He could lift the veil. Even as distracted as he is, he thinks he could manage to raise but a corner, and maybe later he will when the novelty of a simple healing spell restoring them has faded. For now, he finds he's far too hungry for the tactile way, drinking in the sight of Viktor curling in on himself, flushed and needy because of him. He's made a wreck of him over countless lifetimes; this type of wreck is undeniably his favorite.
Would that he did not have to breathe, though. Viktor's thighs clench, his hips jerking and Emet-Selch makes a low, pleased noise in response, smoothing his hand down Viktor's flank content to work until his jaw and tongue ache and then do it all over again until Viktor tells him to stop. He lifts his head just long enough to breathe, interrupting the ragged intake of air with a wet kiss smeared against the inside of Viktor's thigh, and then adjusts his grip, shifts his weight on the bed and returns to his task with ruthless enthusiasm.
He does not lift a full edge so much as he does nudge the toe of a shoe beneath the hem and raise it incrementally. Enough that Viktor is made privy to a swell of feelings - a hunger he hadn't dared acknowledge for thousands of years, sated. A frisson of worry that he won't know when he's indulged too much, a brief, flickering emotion that feels like same kind of pure clarity Zodiark brought; a certainty in the shape of Viktor. A desire to execute this well - the briefest hint of amusement, a flicker of smut read over the years, glossed over. Distantly, there is surprise, too; surprise he could enjoy being this bare, surprise he hasn't overthought his way into a pit. ]
[ Stars cling to the corners of Viktor's vision, no sign of clearing as Emet-Selch again obeys his increasingly ragged commands and promptly robs him of the will to argue further. Words give way to little more than fluttered breaths, threaded through with bright, encouraging murmurings. Viktor's nails traces spirals against Emet-Selch's scalp, combing through his hair at a frantic pace, too firm to be strictly gentle.
Finally, finally he allows himself the luxury of being wholly present. Unfussed with the room's entry and exit points, careless about how loud he moans when Hades's mouth settles on his prick, forgetting entirely to brace for the next sudden hurt, the next unwanted surprise fate has in store. There is no end of the world. No greedy princelings. No infernal blue bird or ruined Seas. No needy masses. There is just this, just the two of them. Just light and sound and feeling. A knight sorcerer's calloused hands skimming his skin, cupping his body, taking measure of his shape and fitting neatly wherever they land. The dizzying levin zing of being licked and sucked and savored, fire building anew in the pit of his belly.
The hand not tangled in Hades's hair slides up into his own. Fingers catch on damp curls, drag down over neck and chest and stomach to splay over white fur, opening himself further as he leans into Hades's busy mouth with a low, cracking moan. His hips rock, finding rhythm to match Emet-Selch's ministrations, making him taste the spot Viktor likes best.
And then Hades lets him in, their veil hiked up as dancer's skirts, just a glimpse, enough to leave Viktor groaning, ecstatic, impatient with his inability to latch onto any one feeling as it flits by his awareness. His own emotions flood. Each one bright oil paint spilled across an incandescent canvas, too big, too vivid to have any clear definition. Rust red want makes a fine backdrop for brighter reds and twinkling gold, a slurry of hot pleasure softer feeling. Warm colors of comfort and safety, of home - and the silver white shock of how unfamiliar such a concept feels - blooming like little flowers in a more frantic field of clay. And between, silhouette glimpses of what he'd like next - held and explored with eager hands, atop, tangled together, bent and pressed into bed sheets, filled, drowned in this feeling, in Hades. Devoured.
Viktor feels his pleasure peak, a flood of lightning across his senses. He clenches his jaw, breathes and straightens, stretching his legs, breaking contact, to stop himself from toppling over the edge again. ]
Hades. [ Viktor closes a shaking palm around the back of one of Emet-Selch's hands, voice gone reedy. ] Ride you. L-let me ride you.
[ At least he's adequately positioned to watch, like this. Even when not attempting to put on a show, Viktor commands his attention. A bone-deep satisfaction fills him the more Viktor moves, the more he demands to be pleased takes what he doesn't know he's practically owed after countless lifetimes of Emet-Selch's far less gentle ministrations. Viktor is owed, Emet-Selch thinks wryly, countless evenings of this and it would never come close to evening out the scales.
It is not so bad to make the attempt, though; especially not when Viktor parts himself where he's blush-dark and wet and Emet-Selch doesn't bother to hide the pleased, low noise threatening to be a moan as he tilts his head in response to Viktor's obvious indication of where he should be. The clench, the shudders herald a second peak and Emet-Selch allows his head to rest back against the pillow, allows himself a proper breath and then goes back to nosing at the soft insides of Viktor's thigh. ]
Ah. [ Emet-Selch gives into the indulgence, presses teeth to flesh just to see warm, dark skin grow rosy with the imprint of his teeth, and then looks up at Viktor, indulgent. ] We'd find some difficulty there but not for lack of...enthusiasm.
[ Emet-Selch melts back into the bed, stretching one of the arms he'd contorted awkwardly to touch more of Viktor, flexing individual fingers and then just as soon as it's done brings them back like he cannot bear to stop touching if the option is made available to him. ]
If you require something inside you, that can be easily arranged.
[ The fingers tracing idle arcane marks against Viktor's thigh pauses in the motion pinky to index finger tapping in a slow order. ]
There are, you may be unsurprised to learn, spells to serve the same function but without the pesky flesh and blood cooperation bit. It has been an age but I am fairly certain I still recall them.
[ Basking in what slips under the veil from Viktor's side like a cat in sunlight, the only thing trade in return is loose-limbed, lazy satisfaction, and the edge of hunger, the awareness that once was not going to be enough, and Viktor is right there, close enough it would be a trifle to lean up, to pull Viktor's hips back down. ]
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Only a third.
[ He does recall.
He'd rather he didn't. The difficulty of memory is not one easily solved; they identified and used crystals to store knowledge, but that did not solve the issue of one's own memory failing. Countless new memories overwriting old ones, the most treasured washed away under the weight of those atop. He could store as much as possible within crystals, but it was only a temporary solution.
Foolish, to be irritated at a woman long since dead, and insult to injury to know she is not really the problem. The problem is an intangible one that can't be solved with time, money, magic. ]
Lucilia.
[ He will not make this a fight, or a discussion, or some sort of attempt at a lesson on why their lives are like a candle, just a flicker of time before the next life replaces them. Wilful ignorance about the point Viktor is making is not the course of action. That, he supposes, is progress. Just like sitting here naked in the middle of a bath with company is progress of a sort. Just like the desire to touch and be touched by someone else is progress.
