[ As he says the words, he knows they're not the right ones but it is a useless, belated realization, the words escaping before he can stop himself. ]
Well, one certainly would not consider you particularly pleased with me right now.
[ Viktor is not, he realizes, angry, or even irritated. Hurt is a far more accurate term, which he only seems to realize upon actually daring to study Viktor, taking in the sight of his drooped ears, the tense set of his posture. Guilt is a mostly unfamiliar emotion, rare as water in the desert but he feels the first stirrings of it now as Viktor beats a hasty escape and leaves him here with nothing but the souls who'd borne witness.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, when he returns to his room - their room, the simulacra are nestled in bed, Emet-Selch reading to the shade of Viktor. Emet-Selch erases both of them with barely a thought, and reaches out to Hythlodaeus, only to pause. There's no answer. He's there. Emet-Selch stretches out his awareness and can feel the bastard, but every attempt to reach out to him is like attempting to reach through an invisible wall.
You can clean up your own messes once in a while, Hythlodaeus murmurs, and closes the connection entirely, leaving him standing in the ice-cold room, genuinely irritated for multiple reasons, now.
When was the last time he apologized properly? He's made vague concessions to Viktor here and there, acknowledged when he was too sharp, too clumsy with his words, but an actual apology - detailing where and when he went wrong and apologizing for that? He doesn't recall. It would be easier, he reckons, if he understood exactly what it was he was intended to apologize for. On some level it was satisfying to have Viktor push back against him with such intent - he'd rather that intent focused literally anywhere else, but he'd take it if needed. Viktor needed the wherewithal to get through these coming moons, certainly, but Emet-Selch found he did not particularly enjoy when that pushback was aimed in his direction.
Worse, and useless, is the knee-jerk thought that it doesn't matter that Viktor is upset because that's not the truth. It is a lie he feeds himself to assuage himself of any guilt. Emet-Selch was right; he had the knowledge and the experience, he was correct because only he understood the Underworld in this way; everyone else was dead and gone, their aether long since repurposed, reformed, lacking knowledge. But wasn't that the issue? Minimizing what Viktor could feel, which was far more than anyone alive could manage. Their bindings had intertwined them so inextricably - Emet-Selch couldn't know just what Viktor could feel. He could be certain that Viktor would not have the lifetimes of knowledge to know how to tend to the Sea, and that his awareness was undeniably less intense than the man who was ostensibly responsible, but...
How irritating. He cleans what little needs to be cleaned, starts a fire in the fireplace by hand just to have something to do, and spends the rest of his time working on busywork, waiting for the sound of footsteps in the hall, the creak of the door to announce Viktor's arrival. Hythlodaeus answers exactly none of his summons, nor his intermittent inquires, nothing but cool, clear nothingness save for amusement at his consternation. ]
[ Up, incautious, hurried along by the need to burn excess energy before the bile of hurt can burn into anger, is a much faster trek than down had been. Creatures skitter in the dark just out of Viktor's view, making themselves known, but not daring to approach. He notes that intelligence, the caution, as he climbs back up through the long, winding cave, bathed in the green light of Emet-Selch's torches. He will perhaps want to know, may have an idea of safety measures that can be applied. As it stands, once Viktor can see where the narrow path ends in a larger room he turns and Creates another wall, rougher than the fine thing Emet-Selch had made with a thought, and a flat, heavy iron door.
In the root cellar, it is easy enough to move the shelf back into place. On the way out, Viktor grabs a jar of pickles and a small roll of hard cheese, fully intending to eat his feelings. It winds up being a good idea for other reasons.
A guard stops him in the hall by the kitchens, and he cops sheepishly to sneaking down to the root cellar to steal a snack. He buys the guard's silence with a charming smile and one stolen pickle, and then has an idea.
Into the kitchen he goes, trading a sweet story about being tired and hungry (and another pickle, only tentatively accepted) for a plate of tea cakes from the girls in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow's breakfast. Then, to the throne room, entry for which costs him only a bit of soft laughter at a joke that he doesn't quite get, not being from this shard, and two more pickles, plus the cheese.
Hard to hold onto his anger, he finds, when so many people are so easily pleased by a strange viera, wandering "lost" through the halls of a castle at night. He learns a few names, coaxes smiles from tired, dour guards, and helps himself to the last pickle on his winding journey to their quarters.
In the castle's great hall, on a whim, he pulls a few threads, weakening the left two legs of the lordling's throne. Amused with himself, he does the same in the dining hall, weakening the wood on the seat he assumes the lordling uses to take his meals. A bit of mischief eases what's left of the anger in his heart, and finally he makes an earnest beeline back, tea cakes and empty pickle jar in hand.
He doesn't think to feel awkward until he's right outside the door. Hurt still lingers, makes itself known with a dull pang chased by shame - shame at how readily he wishes to put this away, to forget about the gnawing doubt and pretend this is all fine. With the sort of sobriety usually reserved for facing down primals, Viktor lets himself into the room - their room. He half expects to find the room empty, cold. It is not, and the relief he feels is embarrassingly immeasurable. ]
[ He's read the same pages over and over again but if someone attempted to ask him what he'd just read, he would be functionally useless. He could probably make an effort at a lie, and have that lie be passable, but he could not recall what the last pages were. Unimportant, made all the more so when he thinks about the dejected set of Viktor's ears.
Then, Viktor arrives and Emet-Selch finds himself entirely sidetracked from any attempt at a normal greeting when he spots the empty pickle jar. His brow furrows, doing mental math on the story behind it. ]
Leftover, or have you filched from tomorrow's breakfast?
[ At least the need for tea to go with the cakes gives him something to do other than stare at Viktor. They don't have their stove or their stock of teas, but Emet-Selch did think to pack some of them so they are not bereft of choice. He, of course, brought Viktor's favorites and tries not to think about this like it's some sort of bribery as the water heats. ]
It takes years - lifetimes, even, to gain a fraction of the understanding needed to manage the Underworld. [ He trails off, irritated by how perplexingly difficult he finds the relatively simplistic solution of apologize. His initial foray sounds far too much like an excuse; worse, he can practically feel Hythlodaeus' eyes on them, delightedly watching him fumble his way through. Apologies were not a skillset he'd actively practiced in years, and yet found himself in dire need of more often than not with Viktor. It was incredibly tedious, if necessary. ] I am sorry for my dismissal of your perception. My...assumption was based on your lifespan, aye. 'Twas a thoughtless comment.
Oh, come now. They've plenty of pickles left. 'Twas only a bit of stealing from the rich to g-give to the rest.
[ A faint smirk hangs on Viktor's features, already looking less thinly drawn than he had at the mouth of the Underworld. The empty pickle jar is left on the shelf by the door, and Viktor deposits the tray of cakes on the table. He cannot know for sure whether his evening tour of the castle will have any bearing on the path this reflection will take, but he is quite sure that it is a great deal more difficult to be an effectively terrifying little tyrant when your subjects cannot help but laugh at you.
Now that he's asked for an apology, he isn't sure where the lines are, anymore. Viktor stands at the table, staring down at the cakes a moment, willing up the courage to move again. His nerves have him reaching into a pocket to run fingers over the citrine crystal tucked away there, as though he must hide the motion needed to work them out. ]
I... may've b-bought my way into a few rooms. Tampered with some things. [ A breath, pulled in, held. He forces his feet to move, stands beside Emet-Selch by the fire as he fusses with tea. Of course he's brought his favorite. Guilt climbs across his heart like ivy, but his voice stays steady as he jokes. ] Surprisingly affordable, the toll to nudge the direction fate leans.
[ He watches, quiet, as Hades starts and stops a lecture, then changes course. A proper apology. The ivy snaking around his ribs squeezes once and then relents, replaced by another wave of welcome relief. Viktor reaches up, clasps a palm to Emet-Selch's cheek, and stares into his eyes.
In a voice barely more than a murmur, he says, ] Thank you.
[ But he does not linger there. Slips away instead to sit at the table and stare at his knuckles, rough and dry from the cold. He's gotten his apology. That could be enough. But it still feels to him as though there is a gap, a blank space yet to be filled in. Whether or not he wants an explanation now, he deserves one. ]
It was not about... what I could perceive, p-precisely. [ Slow, steady, he goes on. ] I do not know how much you know of my travels before we met on the First. Garlean reports likely gave you a glimpse, but- I know that what I have endured pales in comparison to aught you have lost, and I do not mean to ask for pity, when I say... it was hard. It was impossibly hard to s-see what I saw, to do what I did, to fail, over and over, and still have to carry the banner. To lead those people into ever g-greater danger.
In order to... do it at all, I had to flatten myself. I had to stop... feeling. And- and when Fandaniel gave my b-body to Zenos. A-and after, my Scions, they- there was no time to think about what h-happened to me. They needed me to keep w-walking... [ His voice takes a watery, wandering tone, starting and stopping several times as he fights a new swell of pain. And then, quiet, flat, ] As I told you weeks ago, I- I stopped feeling much of anything, then.
[ Viktor looks up, brows up, mismatched eyes shining, fixed on Hades. ]
But you- you've made me feel s-so bloody much again. There is no man, alive or dead, who makes me angrier than you do. [ The words are leveled with no small amount of fondness and a shaky, crooked smile. ] B-but you also make me feel more... confident and curious and... happy, loved, than I have f-felt in ages. A-and so, when you... call my hurt irritation or- or dance around my questions, it... it leaves m-me feeling... weak. As though all of that- as though I should've been stronger. And I do not know how.
[ He stops, flattens both palms on the table. ]
Y-you did not know that before. And I- I reacted harshly. I will... t-try to be more measured in the future. [ A sigh. ] I cannot feel all of the Aetherial Sea, and I do not think I ever will. I understand so l-little. B-but I do hope that someday, when we've the time, you will t-teach me.
[ He has no ground to stand on when it comes to a ruling class member taking more than is needed and leaving little for the rest. That being said, he doubts the royalty here are fundamentally focused on sowing as much discord and disorder in a small amount of time as is possible; his neglect comes from selfishness, foolishness, and is altogether far more boring than playing a long (if cruel) game.
He is interested to know exactly what was fiddled with on Viktor's side that it would inconvenience the prince, but has enough sense for once not to ask and change the subject when they are ostensibly to have a serious conversation.
Neither is there a good way to acknowledge that his knowledge of Viktor was, for long periods, simply cursory. If he did show up in reports and analysis provided by his advisors, it would have been in refugee or casualty or other number projections. It was not until far later that the nameless, faceless viera became relevant, and Emet-Selch had, perhaps unwisely, trusted Lahabrea could handle it. Could handle Viktor. He couldn't, and Emet-Selch isn't quite sure he can, either. If anything, he's proven rather spectacularly he cannot. ]
Feeling things is...rather inconvenient when one has a duty.
[ That is the only allowance he'll make, daring, maybe forcing himself to look over at Viktor, who seems keen on baring his heart to Emet-Selch like he somehow thinks Emet-Selch is worthy, or will know what to do with such a gift. Worse, is the awareness that no matter how raw he must feel hearing it, to feel it must be a thousand, thousand times worse. ]
I do not think it is possible for you to be any stronger.
[ This is not a criticism. Emet-Selch utters the words with an undercurrent of grudging respect. A different sort of strength from what he'd originally considered living through the worst possible events occurring one after another, where one bears the worst in expectation of being able to unwrite later what has happened. Viktor is not even granted that potentiality and yet keeps walking forward.
Leaned against the wall, careful not to accidentally set his robes alight, Emet-Selch crosses his arms and tries to muster a useful response. ]
You needn't temper your reaction each time you are reasonably cross with me.
Having feelings is difficult when one bears the burden of duty, but... it is necessary. If- if I stop learning names, if it no longer hurts to lose the people who walk beside me, if choices that should be difficult aren't anymore, then what- what sort of world is my hand molding?
[ Viktor has never considered himself a leader in the way that Merylwyb or the Exarch had been. He has never dictated policy or given moving speeches to rapt audiences, but the reins of fate have nevertheless ever been in his hands. A leader, not standing at the top, but at the front, and there by virtue of those who have put their faith, their hope in him. It is only right, in his estimation, that their problems should be his problems, that the wick of his life is best spent to make their own a little brighter. He does not begrudge it. He does not regret his journey, his choices, the cost. He is only tired. ]
Better to f-feel. Even if it is painful and... messy.
[ He slouches, pressing his nose into his arms as he curls them together on the table, his hands tucked into his elbows. It muffles his voice when he gripes, ] And I do not wish to be cross with you...
[ Only slightly mortifying, to crack open his ribs, untangle the muscle of his heart, and be met with that familiar grim stoicism. It is familiar, though. Expected, for Hades to stand steady against the flood of Viktor's too soft heart. And there is a strange comfort to be had in that, in Hades taking the deluge of Viktor's hurt and sorrow without complaint or judgment.
Viktor rather loves him for it, but at the moment, he also wants more. ]
I wish to snack on cakes and drink tea while soaking in the bath with you. If you would have me.
[ Having Viktor easily spout wisdom that Emet-Selch could have imagined any one of them saying in the wake of the Sundering, and being aware of the fact none of them, save perhaps Elidibus would have actually internalized it to any extent, is...frustrating. It feels a little like having his nose repeatedly rubbed in his mistakes; worse, perhaps, because he knows that such a thought would never cross Viktor's mind. Viktor is simply good, in every meaning of the word.
Only feeling a little foolish for not being able to look at him, Emet-Selch turns back to the kettle, fixing two glasses with militant precision and focus, desperately trying to ignore the wretched ache in his heart. Easier, when he didn't feel things at all. Easier, when the decisions he made, ugly as they were, were justified with a purpose. Easier, when he wasn't challenged by someone effortlessly good and dragged along on that path, even if he drags his feet at times. ]
One not befitting of your grace.
[ That's the only answer, but even then, Viktor wouldn't see it like that. Anyone - even the worst, most misguided among them, are worthy of his time and attention in his mind. Maddening. ]
Start the bath, then.
[ He's not going to complain about the idea of eating something with crumbs in the bath. He won't, even if it so incredibly tempting to do. Emet-Selch pauses in placing the teacups on their saucers, casting Viktor a little sideways look. ]
[ There he goes, finding busywork to put his attention on instead of bearing the weight of Viktor's gaze. He watches the swish of fabric as Hades moves, his deft hands and their exacting measurements, doling out tea leaves and pouring water. It aches, knowing he is the root of no small amount of Emet-Selch's discomfort, and that Hades would almost certainly reject efforts to soothe for being too close to coddling. Emet-Selch speaks of grace, like what he does is something noble - does he not realize it is penance? Necessary tithe for a soul that had once abandoned its station, for a Warrior who demands so much blood to fuel his power.