Gently, he fits his fingers around the line of Viktor's ankle, skimming fingers over the thin layer of skin and then further up, and makes an idle path back and forth from knee to ankle. Or, it would be idle were it not for how focused he seems on the motion, dragging his thumb along Viktor's calf to trace muscle, swirling a glancing touch over the bit of knee bared by the water. ]
Thavnair, is it? Awfully warm there. To say nothing of the dragon, with whom I think you must needs confirm my welcome.
[ The bottle ends up in his hand, but he cannot say victory is his clean and simple. Regretfully he tugs the hand tracing Viktor's leg back so he can thumb down the nozzle once, twice, and then after a considering look at Viktor's curls, a third time. Rosemary and something faintly floral are immediately evident, even if the floral notes are overwhelmed by the former. Gingerly, he rises up until he can get his knees beneath himself and reaches out to start working it through Viktor's curls carefully from roots to end, smoothing unruly curls back when they fall into his eyes. While he mislikes the cold in general, so much time in Garlemald means he bears the chill with minimal complaint, far more focused on the task at hand.
In hand. ]
Do not rinse this right away. Sit. Soak. [ Viktor's hair is countless times shorter than hers had been, and so it is not overly difficult to finish quickly, grimacing as his knees protest. Settled again in his spot, he tugs Viktor's leg back into place. Belatedly, not quite hesitant but not a declaration, foggier as he strains for the memory. ] Hers smelled of mint. Imported in frankly absurd quantities. Dried in a room I orchestrated to be next to my office.
[ Because it covered countless smells he would rather not have smelled by someone walking past. He does not point this out. ]
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[ The water sloshes as he shrugs. And the smile he offers up in exchange for the name is bright and pleased, unburdened by the weight of the day. The first genuine show of sunlight since they'd arrived on this icy reflection of home. Wildly gratifying, to have earned his answer. He can admit as much to himself.
Even better, to be touched, explored by calloused fingers. All that scholar's focus devoted to the study of skin and muscle, intoxicating. Emet-Selch's hand skirts up his leg, fingertips finding each slope and curve of sinew, glancing off his thigh as they pass up and over his knee, and Viktor does not bother to stop himself from shivering. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the motion, each pass kindling for the fire Viktor is increasingly disinterested in keeping banked low.
Oh, to know all the little details. All the people who have mattered to Hades. But. More pressing is this: to be the sole focus of all that ages old, heavy attention, to be such a distraction that a man who has seen all life has to offer cannot even pretend he wants to keep his hands to himself. Viktor relishes being as precious, as interesting, as the books and reports and odds and ends Emet-Selch is ever poring over, and tries not to pout too plainly when the study session comes to an end.
He opens one eye when Emet-Selch rises, spies the jagged outline of mottled flesh interrupting otherwise flawless skin, and decides it is his turn to learn. With his own hands now free, he does not hesitate to press greedy fingers to skin. Admiring his own handiwork, he thinks wryly, tracing the outline enjoying the warmth of the body beneath his palms. He resists pressing his mouth to skin as well, but only just. ]
Our spring home. [ He repeats, breathing in herbs and flowers. Familiar. It reminds him of his own clothes, his blankets, the inside of his pack. ] Where we will spend a few weeks when it is still miserably cold across Eorzea. Big, open windows, and a v-view of the sea. A little garden and a workshop for all your projects. Mm. [ His fingertips wander to trace the slope of Emet-Selch's waist, not grasping, just mapping his form. ] As for Vrtra, I think you underestimate how readily the people, even dragons, will forgive one who has d-done right by them.
[ He does not doubt it will be difficult, presenting the truth of things to the star. But, it will be worth it, to fight for Hades's place in this world they will have made. Perhaps, for a time, that will be his cause - illuminating all the ways in which Hades belongs, both to the people, and to the man, himself.
Emet-Selch settles back into the bath, guiding Viktor's leg where he wants it, and Viktor takes a few seconds to consider the feel of so much soap-that-is-not-soap set in his hair. He lifts a hand, lights fingers on the sticky substance run through his curls, and pulls a dubious face. Though it feels odd, the smell is nice, and he would endure the torment of sitting and waiting again if it meant Emet-Selch might slide fingers through his hair, working through tangles with a surgeon's gentle precision and shaping curls like an artist. ]
Mint. [ He murmurs, sliding a little closer, slow, testing the distance. How close can he press, before they find the new line? ] Crisp, cooling, green. Unignorable. A good scent for c-clearing one's head. Lucilia... had some good ideas. But I have better ones.
[ Like how to spend the next few minutes, waiting for this new fragrant gunk in his hair to set. Viktor tangles damp fingers in Emet-Selch's hair. ]
Kiss me.
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He doesn't, cognizant enough to recognize that is a losing battle. Why would he, when Viktor has reached out and is touching him like he's something precious, tracing the line where mottled flesh sits upon his chest so gently it is almost difficult to imagine those same hands enacting the (somewhat deserved) violence in the first place. Against his will, his skin prickles, goosebumps rising in response to the chill and Viktor's careful exploration. ]
I think that may be true for those who've committed what they might consider less...contentious crimes. For this... [ This is not the conversation they want to have here, now, Emet-Selch thinks. There is too much to go over. There are too many moving parts, too much to consider. They would want punishment. There would be those who would push for a penalty of some kind - he could pay any bill that came due if they assessed what he 'owed' as a monetary cost, easily. They could put him to death, but it would not take, and he has watched this play out too many times not to know what comes next. Those who realized and understood his nature would fall into two groups, maybe three. Ones who deemed him too powerful to exist, and would seek to add limitations, if not outright lock him up in perpetuity. Those who would attempt to shackle his abilities. And worst: those who would disregard the past and focus only on the fact he is, to them, a godlike being. One immune to illness, to death, who has lived countless lifetimes.
The Word of Emet-Selch could be exhausting enough. He did not like to think about what a cult would look like. ]
We shall see, I suppose. No sense borrowing trouble where there is not any yet.
[ If they survive, and if the dragons and those they've left have survived, it would be worthwhile for him to make a visit to Vrtra at the very least. Largely, he'd left the dragons alone out of respect for them, but there were plenty of pies with his fingers in them that had caused them no small bit of hardship. Emet-Selch would understand if the dragons' long memory was not so easily sated with an apology.