Of course he would serve whatever world was left. He must, no matter the shape it takes. He hums into his arms, a noncommittal sound.
It's not that he expects to be told no, only that he doesn't expect a yes to come as easily as it does. Not after the last bell. Viktor rises quietly, brings the tray of cakes over to the table beside the absurd stone tub, and bends over to start the water. He dangles his fingers beneath the faucet, waiting until the temperature is to his liking - almost uncomfortably hot - to stopper the bath.
Fingers dance over the toggles binding his robe shut and then still. One ear angles toward Hades as he speaks, his words drawing a faint smirk to Viktor's lips. He leaves the robe done up - work better left for when Hades is standing before him - and sets to browsing salts and oils to add to the water. ]
Worry not. We are not in such dire straits that I would risk c-crumbs in our bed. [ While he waits, Viktor lifts his hands to undo the strip of leather tying his hair back out of his eyes. Curls fall loose around flowers, drooping into his eyes. Mildly, teasing, he goes on. ] Now, were the world ending, that would be a d-different story. All bets would be off, then - fried dough with fruit syrup and p-plenty of powdered sugar, right on top of the duvet.
I would return you to your quarters so fast your head would spin.
[ Just in case Viktor gets any ideas. Teacups placed on their saucers, Emet-Selch brings them over to the bath, settling both on the stone lip. There is wine he could quite easily fetch, but has no desire to partake now that they're here. He has no need for the low heat it kindles in his stomach, nor the way it sharpens his tongue.
For now, he contents himself with the fact that he can probably distract Viktor from fetching the teacakes and make do with the tea. For all that Emet-Selch'd hesitated to look at the other man, he finds his gaze drawn when Viktor lets loose his curls. There's an itch in his fingertips, aching to right the curls amongst the flowers and resisting because they'll just be mussed when they bathe.
His hands freed from their burden, Emet-Selch lasts all of a few moments of resisting while Viktor browses, and then he finds his fingers have found their way to the tiny thread toggles and buttons. His thumb hooks beneath the loop, nudging the toggle loose, baring an ilm of flesh Emet-Selch gives serious consideration to kissing. This, he manages to resist, barely. Instead, he plucks up the plate of cakes, moving it out of reach of one sitting in the bath and settles himself atop in its place, thinking himself clever for all of a heartbeat.
His index finger traces the v of flesh bared, toying at the other toggle. There are a dozen different ways to manipulate someone into doing whatever you wish. Bribery is the most boring of the options, followed shortly after by threats. The easiest solution often requires the least effort and feels the least satisfying when at its culmination. Manipulation is most satisfying to orchestrate and execute. This was, he thinks a little bitterly, perhaps no small amount of what Viktor meant when upset and the realization makes him want to nudge the plate further away, spitefully. The next words sound like they're dragged up from within, Emet-Selch's jaw tight. ]
I would prefer we left the teacakes until after the bath.
[ The second toggle loosened, released. The spill of his curls against the nape of his neck, another ilm of flesh, the knob of his spine revealed. Emet-Selch resists pressing a kiss then, too, feeling positively ridiculous, more frustrated over how attempting to do this the right way makes something irritatingly like discomfort pit in his stomach. There would be no satisfaction to be found at manipulating Viktor over teacakes, just a worse version of this already horrifically unpleasant feeling pooled in his stomach, threatening to rise to his ribs. ]
[ Viktor clicks his tongue, glancing over his shoulder to level a grin at Emet-Selch when he draws nearer. ]
Well, 'tis very lucky that your quarters so often seem to become my quarters.
[ Realistically, Viktor knows that it is nothing for Emet-Selch to Make whatever soap, salt, or fragrance he desires. Reasonable, that even when traveling, he should have an extensive collection of bottles at his fingertips. That does not stop it from feeling absurd. Though, Viktor allows, any amount of soaps feels a little absurd to someone who is still having trouble with the idea of letting go of the convenience of one bar for everything.
Baffling as it all is, he cannot deny the appeal of all these little luxuries. There is a bottle of something that smells dark and sweet, a little like a plum liqueur. It would be nice, he thinks, to smell like something so decadent. To breathe in a scent that makes him think of Hades each time he moves in just the right way. It's a lovely line of thought that ends the very moment Emet-Selch begins to fiddle with the fasteners of his robes. He stills, smiles, pleased to be touched and tended to, as though Emet-Selch cannot help but steal contact.
That smile turns crooked, incredulous when Emet-Selch next moves the cakes away. He opens his mouth to level a joke about the obvious maneuver, but the thought dies on his tongue as he studies Emet-Selch's features, the telltale if miniscule signs of too much thinking. Viktor contents himself, instead, with tipping his chin down to watch Emet-Selch's hands dance over skin and fabric, waiting for Emet-Selch to find his voice.
And oh, what a wait it is. It is not the cool air that prickles his shoulders to gooseflesh when Emet-Selch reaches out to touch him again. Were he not certain that some thought percolates, near ready to bubble out, he might think Hades was teasing him - drawing the endeavor of undressing long to drive him crazy. Even if that is not the case, it does not stop the patter of Viktor's heart from quickening.
His ears twitch when Emet-Selch finally speaks, attention settling on him, brows lifted, lips parted, curious. Viktor's eyes dart to the cakes, then back, and he smiles and sidesteps into Emet-Selch's space. Pastries are fine enough, but the real prize, what he wants more than any confection, is closeness, contact. ]
Aye, of course. [ He smiles, bright. ] No soggy bits in the bathwater. And more interesting things to s-spend my attention on, anyway.
[ Emet-Selch undoes another toggle, exposing more skin and earning a shiver that is as much about the slowness of the process as the cold air. Right away, the desire to have as little clothing separating the two of them becomes urgent, but Viktor stills himself, more concerned with the storm cloud that Hades seems to be trying to shake off. He turns, finally, putting himself before Emet-Selch, still leaning on the table.
After a moment more of watching turbulence slow Emet-Selch's movements, Viktor sets the little bottle of fragrant soap aside and reaches up, presses a palm to Hades's cheek. The touch lingers for a heartbeat, and then he slips away, turns to show Hades his back, the robes drooping around freckled shoulders as they fall away. If busywork eases the storms of his mind, Viktor can certainly find some for him to do. He scoops up Hades's hands in his own, and sets them lower, to buckles and toggles still in need of undoing, and leans into him as he does so. ]
[ The little noise of acknowledgment is as good as agreement. Viktor's right. The quarters are no longer just Viktor and Emet-Selch's, but theirs, like the links to the aetherial sea, like everything else. Like it used to be, almost. The thought is, oddly, a comfort. Almost as much of one as Viktor reaching out, pressing his hand against Emet-Selch's cheek. He allows himself the indulgence of tilting his head into it, a favored pet receiving affection from its master, inhaling and exhaling a little sigh.