Distracted, he nearly misses the shift of Viktor inching closer, the slosh of the water drawing his attention back to the present, focusing on Viktor rather than a thousand malms away, trying to plot and plan. Obedient, Emet-Selch leans in just enough to press a lingering kiss against the inside of Viktor's wrist where his pulse beats beneath thin, soft skin. Another, careful not to jostle Viktor's hand from his damp hair, cheek pressed against Viktor's arm as he obeys the command, looking up at him through the fringe of displaced hair with a little smirk. ]
Would you care to be more specific in your instruction?
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But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
[ A brand for a brand. ]
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[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?
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We will find the time. And the means-
[ His muscles twitch, palm at Hades waist squeezing. A sharp hitch of breath, then a softer laugh, as Hades presses fingers to his stomach. It is indeed ticklish, gone too long without touch, made newly sensitive. But he does not let it interrupt their work. Hades has a task to complete, after all, and Viktor laces fingers back into his hair, guiding, encouraging. He smiles. ]
-And a place for you to rob me of sense on every reflection. Oh.
[ Viktor lets his head loll back, shuts his eyes as Emet-Selch's teeth graze the point where his pulse roars. ]
G-good. Like that. [ He whispers, dragging fingers through his hair, the movement insistent, and not quite gentle. A match for the sweet prickle of bruising skin.
An impermanent mark, perhaps, but hadn't Hades staked his claim more than a year ago? He may not have had a direct hand in filling Viktor with Light, may not have cultivated the flowers that now sprout from his skin, but it was he who made them permanent. Dark brought to bear against Light, preserving his soul, pressing it to right shape, the way he now presses lilies between the pages of his books. Claimed and kept. And now, while they are here, all who care to look will see what Viktor knows, feels: that he belongs to Emet-Selch, is his, has always been.
A soft hum of pleasure hikes to a wanting whine when Hades pulls him up and into his lap. Heedless of the mess they might make, Viktor wraps his legs around Hades's waist. Water sloshes up and over the sides of the tub, splattering on the stone floor, and Viktor chuckles again, low and pleased. Another bruise, and another — always above and beyond with Hades. Ever eager.
Viktor does not open his eyes until Hades had pulled away, squeezing hair and hip in protest, but even then it takes him a moment, breath shallow and face flushed. He embraces the high, hot, heady feeling that arcs up from the dip between his thighs to every nerve in his body. The roar of his pulse somehow grows fiercer when he opens his eyes, realizes that he's surrounded. ]
Closer. [ He breathes, almost pleading. ] Press against me. I want to f-feel how I excite you.
[ Dimly, he's always been aware of how much taller, broader, bigger Hades is, but sat in his lap, with nothing separating slick skin save soapy water, the difference is newly intoxicating. Made near unbearable, knowing that Hades intends not to fight, to wrestle for control, but to obey.
Viktor licks his lips, stealing composure between thundering thumps of his heartbeat. He stares, lips parted, wisteria eyes fixed with hungry, animal focus. ]
You are fond of my hands, aren't you?
[ Voice dark, sweet and slow as pomegranate molasses, Viktor puts to words what he has known for quite some time. Proof glimpsed in sketchbook pages, in the fall of Hades's gaze when Viktor works Creation, in how his attention lingers on knuckles, on palms, on wrists. ]
And I do l-love that gorgeous mouth.
[ Viktor lifts a hand, not quite touching fingertips to the soft swell of Hades's lower lip. Wanting to indulge, but holding himself back. Wanting, more, for Hades to indulge, himself. He waits, one second, two, listening to the rhythm of their matched breaths, realizing that Hades truly does intend to make him ask, to coax his want, always so hidden away as to nearly go forgotten, from him. Water beads at his wrist, falls in a fat drop, and the sound as it hits the bath beneath feels almost deafening. ]
Lick them. Kiss them. Sh-show me- show me how much you like them.
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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.
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He welcomes Hades with an open palm. The hand not grasped slips back to flatten over vertebrae, fingers pressing firm enough to mold clay as they slide down the shape of him, finding the exit scar carved into his back. Surrounded by Hades, his body, his smell, his aether, there is still this: a signature. His signature, his soul - as it is now, not some older, better model - writ across skin, across blood and organ, bone and marrow. A through and through, staking claim, not so entirely different from the 'gGg' embroidered into so many of the little things Emet-Selch has made him over these last moons - a secret for just the two of them, you are mine, mine, mine.
Viktor sighs as he studies, bright, hungry sound, lets fingernails scrape shallow lines into pale flesh as Hades adjusts them both once more. Stars, pressed this close even the barrier between them feels gossamer thin. Like he could look through and glimpse, grasp every thought, every feeling. Like he could dig fingers into the soil of Hades's soul to set roots, to fill the fissures time and torment have left in him with flowers, to build a home and make the both of them more whole.
It's a frightening feeling, but for the first time, he refuses to let it go. ]
Mayhap I have only noticed because I cannot keep my eyes off of you. [ Murmured, soft, sensing the twinge of embarrassment.
Viktor watches, transfixed, as Hades pays each finger a reverence that he would not allow from anyone else, and has to stop himself from miming the motion when Emet-Selch's mouth closes around his fingertips. Small blessings that the bath has already left his skin flushed, because as that tongue curls around each finger, he can feel a newer, hungrier heat creeping up, making every shallow, panted breath hot.
Hades swipes a hand over his chest, catches a nipple as his teeth graze fingertips, and a quiet moan slips past Viktor's lips. From worshiped idol to Emet-Selch's needy creature in mere seconds. Embarrassing. He laughs, again. Likes that he feels safe, exhaling some measure of that still building heat. ]
I suppose I can accept close to con-t-tent.
[ His flushed and flustered features bend into a cocky grin. Viktor leans in, draping his other arm over Hades's shoulder, meaning to press in for a kiss but stopping short. First, he indulges in a bit of simple softness, brushing the bridges of their noses together, and then abruptly he angles his head. Presses his mouth to the sharp corner of Hades's jaw. He makes his way up from there, leaving a line of kisses from cheek to ear, murmuring in-between each one. ]
'Twould by my pleasure to put them to work for you, however you might need.
[ Viktor catches Hades's earlobe between his teeth, nibbling before he tips his chin up and whispers, ] I hope, someday, you will permit me to make a proper mess of you.
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But is that not the point of what they do? Savoring the small moments, the impossibility of being alive. They do not have time for indulgences, but they must make time. That lesson, at least, he has internalized. They spent so much time in Amaurot thinking they had forever, and then in the wake of everything Emet-Selch could only think about how much time they had wasted, taken for granted. He did not wish to make the same mistake here. ]
Surely you've more important tasks to attend to than watching me.
[ Said, as though the thought of being watched so intently does not act as supplemental kindling to the fire already built in his belly. Emet-Selch hides a smile against Viktor's palm at the noise he manages to wrest from the other man, inordinately pleased, and then tips his head back up in anticipation of the kiss he thinks is imminent only to find Viktor distracted with dropping kisses anywhere but. He cannot truly protest, not when he hadn't realized that his earlobes were so sensitive, a direct line from where Viktor's mouth lingers straight to his half-hard cock, stealing nothing so uncontrolled as a moan from him but there is a sharp, soft intake of breath, the flex of Emet-Selch's hands briefly against Viktor. ]
Oh, I think you've succeeded in that several times over.
[ If Viktor will not close the distance, Emet-Selch will, heedless of the fact it was not a command Viktor had made; he doesn't think Viktor would hold this want against him. Tilting his head, he chases Viktor until he can drop a kiss against his lips, missing the first time and tasting water, conditioner, very nearly snickering as he pulls back before the action can be anything other than a graze. ]
Rinse. There is a perfectly serviceable bed not three yalms away and I would greatly enjoy seeing you spread out upon its sheets.
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[ He chases, just an ilm, before he is the one given orders. Viktor stops short of stealing another kiss, derailing their whole conversation again, and does not bother to mask how pleased he is to be directed; smile broad and hungry, as much hot chili in it as as sugar. ]
It is quite cold, you know. You best be prepared to keep me warm.
[ Still lingering in Emet-Selch's space, Viktor reaches back, haphazardly groping for the stone stopper plugging the tub drain. With a rattle, groan, and gurgle, the water level begins to drop. Viktor fumbles next for the faucet without looking, grin still pointed Emet-Selch's way as he turns knobs behind him. Fresh water spills from the tap, and he bends back without waiting for it to warm, ducking his head beneath the stream, gripping his ears with one hand to protect them from water, and wringing conditioner from his hair with the other until the water runs clean.
He sits back up, reluctant to leave the warmth of the tub just yet, even as the water level continues to fall. Viktor wastes a few seconds squeezing excess water from his hair, gentle waves springing up into tight curls for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Perhaps there is something to all these silly little bottles after all. Perhaps there is something to a bit of luxury. Perhaps Lucilia was right.
Only once he's girded himself against the cold does he rise, performatively slow, even if he mislikes the cold air. He fetches a towel, hip jutting out at an angle as he dries his ears, then his shoulders and torso and tail, before slinging it around his waist and climbing finally from the tub.
Here, he stops in spite of the chilly air. Turns to watch Emet-Selch with the sort of interest of someone whose paid to see a show, and takes two steps back toward the bed -- their bed. ]
Bring the wine with you?
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[ He infuses every bit of dubiousness he can into repeating Viktor's words, but leaves it alone afterward, unwilling to unintentionally strike a chord when he only means to poke fun. His reward is Viktor's smile, just the sight of it twisting something in his stomach. It's not arousal - or well, it's not just arousal he feels, but a vicious greedy sort of satisfaction for being any bit of why Viktor looks like that - looks at him like that. ]
Rest assured I've no intention of freezing to death or losing any limbs to the chill.
[ Nor does he have any desire to wrest himself from the warmth of the bath even as it drains, too focused on chasing waterdroplets with his eyes as they bead and roll down Viktor's skin once he's done rinsing his hair clean. A shame, to muss it when the curls are almost neat but there is nothing that prevents them from taking a second bath. Leaning against the bathwater-warmed stone to watch Viktor's little show, Emet-Selch grabs for the wine and, after a beat of hesitation - of weighing need, necessity, and the simple desire to show off - snaps.
Where candlelight used to give off nothing but a vague, wobbling light, it feels as if each one has doubled or tripled in size. The fireplace coughs ash upward through the chimney and fresh logs appear, already blazing within the hearth. As Viktor approaches the bed, he'll notice it, too, radiates a low, warm heat; fire crystals have appeared tucked in the corners of the duvet, ensuring the bed is as warm as the room is soon to be.
Only then does he rise, a towel snapped into position around his hips. He doesn't need modesty where he's going - where they're going, but old habits die hard. Goldenrod had called him a prude with witch-cackling delight and irritatingly, he found it wasn't a wholly inaccurate summation. Even all these years later he hasn't fully shaken off the desire to be clad head to toe in shapeless, formless robes. For now, a towel will have to do. ]
What would be your general disposition if I stated I was far more interested in indulging in you this evening? As opposed to a more - [ he pauses, stepping out of the bath, trying to find a less clinical set of words. ] - mutual agreement.
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It has been an age, it seems, since he could indulge in the simple joy of silliness. Shocking, how easily he slides back into it, but perhaps it shouldn't be. Though his heart sits cracked and fissured by loss and lack, what holds it together - the one who holds it together - is stronger than the darkness around it. Viktor has only ever burned as bright as the love afforded to him might allow, and the love presently afforded to him is fuel enough for whole stars.
He delights in the simple show of magic - is not sure he will ever be bored of watching Emet-Selch coax aether for the sheer pleasure of it. The air warms, and his grip on his towel loosens ever so slightly. Viktor's mismatched eyes drink in every ilm of Hades presented as he steps from the tub, fair skin flush with warmth and gilded by firelight. So gorgeous, Viktor only half hears the question asked.
But half is more than enough. He blinks, eyes darting up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze.
It is not fear, exactly, that plays across Viktor's features at that question, though the pace of his heart does speed to a gallop, thundering in his throat and catching all the air before it can escape his lungs. Caution and curiosity take equal credit for the widening of Viktor's eyes as he beholds Hades with renewed interest, but the way his lips part, the way his tongue darts out to wet them as he studies the perfect lines of Hades form - his form, the one that feels most like him, starburst scar and all - is all hunger. ]
Good. [ Viktor finds his voice somehow, and it arrives sturdier than he expects. Calm and certain, for a moment, at least. ] I'd say good. But- are you sure? It's just that... I've never- no. I usually-
[ Malleable. He makes himself malleable. Reforges himself to fit his partner's desire. The worshipful healer for Relle. The relentless fighter for Estinien. A fearless adventurer for G'raha, for the Exarch. Conquering hero or tamed monster for every random body inbetween.
But here, now, Viktor finds that he can think of nothing he could remake himself into that might best please Hades. Even were his soul rejoined again, to try and make himself any more Aepymetes than he is now would, he knows, be a step backward. And if he brushes aside the noise of worry and doubt, he is not entirely sure that more Aepymetes is even what Hades wants. What does it mean if he cannot make himself into something better than what he is? If he cannot offer something for what is given? If Hades seeks to indulge without taking in turn?