Perhaps more irritating is the fact he keeps expecting for the other shoe to drop. For Viktor to realize he's still incensed with Emet-Selch's choice of words, to realize that Emet-Selch had given no small amount of consideration to the simple act of manipulation rather than asking for what he wants. Maybe, because disagreements with the Unsundered often lasted decades, centuries. When one had forever, it was nothing to have an argument that resulted in one or both parties not seeing each other for a long period of time. They are not allowed that here and now. Viktor's mortality is, in a way, a blessing, forcing Emet-Selch's hand. ]
I've done...a disservice to you, I think. [ As he speaks, his fingers keep working on the fastenings to Viktor's robe, undoing them one at a time, lingering, stroking fingers against the skin bared, tracing constellations of freckles that put the stars to shame. ] To have any part of the management of the aetherial sea, one must needs attend countless seminars, study for what you would consider lifetimes. Time we do not have.
[ It feels a little like unwrapping a present, doing this. Intentional, slow, baring each new ilm of skin, the cloth gathering and then sagging lower and lower with gravity's help. Emet-Selch finally gives into the impulse nagging at him, and presses a lingering kiss against the swell of Viktor's shoulder, nosing into the warm skin there greedily before he masters himself and continues working.
Another subject to add to their studies, then. He'll have to figure out how to best condense so much learning into so little time, but he can make a passable attempt at the effort and like with so much else, they will simply make do with what they have to work with. ]
To add a method of...transition between the aetherial seas would irrevocably change the souls within. There is a chance - infinitesimal, but a chance - it would not be an issue. There is equally a chance that to do so would cause souls to bloat and gorge themselves on each other, and we would turn the Underworld into a copy of the ruined Thirteenth. Souls would only exist to be consumed while fragmented, while those larger and more powerful gained too much to exist unchanged, transforming into...well. 'Twould put the horrors of the last few months to shame.
[ This is, perhaps, not the conversation best served whilst he undoes Viktor's clothing, but he can multitask, and blessedly, Viktor is wearing smalls beneath his robes. When the buttons are finished, he sweeps it off Viktor with all the showmanship of a magician, flicking it into the air where it reappears hung up for later wearing moments later. Any remaining clothing is divested, one at a time until there's nothing but socks and smalls left. One finger hooks in Viktor's underwear, the other arm braced for Viktor to hold onto as he starts to drag them down to fall around Viktor's ankles, keeping himself braced for Viktor to step out of them. ]
We had a goal when venturing down there. Were you able to learn what you wished? To identify a way to locate Meteion?
[ Each ilm of skin exposed by slipping robes is fresh territory for fingertips to explore. Emet-selch, ever the diligent surveyor, forges paths between speckles, and Viktor shuts his eyes to savor the feeling. Delicious, maddening, to be touched with such deliberate slowness. So distracting, Viktor only half hears when Emet-Selch eventually sets to talking. It takes a remarkable amount of effort to process his words. Viktor can half-believe this is some test of his mettle, but then, a pause.
Hades leans in and tastes his skin. Nuzzles the space so near his pulse, and Viktor bends his neck to give him room, threads fingers into his hair to offer gentle encouragement. He hums a soft protest when Hades pulls away, but does his best to listen when he goes on. Heartbreaking that even in the Sea, the cauldron of hope for their star, there should be the potential for such cruelty. Turning it over and over in his head pulls Viktor out of the moment. He frowns. ]
I s-see. [ Viktor angles his head toward Emet-Selch, glimpsing him out of the corner of his eye. ] 'Twas my th-thought that like might seek like. If not... reflections of the same old soul, then... those who had loved in l-life, who c-could not... bear to be separated again. [ A rueful smile crosses his features, fingers curling together and then parting to let Emet-Selch help him out of his robe. ] H-head in the clouds, I suppose.
[ Kindling fire anew, Hades handles his robe with a flourish that coaxes a weak but genuine smile back to Viktor's face. A huff of laughter escapes him, and then Hades is hooking fingers beneath the band of his smalls. His breath hitches. His heart aches. The faster he's naked, the sooner he can stop thinking about all the ways the world can go wrong, the better. But, a moment later, he decides to say more, softly, ] You have not done me a disservice. You have done the best you can with the time we have, and that is all anyone can hope to do.
[ His smalls fall. Viktor does not need Hades's arm for balance, but he wants it, and clutches tight as he steps out of his underwear and tugs stockings off. Unceremoniously, he drops his socks on the floor and turns to undo the cord holding Hades's dressing robe shut. Though still unsure where he is welcome, Viktor parts the robe and steps closer, into Emet-Selch's space. ]
I've made progress. [ He fiddles with the buttons on Emet-Selch's silk shirt, undoing the first of them before going on. ] If I close my eyes, I c-can feel... aetherytes, importance places, everything that m-mattered to her. A-and, were I to push, I think I could call more. Memories, hers and the lives who came before her. 'Twill become clearer with more connections. I must make them on each reflection.
[ There's a hitch in Emet-Selch's otherwise intent touches, not quite flinching but neither does he move for a breath before he catches himself. That is the ideal, is it not? Was the ideal, anyway. Return together. Discover how their edges overlap and intermingle, and then find each other, learn each other again. The thought had been a very tempting carrot at the end of a very long stick. He wonders how much of Viktor's thoughts and desires regarding their souls are his own, and how much the memory of a potential ending impressed upon his soul.
Perhaps more irritating is the knowledge that he might simply be wrong. Such a event does not occur naturally in the aetherial sea as it is. What he assumes might happen is, frustratingly, because of their work. He has no way of knowing just how drastically their work has changed the souls on the different shards, but the Thirteenth is one of the worst potential options. If he knew without hesitation, without doubt that such a thing would not occur, he might be more easily swayed. He might see the inherent romanticism in what he'd always considered a rather romantic ending, even if he would never admit it. Viktor's fingers tangle in his hair and Emet-Selch hates how easily he wants to fold at so casual a touch, how much he thinks about being touched when once he used to be able to ignore the thought easily. ]
It...could. However unlikely the chance, there is a chance, though it is the most unlikely one.
[ He knows he's treading ground he's already walked upon, explaining what has already been explained but better here not to be misunderstood, he thinks. Not with a subject that is so delicate. Not when one of Viktor's most charming traits his his inability to take no for an answer, and to physically manifest a different answer through sheer force of will.
Part of Emet-Selch would like to think that he's already seen Viktor naked a couple times, and so the novelty would have worn off. A naked body is like any other naked body, save for a few differences; the soul is the truest version of someone, regardless of what their flesh and blood resembles. He can talk himself in circles all he wants; it is wildly ineffective. Emet-Selch's eyes linger first on his shoulders and then trace down, belatedly shaking himself out of the trance and looking back at Viktor's expression as he steps in closer, fiddling with Emet-Selch's own clothing slow enough it seems like he waits for Emet-Selch to tell him no. He settles for a complaint that sounds toothless, even to him. ]
I am able to divest myself of my very uncomplicated clothing.
[ Further trips are, he supposes, not out of the question. Not ideal necessarily, not when they are not certain of the state of those different shards, but he understands the necessity of doing so. Pressed this close, the heat of Viktor's body is nearly more tempting than the hot water awaiting them; if they hadn't been wandering about in creature and cobweb-infested areas, he might not be so eager to freshen up. They were though, and even with a magic spell to clean oneself off, there was still a feeling that lingered until a proper bath or shower was had.