Stars, he suddenly feels every ilm of his own nakedness. The room warms, and Viktor's skin with it, rosy blush left by the bath insisting upon lingering, on growing hotter the longer he stands there.
Viktor's brows do a funny little dance on his forehead, flattening over his eyes. The absurdity of it all, of the Warrior of Light finding himself mortified, shy as the flowers that peek up beneath the boughs of the Everschade, makes his expression crack into an incredulous smile. ]
-I usually give.
[ And he cannot fathom receiving, taking, being loved without promising something, without providing worth, in return. But worse than that uncertainty is the idea that Hades might decide not to touch him, to taste him, to savor him at all. ]
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But then, Viktor seems awfully distracted by him. He was, and is, relatively attractive for a given meaning of the word. Enough so that he'd had no shortage of people seeking courtships until he had been firmly off the table and even then, found himself complaining to Aepymetes or Hythlodaeus about those who were unsatisfied with a rejection - as if they could ever hope to match the two of them in any meaningful capacity. It is, he thinks, not wholly unpleasant to be wanted so viscerally, so obviously. Certainly less disagreeable than he had anticipated.
I've never, I usually-. Emet-Selch lets him work through the response he wants to give on his slow prowl from bath to bed once he's considered the room and snapped into place a rug, massive enough to provide ample warmth instead of bare feet on cold stone to the bathroom later. Only then does he pad across the distance to the other man, considering the warm flush to his skin, the scatter of freckles and the insane desire to ensure he doesn't leave this room without kissing each of them. ]
I had assumed. [ Mildly, not judgmental, exactly, but there is a tone there; judgmental of those who came before, maybe.
Of course, others had not cared for Viktor in the same way. Of course, they were more concerned with the petty day-to-day or even pettier wants than Viktor's own. Emet-Selch leans in close enough to graze a kiss against the furrowed brow, rewarded with the warmth of Viktor's smile, far eclipsing any magical heat he could muster. Mine, as gods have worshippers. Mine, as a hound's master.. It is, he thinks, not so horrible to be kept, to belong to someone so inextricably that it has lasted countless lifetimes and souls. ] I was clear that night, was I not?
[ Gingerly, he hooks two fingers into the front of Viktor's towel, not pulling but there is a tension, the threat, or maybe promise of removing it. ]
You give until you've nothing left to give. What I desire is for you to reach out with both hands and to take.
sorry. this tag is fadsjld absolutely insane.
(And while trouble is certainly something Viktor bumps into on the regular, his preference is to avoid that particular sort. Toying with status quo of common wisdom is a bit below his pay grade at this point, if he's honest.)
But, incontrovertible truths - like the notion that a soul is stripped of all it was upon its return to the Sea; memories dismantled as the soul sinks, as it dreams, flaking away like so much paint, 'til only the blank canvas remains. Unless-
Unless you are two souls who so love to lie in sunlight together that you find each other across ten thousand years, from an island in the sky to a more conventional one set in the sea, to nap. Unless you are a brilliant, too soft-hearted scientist, overseeing the creation of new life upon a vast, flying research center, over and over, in search of meaning. Unless you are the split threads of the same beleaguered smith, the same gallant knight, the same cutthroat merchant, the same stern scholar, dancing the same dance across time, across worlds.
Then, the incontrovertible starts courting controversy. And that's not Viktor's business. He can enjoy the quiet satisfaction of knowing without ruining anyone else's day.
Anyway, the point is, twelve thousand years ago,
AzemAepymetesViktor made a game of reaching out, of grasping and plucking threads to make the music that most pleased his ear, of choosing and taking. Of chasing what he wanted, even if it meant leaving what he loved in the dark. And for that grave sin - or perhaps for no reason at all - he and all he loved was made blood, burned to ash, and split fourteen ways.He does not remember any of this, precisely - and he shouldn't imprecisely, either, if the incontrovertible is truly thus - but it is all there. For ages upon ages, across eras and bodies, he felt it, did his best to show the star he'd learnt a lesson. He did not want. He walked. He did not take. He gave and gave and gave. And the star responded by burning up again and again and again, each time putting the match in the hand of the man he'd loved most. Until he forgot how to want, how to take, entirely. Until this, too, seemed to become incontrovertible.
It's a good thing that forests sometimes need fires to grow. It's a good thing that, in the span between ashes and new sprouts, one can see the incontrovertible for what it is - something that's only waiting to be controverted in just the right way. Souls are not always wiped clean, and penance does not always mean healing.
Sometimes, a love is too fierce to be blanched away. Sometimes, wanting, taking, and giving are all the same, and have no bearing on whether the world turns to ash.
Viktor reaches up, pressing palms to the line of Hades's jaw and taking his face gently in both hands. He leans in, until the fingers curled around his towel press to the bare skin beneath. He stares up, a hound adoring, a god embracing its most devoted. He needn't reforge himself into something new. He needn't set himself aflame or flee.
He needs only to be here, in this steadily warming room, enjoying the feeling of being enjoyed for exactly what he is - enough, and worth keeping. ]
Is the rug not a little excessive? [ Leveled with teasing glee, smile noon sun bright. ] Come here.
[ He props himself up partway on tip toe and pulls Emet-Selch down the rest of the distance to plant that grin against his mouth. There, he lingers, tipping his head to deepen the kiss, to taste as though he hasn't already sampled this a dozen (a hundred? a thousand?) times already. Because he wants to.
With the ease of one well acquainted with both dances and duels, Viktor turns the both of them until Hades is the one with his back to the bed. One hand drags down, fingers tracing every dip and curve, pressing to skin, until he flattens his palm upon the scar marking Hades's chest. There, he pushes, urging Hades down to the bed with a firm hand, and if the towel around Viktor's waist slips away with him, well- that's just getting their work done faster. ]
Tonight, you are going to imp-p-press me with all the things I know you've been trying not to let yourself think about doing to me. [ Still wearing a smile that is all playful warmth, excitement, he chases, slotting himself into place on Hades's lap, draping arms over his broad shoulders. ] First, though, perhaps a practical exam. Let's see how well you recall my first lesson.