Viktor steps in close, eliminating any desire to think about mortality, instead replacing it with the utterly insane desire to sweep the robe on either side of him to keep all that bare skin from becoming too chill. As if they weren't going to get into the bath in a moment as if he weren't responsible for that chill in the first place. ]
And if we cannot make that connection, what then? I cannot feel any drastic changes to the Underworld as it is, but the connection is best, sharpest when actually on that shard. [ He won't know, not until he gets there, not until they check the state. ]
[ Emet-Selch should not ask questions he does not want to know the answer to, and yet. Far too curious and far too eager to prepare for the worst, it is, Viktor thinks, a lesson he will likely never learn. And if he is honest, it would be dreadful to find a version of Hades laid so low that even he had given up asking, urging inquiry, planning for an eventual future, no matter how grim.
Rather he ruminate than decide there's no use planning at all.
Viktor undoes another button as he ponders how best to answer, eases back fabric with splayed fingers to feel the shape of Hades's chest beneath his flattened palms. This touch is indulgent, studious, entirely for himself. Once he has touched his fill, Viktor undoes another button. Pushes fabric. Leans in and brushes lips against the V between Hades's clavicles.
There are other paths than this, but Viktor is not given to planning. ]
'Tis so much more satisfying to have someone else manage buttons and bangles. [ He says to fill silence, undoing another button.
Viktor is not given to planning, no. Not for lack of ideas, but for a mislike of the ones that pop into his head.
Another button, and another. Not quite so achingly slow as Hades had been to disrobe him. He seeks fewer barriers between them. More warmth, more skin.
If Meteion is a creation of Hermes, then could they not crack open the soul of Amon and wrest out a thread of what he had been? Take that and tug, like a leash, like a noose. Cruel, cruel, cruel, but effective.
Two more buttons. Viktor traces the dips of muscles, presses fingers to soft skin, certain he will never tire of feeling Hades's body.
The short answer, the worst answer, (and, if he is honest, the most likely one) he knows, is that he will burn the candle of his life to a stub to power magic he only partially understands, so long as it is their best chance of saving their star.
But that is the thing about the Warrior of Light. His responsibility is to know the short answer, the worst answer, and come up with something better. ]
If we cannot make that connection, we will f-find another way. All legends must start somewhere. If I cannot tap into what I was to s-see this through, then we will access what we are. [ Viktor undoes the last button on Hades's shirt, pushes fabric out of the way. ] Venat thinned our aether when she sundered the star, but it granted us a closer connection with dynamis. [ A breath. Viktor lifts his gaze, meeting Hades's eyes with a ferocious certainty in his own. ] I will learn to wield it. Make what needs must be done reality.
[ Still staring, one corner of his mouth tugs up. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Hades's fine silk pants, at the delectable point where his hipbones jut and nudges the fabric down half an ilm. ]
Will you be doing the fancy flourish trick with your r-robe, as well, then?
[ He doesn't know how not to worry, to plan for any and all eventualities. Viktor will try and Emet-Selch is not certain but he is hopeful the other man will succeed. For now, that hope is enough to keep him treading water, to keep him righted on this path they have chosen.
Viktor talks about this almost-plan with such certainty, with such clarity of purpose that Emet-Selch envies him for a moment. Viktor might feel that surety, but Emet-Selch himself feels unmoored, useless. The ability to reshape the Underworld is not one they will need to fight Meteion, and he'd tried with two of the other best minds of their past world to find her, unsuccessful. It is not that he doubts Viktor's ability, not after all that has occurred. Perhaps is it his own efficacy he doubts.
Viktor effortlessly distracts him from that train of thought, splaying his hands over the newly bared flesh of his chest, warm, rough skin pressed against his own, wresting a shuddering little breath in and out. There's nothing his quick wit offers up in response to Viktor's little declaration; Emet-Selch understands. Viktor slowly undoing each piece of his clothing, mapping out the expanse of skin with his hands directly after is far too distracting to manage more than a little hum at the back of his throat.
If Viktor intends to use Dynamis to combat Meteion, Emet-Selch now has two duties. The first, obviously, is to learn all that he can about something they barely considered real let alone viable, back in the past. The second, and perhaps even more daunting task, is figuring out how to synthesize that information into something one or either of them could use. ]
I believe you. That if anyone could find a way to manifest their will, 'twould be you. [ So it is said, uttered out loud without any hesitation or the shudder in his breath that is both nervousness at the intent behind Viktor's hands, and arousal. He will not, in fact, be doing the same trick. The robe is flicked away, landing silently upon the bed and Emet-Selch's eyes trail down to where Viktor's fingers linger near his half-hard cock. It is worse tonight, he thinks wryly. Before, the want had been something he could acknowledge, move past. Now, he found that same unanswered want has returned tenfold, anticipatory. ]
[ Desire is a funny thing. There is a heady satisfaction to be found in being admired, wanted, like a trophy, like a legend, like the piles of gil hidden at the bottom of Sastasha -- something not quite real, not quite verifiable. Viktor has never shied away from any gaze, not even the ones tinged with hunger, with misplaced adoration. Empty as it is, it is a guilty pleasure, eating up the attention meant for the Warrior like candied fruits and cakes, a sweet and unfulfilling balance to the inhumanity of heroism. No room for fire in all that sugar, just instant gratification, quickly burnt to ash. Others look and he allows them, and in that there is some small measure of control over who and what he is. It is transactional. It is junk food. Not something he needs or wants, but something to be enjoyed when offered.
This, Hades, is not that.
I believe you, says the endlessly particular Sorcerer of Eld, looking at him like he's hung the moon. And... he does not mean the Warrior of Light when he says it. Hades looks and sees Viktor. Ordinary, exhausted, refugee, adventurer, soldier Viktor. Something worth studying, savoring, and it's almost embarrassing how nourishing it is. Under his gaze, Viktor is not just admired but seen, understood, and still wanted. It leaves him hungry, starving for more. This, Hades, is something worth craving.
Intimacy is nothing new between them now, but Viktor still notices Hades's arousal and can't let go once he does. Hades looks at him. And he allows it. But in this there is no control. It is not transactional. He cannot help but stare, but want, ravenously, near craving what should be the natural conclusion to their bodies being bare, pressed so close. Shocking to realize he doesn't know what to do with this feeling, this want. His fingers slip beneath the band of Emet-Selch's pajamas, his smalls, to touch the skin where his hip and leg meet. And in the same breath, Hades gives his command, and of course, of course, Viktor obeys. There is no control here, and he likes it.
He runs fingers over the jut of Hades's hip bones, sparing a few reluctant seconds for closeness. ]
You have made it feel possible, you know. This- I am only here because of you. [ he murmurs, half tempted to ignore the chill and pull him into their bed, instead. But Hades will want to rid them both of dust and cobwebs and sweat before they climb beneath his fine sheets. And so, after a second more, Viktor steps back and into the tub.
He lowers himself slowly into water almost too hot, staring up at Hades, expectant. ]
Must I go through the whole rigamarole of getting c-clean before you allow me to indulge in you? I could've kept you p-plenty warm, you know.
[ Viktor stands there, bare, and Emet-Selch wants as if he hasn't had. He could have had in the past, even. It would have been nothing to make a body, accurate to Aepymetes or Hythlodaeus, enough 'life' in it to serve its purpose. He hadn't wanted like that, though, base, crude. Disrespectful to both the memory and any future they had together when they were successful. Another carrot at the end of a stick, another reason to keep driving forward into the darkness.
He'd half expected that after having Viktor the once, the feeling would abate regardless of whether or not it was mutually satisfactory in the same way. He had been satisfied - the closeness, the malms of bare flesh, wringing pleasure from Viktor instead of pain and settling at the end of the night to greedily savor the press of him close. He had been satisfied, but today is a new day and that night may as well not have happened for how badly he wants yet again. The most frustrating part is he doesn't think he's particularly discerning about what he wants. He wants Viktor, in whatever way, shape, form he can have him. If this sort of intimacy were not included in that equation, he would not mind. That he lives is enough. ]
Well, that sounds rather self-serving, doesn't it. [ Flippant, light, like just the promise of Viktor's fingers stroking along the v of his thighs doesn't have his stomach flipping, gooseflesh rising, his cock stirring where it starts to strain against the loose line of his waistband as Viktor teases it down. ] Must you - what, wash before you touch me?
[ Viktor climbs in and Emet-Selch hesitates the barest fraction of a moment before slipping off the rest of his clothing haphazardly, walking the cold distance to the bed to dump the pile of clothing and then walking back, feeling a little absurd for wanting to cover himself. A cock the same as any other, he'd told Viktor earlier; there was nothing particularly unique or exciting about it, and so he pads back to the bath and delicately starts to ease himself in, hissing at the heat of the water after just a few moments of being bare in the slowly warming room. ]
Warm, aye. And dusty, and cobwebbed and - [ His complaints are, regrettably, not as interesting as the bow of Viktor's lips, unkissed. Swiftly, with only a little water sloshing in his wake, Emet-Selch fixes that problem with both hands framing Viktor's face gently, daring to indulge. The world doesn't end. They are no closer or further from obliteration than they were before he made the move; it is just a kiss, and dangerously, for a moment in a way only Viktor can cause, he is only Hades. ]
[ Dust and cobwebs, just as predicted. Smug delight paints Viktor's features bright, and before pleased laughter can escape him, Hades catches that smile with his own perfect mouth, muffling the sound. Warm, careful hands right their awkward angle as they slot together, and Viktor parts his lips, welcoming Hades in, wanting more.
If asked, Viktor would say, without pride or reservation, that he has been a prolific paramour. Aside from it being a fun diversion, and ignoring his penchant for catching fluttery feelings, physical intimacy had simply proven itself a useful tool for a young man who failed to fit in adequately anywhere. He has enjoyed, endured, initiated countless kisses in places both public and private. And right now, none of that matters.
There is only this: a kiss that is in no way just a kiss. Lips that erase impending obliteration, warmth that whites out every worry and ache. It is a moment without duty, without the Warrior's tithe. It is a realization, that were the world to end, were this to be his last kiss, just this would be enough, perfect, and were they to win, were he to have the opportunity for many, many more, each one would belong to Hades, to do with as he sees fit.
He breaks away only long enough to catch his breath. ]
You will live. [ murmured in the heartbeat's breadth that their mouths are parted.
Even that gap is too much, like a gasp of oxygen fed to a starving fire. Viktor tips his head, leans in and nuzzles the side of Hades's nose. He wants, needs more hotly than he has ever felt. Like he is half his age, again. In a way that makes him positively stupid. ]
We will live.
[ Viktor pushes forward, slings an arm around Hades's shoulders as he presses his lips to his mouth anew, water splashing as he climbs into his lap. The feel of Hades's cock against his thigh shakes a breath out of him, and he lets the fingers of his free hand dance over Hades's thigh. ]
I will stretch every second of new time we make so that I might spend it with you.
[ He tries and probably fails to kiss the smug tilt of Viktor's mouth away. For some reason, despite that being his initial goal, the reason falls to the wayside the moment Viktor kisses him back. The moment his head tilts and the kiss becomes something less reactionary and more intent, all thoughts get shuffled clean out of his head and he's left with nothing but that same want from the night before. Heat that burns so fiercely it burns out anything but the single-minded desire to have Viktor pressed as lose as humanly possible.
Eventually, they must part; he is, in effect, immortal but must still breathe. For a fleeting, foolishly romantic moment he almost wishes he need not if only to steal a few more seconds. ]
Living filthy can be far worse than dying. [ He thinks, somewhat against his will, of the people in the wake of the Sundering. Fractured, malformed, unable to keep themselves cool in the heat, warm in the cold. Dying over and over again when such a fate was easily avoidable. Viktor shakes the thought from his head as cleanly as salt from the shaker taken from the holding facility Emet-Selch had maintained of all their old belongings, and replaces it with the swift, savage awareness of Viktor's naked, wet form clambering into his lap. Emet-Selch's breath catches, straining for a memory so old it may as well be the same dust they'd been trudging through. Distantly: a bath, and a body with parts that were new and exciting, and the laughing disappointment of discovering being intimate in the bath was possible, but perhaps not the most comfortable. ]
The water will chafe you know.
[ He's less concerned about himself - he doesn't think that he would, personally, last long enough for chafing to be an issue, more concerned with Viktor and pleased to have something to complain about. His mouth slants over Viktor's before he can muster a response, managing all of a few seconds of kissing him gently before he licks into Viktor's mouth hungrily, one hand dropping down into the water with a faint splash, fitting itself firmly, unhesitatingly to the curve of Viktor's bottom to ensure every ilm of him is pressed as close as possible. Then, the hand flinches, flexes, like he realizes that pawing at Viktor will not just be welcomed but encouraged. Mindlessly, distracted by the kiss, by Viktor pressed this close he rocks his hips up. The motion isn't exceptionally smooth or graceful; not so much a proper grind as the motion is a jerky, half-finished jacknife. His body certainly doesn't care.
Just the bit of friction is enough to wrest a strangled breath from Emet-Selch, a little nnh in shock, nails digging halfmoons into the swell of Viktor's bottom before he catches himself. Masters himself back down from a roaring, mindless bonfire to something less out of control, pressing his mouth against the swell of Viktor's shoulder, instead, inhaling through his nose. He wants, and he's rather tired of pretending otherwise. Tomorrow, he can feel ridiculous about his weak will. For now, he presses teeth into a healing mark from earlier and then forcibly draws back to meet Viktor's gaze. ]
I assume your offer of - [ a pause, clearly straining for a non-clinical referral and dodging all the way around a filthy one ] - reciprocation did not come with an expiry date.
[ Viktor knows so little of what had been at the moment of Venat's sundering. He has grasped fleeting memories of the first shade born of Aepymetes, dwindled near to nothing not merely by Hydaelyn's magic, but by Aepymetes, himself, trading meager strength he might've had for ages otherwise for a slim chance at a happier future ten thousand years later. Hades speaks of living filthy, and Viktor thinks not of that glimpse of a past he'll never know, but of those much more real, tangible years after Dalamud fell. Of sleeping rough and seeking shelter where he could. Of how much more bearable it would've been, had he someone to hold him, keep him, just like this.
But even those wretched memories cannot dampen the fire burning low in his stomach, the roar of his pulse between his thighs. Hades says more. Something Viktor doesn't quite catch before he's kissing him again, a sweet and soft second burnt up in the supernova blast of want kindled between them. Sex in a tub isn't exactly easy, but the repercussions are best left to sort out by the tomorrow version of him - the one that isn't aching to be claimed after a long day of little heartaches. A hum escapes him when Hades's palm fits against his bottom, hiking up to a whine when he flinches, squeezes. And then- a jerk of hips that Viktor isn't quite prepared for.