EATS IT EATS IT
The purpose of coming to the bed is not to sleep, but Emet-Selch is called and so shall he answer, feet moving before his brain has time to even process the gentle command he's given. Only when he's physically pulled does he give some manner of resistance - a moment, can't make it too easy can he? - and then he gives in, gratefully accepting what Viktor offers, heedless of whether or not it is deserved. He'd never admit it, but the kiss serves to ease some of the discomfort of being bare; maybe it's the distraction, maybe it's the want. He doesn't particularly care about the reason so much as the fact that it allows him to be guided, shepherded, he thinks wryly, to sit. ]
And you expect me to recall with perfect clarity while you're - [ There goes the towel, just as Emet-Selch reaches the word you're, abruptly aware of the fact that the only thing Viktor's wearing is that smile. His own - wonderfully plush, thank you - stays set upon his hips through sheer luck but does very little to hide the half-hard swell beneath. This feels a stark contrast to the moment Viktor refers to; where Emet-Selch had the barrier of layers of clothes, a little room and the certainty that he had resisted for thousands of years so he could resist this too. ] Which part would you have me recall first? Your alleged propensity for not wearing smalls during negotiations?
[ Even if he feigns ignorance, the memory is not so old he has forgotten it. Emet-Selch had avoided his ears where possible when washing Viktor's hair; less out of disgust and more out of a desire not to accidentally injure. Now, with a brow furrowed in concentration as if he is magicking a particularly complex item instead of mimicking how Viktor'd touched himself earlier, Emet-Selch traces fingers along Viktor's ear, remapping the path his hands had taken, slower, lighter at first and then he seems to shake himself out. Ridiculous.
His heels plant against the ground, scooting back against the bed ilms and then fitting both hands beneath Viktor's thighs to ensure he brings Viktor with him, giving his knees more purchase upon the bed. Then, it seems a waste not to at least attempt to fulfill the other request, greedily exploring the yalms of bare skin, tracing constellations of freckles on his shoulders, pressing intermittent kisses against them with quiet reverence. ]
There was a question I wished to ask then, but did not. You mentioned we were close to one of your favorite imaginings. [ His fingers trace each knob of Viktor's spine on the path down to his tail, seemingly languid were it not for the intent way Emet-Selch looks up at him. ] I would know what it was.
adventures in i do not have an icon for this
And in the next moment, he laughs, delighted. ]
I thought the star held no m-mysteries for the most eminent Emet-Selch? [ He grins as he slides fingers between strands of platinum hair, moving a few out of those firefly eyes, unable to stop himself from feeling, memorizing now that he's been given permission. The other hand busies itself studying the starburst scar that sits beneath his heart, as though repetition might make a muscle memory of its shape upon his fingertips. ] Can't even figure the pattern of when I'm wearing s-skivvies. Hm. You need to look closer.
[ A breath, shallow, excited when they move. He shuts his eyes, slender fingers threading further into Hades's hair, encouraging diligent exploration of sensitive skin. His ears twitch, almost ticklish, under a feather light touch. And Viktor remains, as ever, all motion. Not shy at all about directing Emet-Selch to linger against one stretch of skin, not quiet when he lands somewhere he likes, sure of what attentions he enjoys most. ]
Here. [ He murmurs when Emet-Selch's mouth finds the point where his throat dips and pulse roars, urging with a press of his palm for him to lavish attention there. But the focus is fleeting. Fingers drag down the length of his spine and he arches into the movement, stretching to draw the journey longer. ]
My...? [ Another chuckle, all air, a little sheepish. Viktor tips his chin down, lower lip caught between his teeth to bite down on a smile, embarrassment plain. ] I- I-
[ But he needn't be embarrassed. Not with Hades. And so, he starts, quiet, careful, not wanting to stutter too much. ]
You, working late on something terribly important. And I- I stop by and I am... a horrible distraction. But one that you cannot- do not want to resist, though you do try. [ Viktor's grin bends, crooked, liking this vantage point - gazing down at him. Easier to call to mind the exact fantasy he had replayed so, so many times when the faintest hint of a smile from Emet-Selch had felt like water in a drought, when the thought of thinking that at all burned his face with shame. Easier to find the confidence to recount his daydream at all. ] And so, instead of sending me away, you- push things aside. Papers. Bottles. S-set me upon your desk and slowly peel me out of my clothes.
[ He curls his fingers around the edges of Emet-Selch's towel. ]
You t-touch me, k-kiss me, every ilm. Ravenous. You part my thighs, press in, and- [ A soft sigh, euphoric. His hips shift, and though he feels mortification pooling at the high point of his sternum, he cannot look away. ] -you taste. You eat. You- [ Viktor hesitates, voice gone soft. ] -you savor.
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[ Murmured, amused against a spray of freckles on his shoulder as Viktor gives instructions.
Emet-Selch is as avid of a student as he was back weeks ago when Viktor gave him instruction the first time. He grazes a kiss against Viktor's throat as he laughs, lingering, savoring the way he can feel it resonate through Viktor's body pressed as close as they are. The chill of the room has mostly ceased, though he slowly lifts a hand from the curve of Viktor to snap into place another log for the fireplace to consume. Sparks spit across the stone floor as the log settles.
Once again, Viktor's hand settles upon the scar he had carved, that Emet-Selch had brought forth once again to this body, touching it like a worrystone. He makes note of where Viktor prefers attention but keeps to his slow, methodical exploration, grazing kisses against both nipples, pressing teeth into the muscle of his shoulder, nosing into the corner of Viktor's elbow to lay a kiss against the soft, thin skin there, trailing down to his hands once again, unable to stop himself from lavishing attention upon each finger while Viktor speaks.
Later, he thinks. They will have a later. They are building a path to a later that they will grasp with both hands. ]
You do make me ravenous. [ Murmured aginst the spot Viktor had pointed out earlier, lips pressed against the thunder of his pulse, adding another bruise to Viktor's small collection of them for the spoiled lordling to see tomorrow. The staff will note the shared room if they both come out of this one tomorrow, and the thought brings as much brutal satisfaction as other plots, but with far less stakes. Petty, but he does not particularly care when Viktor's settled upon him like this. ] We've no desk to upset, but I can fulfill at least a portion of that request. Though I fear you would need to relocate to a more suitable position.
[ Their positions reversed partially - Viktor upon the bed, Emet-Selch kneeling - has no small amount of appeal, but for a moment, hands tracing Viktor's muscled thighs, Emet-Selch thinks about lying upon the bed, Viktor's knees on either side of his ears, and the ability to eat, to savor, until Viktor has had his fill and his stomach twists with want so violent he shudders out a breath, fingers pressing tight into Viktor's thigh while he masters himself. ]
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[ Dizzying, watching Hades commit to the work of worship so thoroughly. No matter how he wishes to see every ilm covered, the feel of teeth sinking lightly into flesh steals his breath. Interrupted, Viktor slumps into Hades with a soft, wanting whine, composure nothing but loose loops and tangles as Hades continues his journey, finding places Viktor had not expected to hold lighting.