A laugh bubbles out of him, impossibly fond. His voice shakes, elated, when he whispers, ] Hades.
[ Viktor pets his hair, dragging fingers through platinum strands and then smoothing them down again, anything to keep him close, to pull him closer. He murmurs nonsense sounds of approval, hiking into a whimper when he feels nails dig into his skin. Then, a second later, another bite, and Viktor has to swallow the urge to beg for more.
Hades is speaking again, and Viktor nearly swallows the sound in another kiss. He is less than an ilm away, breathing hard, when he computes what's being asked of him. Silence settles as Viktor gains purchase on his own composure, meeting Hades's firefly eyes with an adoring gaze of his own, mismatched eyes half-lidded. ]
Anything. I would do anything for you. You need but... t-tell me you want it.
[ It's only after the fact that he allows himself to register and really think about what Viktor had said, far too distracted with attempting to get out his - request? Reminder? Suggestion? He thinks about Nabriales' mastery of time, about how if he dared to delve into its use between the two of them they very well could figure out a way to stretch time out like taffy, until seconds become minutes become hours. He won't. Can't, maybe. To use and abuse his own power for his own ends was one thing, but disrespecting the seat of another like that - even if no one would know or care - sits poorly.
Once again, Viktor shakes him out of the thought, this time with laughter and Emet-Selch has never particularly been one to be offended at being laughed at - that required some level of respect for the person doing the mocking and that respect was not often found when Emet-Selch was the one being mocked. Frustratingly, he finds he has an endless well of respect, begrudging and otherwise, for Viktor. ]
What, are you at risk of forgetting my name if you do not utter it enough?
[ For all Viktor's fondness and affection, Emet-Selch finds himself squirming as if instead of stroking hands over wet skin he'd wiggled his way beneath, dug his fingers into Emet-Selch's flesh and muscle. ]
I want - [Because he can. He's allowed to want, not just for the greater good, for their goals, for their duty, but for himself. He stalls out, thinking of a dozen, a hundred different ways to ask for it, in countless languages dead and old and finds all of them insufficient, inadequate. ] I want you to put your mouth on my cock.
[ No, that's worse, somehow. Not clinical, but neither is it particularly arousing, and Emet-Selch's nose wrinkles as he meets Viktor's mismatched eyes, kissing him instead to distract. He's thousands of years old, he shouldn't find himself like this. ]
[ It's just bluster, that question. Viktor does not answer it with a yes. He does not admit to the deeply held terror that someday Light will take this from him, too. Erase their story as it has taken the color from his hair, the easy way flame and levin had once obeyed his beck and call, as it takes every scar from his skin before it can set. Will flowers grow over this, too? Will pearl white blooms blot out Hades's eyes, his mouth, his voice?
Once, he had not thought to live long enough for such things to matter. Now, time feels like something he will never have enough of. And so he would, with repetition, stitch that name upon his soul, to forbid himself from forgetting.
Rather than risk spoiling the moment saying as much, Viktor looks instead to the past for a proper answer, and finds it between kisses pressed from mouth to jaw. Breathless, matter-of-fact, he answers, ] You'll forgive me wanting to make up for lost t-time.
[ Easy enough not to get caught up in such dour thoughts when he finds himself with fingers wound around the threads of the most impassive Emet-Selch's composure. The right tug, and Viktor's sure he will unravel. It leaves him half-feral, feeling every twitch and jerk of Hades's body with the two of them flush together.
Hades struggles to give voice to what he wants, and Viktor only loves him more for it, loves to watch words fail him as he wrestles with desire. Hades has lived for years beyond counting, is sometimes so good at hiding his reactions that Viktor has wondered whether he even feels at all. He has none of that composure now, and those words, your mouth on my cock, and the rushed, exasperated kiss that chase them coax a little groan from the back of Viktor's throat.
He nods eagerly into the kiss as he considers their options, whether showing off his water breathing would be an amusing little trick or if he'd rather prove his devotion kneeling before Hades at their bed. A second later, he decides there's still fun to be had, toying with the just fraying edges of Hades's composure. He breaks their kiss, only to press another, quick, upon his lips. Viktor shifts the hand slung around Hades's back to press to his face, holding his gaze. The other eases down between his legs, thumb glancing against his shaft. ]
Where do you want me to put your cock in my mouth, Hades? [ Viktor cannot help but smile when he asks, eyes glinting in the firelight with animal focus. ] Here in the bath? On the bed? Perhaps... elsewhere?
[ The most irritating part of being known, he thinks, is that Viktor's experience with him instantly dulls the sharpness of his words. He does not want Viktor upset, but neither does he care for situations where he does not maintain complete control. Old habits die hard, and the moment that Viktor takes the lead in their little dance - and he has, undeniably, taken the lead - it leaves him feeling off-kilter, unsure where best to place his feet.
Making up for lost time, Viktor tells him, and Emet-Selch is not so frustrated he cannot acknowledge the truth of Viktor's words. He tries to imagine the opposite - being fractured into dozens of pieces like glass, patching pieces of his soul together, and feeling faint hints of familiarity over someone but never being certain why the sight of certain people winds its way around his heart and tugs tight enough to bleed. For once, no bitter question arises of how can you think we feel anything similarly; Emet-Selch knows they do. His mouth sets in a little line and he kisses Viktor instead of think any longer about it, the hand still against his face shifting until he can grasp Viktor's chin, long fingers splaying against the curve of his jaw, smoothing over his cheeks like he can't bear not to touch him if the option is there. ]
I suppose if I must.
[ Hard to sound like an ageless sorcerer who has experienced everything when he's in this state; he aims for sturdy and ends up somewhere in the neighborhood of flustered, squirming under the weight and attention of Viktor's gaze and touch. He wants to chase the little sound he'd unintentionally wrested from Viktor, wants to lick the taste of it out of his mouth and as there's no good reason not to, does, promptly, hungrily.
Moments later, Viktor's hand starts to move; he hears the slosh of bathwater, however slight, and feels fingertips, then the proper weight of a hand between his thighs, and knows there's no stopping the visceral reaction that occurs at the faintest glancing touch, the threat, the promise of it being more. He is certain he makes his own embarrassing little noise again, wholly unable to swallow it back, and bites his own tongue only when he's certain Viktor's is not in any danger, panting shallowly against Viktor's mouth. ]
You must think yourself so terribly clever, hm? Reversing our positions like this. And you ought to elaborate - where is elsewhere? The princeling's throne, staking your claim? [ For all his complaints, he is at least admiring of the tack. He would do the same thing in Viktor's shoes - has, in a very different situation - and take no small amount of pleasure in wrecking one's carefully held control. Perched above him, Viktor's damp skin gleams in the firelight and Emet-Selch gives into the urge to slouch back against the stone wall, to properly look at him, to drink the sight of him in, before finding an answer to Viktor's question. ] I can promise you the finer details of exactly how you facilitate - [ A pause, a cringe, not liking the alliteration but neither is he able to find a satisfactory word and so he continues. ] - fellatio are not overly concerning to me.