It takes him a few seconds to find even the desire to say more. But he does, eventually, voice hoarse and barely louder than a campfire whisper, though his grin is wide and wild. The words themselves come unthinking, fervent. ]
S-sometimes, the star you so love needs you in one p-place when you would rather be in another.
[ Passingly, he thinks of what a truly remarkable Azem Hades might've made. And in the next moment, that thought is gone, dandelion fluff blown away by the feeling of a new bruise blooming - a new monogram signature, set to skin by teeth and tongue, proof of whose he is. Between panting breaths, he braces himself against Emet-Selch's shoulder, trying with mixed success to refind his composure, and settling instead on lunging in for a proper, hungry kiss. ]
Mayhap- [ A boyish snicker escapes him as he breaks away, just ilms, already laughing at his own terrible joke. ] -you are needed in the Underworld, next.
[ Viktor rights himself, intending to move, but stops again. Makes a nonsense sound of approval as fingers dig into his thigh, deliciously sharp, delightfully painful.
Always, always Hades fights these most human moments. And he needn't. Viktor will not pretend that that, too, is not delicious in its own way, watching the imperturbable Emet-Selch struggle against an almost animal want. But, stars, to unleash it - to revel in every wild moment as he unravels... ]
Fuck. Hades- Hades... [ Whispered, wanting, grasping for purchase on anything approaching sense. He cannot get away from himself, not yet. Viktor knocks two fingers beneath Emet-Selch's chin, tips his head up to gaze into his eyes. ] Much as it delights me to see your effort, you needn't s-struggle so. N-not with me.
[ His hand slips down again, this time just to Emet-Selch's sternum. He doesn't quite urge him back, not yet - not after so many moons of flinching against touch, of gloves and countless layers - though it quickly becomes clear that their imaginations had been aligned. He hesitates, unsure of how best to ask, and then deciding it does not matter, so long as the question is leveled syrupy slow. ]
Would me atop you be a suitable position?
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[ The little taste of Azem's job he'd gotten over the years was plenty. While he could, while he did travel the shards, taking note of what was found to later show Hythlodaeus and Azem, he was better utilized as Emet-Selch. He certainly didn't have the patience of Azem, nor the disposition required. ]
The star can keep itself together for an evening. [ He almost sounds like he believes it when he says that, even. The star survives each night that they rest, each night they don't spend feverishly searching for the next option. He does not imagine it would be any different if they choose to spend their evening not entirely asleep. Much as it pains him to admit one can, in fact, take time for leisurely activities, the distraction is not wholly unwelcome.
And Viktor is, undeniably, a distraction. Just as Emet-Selch starts to work the thought over in his mind - duty, responsibility, the weight shared but still immensely heavy - Viktor steals a kiss from him and Emet-Selch cannot let it go unanswered, unaddressed, hungry to see what other noises the two of them can wrest free from Viktor. ]
Don't coddle. [ Emet-Selch doesn't quite wither under the too-understanding gaze, but he does scowl, imposing were it not for the fact his lips keep rebelling, Viktor's easy laughter and levity and incredibly bad jokes not entirely ineffective. ] I'm not struggling. Struggling implies - I am not.
[ He is, in fact, struggling with the reality of the answer he doesn't give: he's startled by the depths of his want. At how much he could want, when he allowed himself even the vaguest consideration. He wants what he once considered impossible and in the form he'd imagined it, it was; that time is past. But the shape of this new want, how easy it is, will take some getting used to.
Emet-Selch nearly misses the question, focused on thoughtlessly stroking fingers where he'd dug in earlier, marveling at the fact that Viktor's touched him throughout this entire process and the little jumps of disgust, of guilt, have been so far to the back of mind as to nearly be forgotten. Being pedantic is undoubtedly easier than focusing on any of those revelations, and so Emet-Selch lifts both eyebrows and asks, ]
I don't know, hero, would it? I am, for most intents and purposes, yours to command as you see fit.
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[ Despite the colorful choice of word, Viktor's voice is too soft, too fond by half, hewing far closer to something more like I love you, that last sharp T clipped in his haste to catch Hades's mouth with his own. One firm, insistent kiss, the weight of his body thrown into it, until Emet-Selch is flattened back against the bed.
He draws away, less than an ilm. Purrs, between light brushes of lips against Hades's mouth and jaw, ]
Mine. To command or coddle as I see fit.
[ Viktor shifts, sitting straight and drawing one knee up to press against Hades's chest, pinning him in place. Predator quiet, Viktor studies him, memorizes the way his hair falls around his face, the set of his shoulders pressed into blankets, the look on his face from above. Coddling and commands, restraint and unbridled want - talk of those things can be saved for later, when the flame kindled low in Viktor's belly doesn't make any words at all half impossible to get out.
Once he's satisfied that he's committed the sight of Hades conquered beneath him to memory, Viktor slips his pinning leg ilms forward, over his shoulder - all the grace of an acrobat. ]
Now-
[ After softly exhaled breath, unsuccessfully trying to slow the rabbit pace of his heart, Viktor climbs forward, one palm flattening on Emet-Selch's stomach at he moves, dragging fingernails up to his chest, until he is settled, knees grazing ears, his other hand threading into long platinum hair. ]
You are going to p-put that lovely mouth of yours to work on something other than sass.
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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. ]
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Let it never be said that Viktor cannot roll with the proverbial punches, though. He accepts with some trepidation that he can no longer imagine what to expect, and catches himself approaching the encounter as he might any battle - tense, hyperaware. But even resignation does not adequately prepare him for the feel of lips pressed to his thighs, moving higher as he settles. There is music in his breath when he sighs. ]
If you- If you m-must- [ A little gasp slips out of him, his composure falling to pieces despite his best efforts. Words escape between siezed breaths as Hades's mouth finds its mark, tongue splashing bright, twinkling color across Viktor's senses. ] If you want to complain so- ah- s-so badly, you are only allowed to do so if you- oh.
[ Viktor's fingers curl into the duvet, knuckles clenched near to white around fabric as he leans into the lapping of Hades's tongue. His lack of practice means little when he so diligently responds to each panting whimper that steals from Viktor's lips. ]
Lift our veil if you've more to complain about. Otherwise- [ He means it to sound teasing, flippant, but the intent is swallowed up in a low hum of pleasure. The hand not clinging to the bed for purchase grasps a handful of Emet-Selch's hair as Viktor rocks himself against his mouth, heat between his thighs building, climbing up his spine, until he's forgotten what he'd meant to say at all. ] That. Keep- keep doing-
[ Emet-Selch's muffled moan reaches Viktor's ears, sound wholly unexpected, and they lop back against his curls as lightning zings from his stomach up to his throat. Viktor lasts precisely five seconds more before he shudders, shoulders to feet, toes curling as he chokes out a sound somewhere between a curse and his lover's name. His thighs clench, fingers tightening in platinum hair, and he presses down, buckling over as he comes. He's barely caught his breath, still doubled over, before he urges, ] Keep- k-keep going.
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For a petty moment, he thinks to utilize one of several enchantments to throw one's voice but the urge fades just as soon as Viktor gives voice to needy instructions. The hand grasping Viktor's hip skims upward, feeling the tight line of his stomach clenching and his skin's warmth like it's not enough to stay still; he has to touch as much of Viktor as he can.
He could lift the veil. Even as distracted as he is, he thinks he could manage to raise but a corner, and maybe later he will when the novelty of a simple healing spell restoring them has faded. For now, he finds he's far too hungry for the tactile way, drinking in the sight of Viktor curling in on himself, flushed and needy because of him. He's made a wreck of him over countless lifetimes; this type of wreck is undeniably his favorite.
Would that he did not have to breathe, though. Viktor's thighs clench, his hips jerking and Emet-Selch makes a low, pleased noise in response, smoothing his hand down Viktor's flank content to work until his jaw and tongue ache and then do it all over again until Viktor tells him to stop. He lifts his head just long enough to breathe, interrupting the ragged intake of air with a wet kiss smeared against the inside of Viktor's thigh, and then adjusts his grip, shifts his weight on the bed and returns to his task with ruthless enthusiasm.
He does not lift a full edge so much as he does nudge the toe of a shoe beneath the hem and raise it incrementally. Enough that Viktor is made privy to a swell of feelings - a hunger he hadn't dared acknowledge for thousands of years, sated. A frisson of worry that he won't know when he's indulged too much, a brief, flickering emotion that feels like same kind of pure clarity Zodiark brought; a certainty in the shape of Viktor. A desire to execute this well - the briefest hint of amusement, a flicker of smut read over the years, glossed over. Distantly, there is surprise, too; surprise he could enjoy being this bare, surprise he hasn't overthought his way into a pit. ]
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Finally, finally he allows himself the luxury of being wholly present. Unfussed with the room's entry and exit points, careless about how loud he moans when Hades's mouth settles on his prick, forgetting entirely to brace for the next sudden hurt, the next unwanted surprise fate has in store. There is no end of the world. No greedy princelings. No infernal blue bird or ruined Seas. No needy masses. There is just this, just the two of them. Just light and sound and feeling. A knight sorcerer's calloused hands skimming his skin, cupping his body, taking measure of his shape and fitting neatly wherever they land. The dizzying levin zing of being licked and sucked and savored, fire building anew in the pit of his belly.
The hand not tangled in Hades's hair slides up into his own. Fingers catch on damp curls, drag down over neck and chest and stomach to splay over white fur, opening himself further as he leans into Hades's busy mouth with a low, cracking moan. His hips rock, finding rhythm to match Emet-Selch's ministrations, making him taste the spot Viktor likes best.
And then Hades lets him in, their veil hiked up as dancer's skirts, just a glimpse, enough to leave Viktor groaning, ecstatic, impatient with his inability to latch onto any one feeling as it flits by his awareness. His own emotions flood. Each one bright oil paint spilled across an incandescent canvas, too big, too vivid to have any clear definition. Rust red want makes a fine backdrop for brighter reds and twinkling gold, a slurry of hot pleasure softer feeling. Warm colors of comfort and safety, of home - and the silver white shock of how unfamiliar such a concept feels - blooming like little flowers in a more frantic field of clay. And between, silhouette glimpses of what he'd like next - held and explored with eager hands, atop, tangled together, bent and pressed into bed sheets, filled, drowned in this feeling, in Hades. Devoured.
Viktor feels his pleasure peak, a flood of lightning across his senses. He clenches his jaw, breathes and straightens, stretching his legs, breaking contact, to stop himself from toppling over the edge again. ]
Hades. [ Viktor closes a shaking palm around the back of one of Emet-Selch's hands, voice gone reedy. ] Ride you. L-let me ride you.
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It is not so bad to make the attempt, though; especially not when Viktor parts himself where he's blush-dark and wet and Emet-Selch doesn't bother to hide the pleased, low noise threatening to be a moan as he tilts his head in response to Viktor's obvious indication of where he should be. The clench, the shudders herald a second peak and Emet-Selch allows his head to rest back against the pillow, allows himself a proper breath and then goes back to nosing at the soft insides of Viktor's thigh. ]
Ah. [ Emet-Selch gives into the indulgence, presses teeth to flesh just to see warm, dark skin grow rosy with the imprint of his teeth, and then looks up at Viktor, indulgent. ] We'd find some difficulty there but not for lack of...enthusiasm.
[ Emet-Selch melts back into the bed, stretching one of the arms he'd contorted awkwardly to touch more of Viktor, flexing individual fingers and then just as soon as it's done brings them back like he cannot bear to stop touching if the option is made available to him. ]
If you require something inside you, that can be easily arranged.
[ The fingers tracing idle arcane marks against Viktor's thigh pauses in the motion pinky to index finger tapping in a slow order. ]
There are, you may be unsurprised to learn, spells to serve the same function but without the pesky flesh and blood cooperation bit. It has been an age but I am fairly certain I still recall them.
[ Basking in what slips under the veil from Viktor's side like a cat in sunlight, the only thing trade in return is loose-limbed, lazy satisfaction, and the edge of hunger, the awareness that once was not going to be enough, and Viktor is right there, close enough it would be a trifle to lean up, to pull Viktor's hips back down. ]
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grgfgfgk i gotta renew my sub surprise peepaw
peepaw icon kinda appropriate at least shsjshs
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that should read to *NOT allow fuck
LMAO I knew what you meant at least sob
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oh my god
EATS IT
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your bf just wants to turn himself into a quantum computer emet-selch nbd
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lmao for some reason it replied as a whole new top level??
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forgot the rest of the caps UGHHH
this is so long sobdhshhsh
FOOD FOR ME THO also sorry viktor you're dating a dick
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