[ At any given moment, Viktor is aware in the abstract of how much larger Hades is. It's not so unusual. Viktor is decidedly average, perhaps even slight, when compared to the wide breadth of bodies found upon their star. But when Hades shifts his grip, takes Viktor's chin as he kisses him, fingers brushing jaw and throat, that difference is all he can think about. One moment, Viktor thinks he may be in control of the situation, and the next, Hades is directing him, allowing him forgiveness, and then kissing him again.
Hades voice shakes as he grips at the reins, trying to assert some measure of control, and it's frankly absurd how readily the Warrior's will slips. There is something to be said for consciously relenting to a man whose will rivals your own. Viktor opens his mouth to let Hades steal his breath, explore with his tongue, and answers with a soft, wanting sound. Half-mad at the sound that rushes past Hades's lips the very moment he's touched, Viktor lasts just 'til they've parted; as Hades's hot breath warms the skin of his throat, Viktor exhales a heavy shuddered sigh of his own, rocks his hips against Hades's lap, eager and urgent, once, twice, before he gets control of himself.
In the split second before Hades begins to taunt him again, Viktor grips his wrist and blurts, barely louder than a whisper, ] Sh-shite, I love when you do that.
[ Hades sinks low in the bath, and Viktor takes a moment to admire the sight of his most stoic sorcerer stretched out languid beneath him, still struggling to maintain that exacting composure. ]
I think of myself very little, Hades. You know that. [ It feels like something he's said a thousand, thousand times before. He does not realize that, technically, it is. ] Anywhere is elsewhere. [ He flattens his palm on Hades's chest, liking the look of it there. ] The aviary, a garden, the lordling's own tub, for a l-laugh. Though the throne might be most fun. [ He grins wicked, wild. A smile that brightens when he's given direction, however vague, however hesitant, the orders. ]
Very well. Watch your head.
[ Viktor slips back, out of Hades's lap, making room for what he's about to do next. Slipping his head beneath the water, while certainly a novel trick, rather precludes catching glimpses of Hades's face, but neither does Viktor want to risk dampening the heat with cold air and the short walk toward the bed.
So, instead, he flattens his palms on the tub's basin, hooks his fingers into the stone's aether and pulls. With a crunch of stone against stone, the entire bath shifts, the basin beneath Hades lifting into a crude, rocky seat - a throne that lifts him partway out of the water. Viktor uses his foot to force the other edge of the tub out further, easy as molding raw clay, to accommodate displaced water. He slides forward again, taking one of Hades's legs on his shoulder with a low chuckle, staring up at him hungrily. ]
[ After centuries of ignoring the irritating weight of want, he finds to indulge in it now feels as if all of it has gathered and settled upon his shoulders at once and he finds he is, as ever, ill-suited to manual labor. He can't magic his way out of this, though, and he doesn't want to. Much as he was grateful for the layer of distance manipulation of the shadows offered earlier, he finds the idea of it unthinkable now. To have a bounty before him and not partake is unimaginable.
Viktor's little interjection distracts him from the task of kissing him within an ilm of his life but before he can ask what, exactly, Viktor had so enjoyed that he had unintentionally done, Viktor slips out of his grasp with nothing but the fleeting pressure of the half-aborted rolls of his hips sparking heat in Emet-Selch's stomach. He hadn't held tight enough to make it a difficulty; Emet-Selch's hand flexes at the loss before he forcibly grips the stone seat instead of chasing him. ]
I am very well aware. A task to attend to in full when we've completed our duty. [ He has no intention of allowing Viktor's acknowledgment to go unanswered, unnoticed, but neither does he press the point despite the desire lingering. He has far better tasks to turn his attention to, namely, imagining having Viktor in any one of the places listed off. Imagination is always insufficient when compared to reality, though. Imagination does have the benefit of not getting dirt into uncomfortable places, and not dealing with feathers and bird waste, though. ] If you think I am letting you or I flounce about naked in one of the glorified bird cages -
[ He feels what's going to occur before he realizes it; the hum in the air, the way the aether shifts in anticipation of whatever magic Viktor intends to work. When the bath shifts beneath him it's not a surprise. His ability to manipulate aether may not be as refined as someone who's lived for thousands of years and studied officially, but the Emet-Selch can admit that doesn't matter. Not when the end result is still aether and being reshaped nearly effortlessly, water sluicing off him as he is abruptly raised a few ilms and - oh.
Later, he'll be a little mortified about how quickly he goes from do I find this arousing to oh, no, I find this terribly arousing; for now, he swallows back any embarrassment and intentionally, slowly, lounges once again. Tries to make a show of it, to put himself on display no matter how it makes his stomach twist with discomfort he has no patience for. Viktor arranges himself beneath Emet-Selch's leg, and for all that the position puts Emet-Selch arguably in the powerful position, all he can think is he is entirely at Viktor's mercy like this. His cock twitches, hands aching to busy themselves or cover himself and so he splits the difference, gently but intently carding a hand through Viktor's hair, cautious of the lilies, and then grips, spreading his thighs a little wider. If Viktor attempts to dive forward and set about his task, Emet-Selch's grip stops him, his head tilting, eyes lidded as he examines (admires) Viktor, too much Hades in his expression to be Solus properly even as he tries for the facade. ]
Before you do - you mentioned you loved something done. Elaborate.
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Well, one certainly would not consider you particularly pleased with me right now.
[ Viktor is not, he realizes, angry, or even irritated. Hurt is a far more accurate term, which he only seems to realize upon actually daring to study Viktor, taking in the sight of his drooped ears, the tense set of his posture. Guilt is a mostly unfamiliar emotion, rare as water in the desert but he feels the first stirrings of it now as Viktor beats a hasty escape and leaves him here with nothing but the souls who'd borne witness.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, when he returns to his room - their room, the simulacra are nestled in bed, Emet-Selch reading to the shade of Viktor. Emet-Selch erases both of them with barely a thought, and reaches out to Hythlodaeus, only to pause. There's no answer. He's there. Emet-Selch stretches out his awareness and can feel the bastard, but every attempt to reach out to him is like attempting to reach through an invisible wall.
You can clean up your own messes once in a while, Hythlodaeus murmurs, and closes the connection entirely, leaving him standing in the ice-cold room, genuinely irritated for multiple reasons, now.
When was the last time he apologized properly? He's made vague concessions to Viktor here and there, acknowledged when he was too sharp, too clumsy with his words, but an actual apology - detailing where and when he went wrong and apologizing for that? He doesn't recall. It would be easier, he reckons, if he understood exactly what it was he was intended to apologize for. On some level it was satisfying to have Viktor push back against him with such intent - he'd rather that intent focused literally anywhere else, but he'd take it if needed. Viktor needed the wherewithal to get through these coming moons, certainly, but Emet-Selch found he did not particularly enjoy when that pushback was aimed in his direction.
Worse, and useless, is the knee-jerk thought that it doesn't matter that Viktor is upset because that's not the truth. It is a lie he feeds himself to assuage himself of any guilt. Emet-Selch was right; he had the knowledge and the experience, he was correct because only he understood the Underworld in this way; everyone else was dead and gone, their aether long since repurposed, reformed, lacking knowledge. But wasn't that the issue? Minimizing what Viktor could feel, which was far more than anyone alive could manage. Their bindings had intertwined them so inextricably - Emet-Selch couldn't know just what Viktor could feel. He could be certain that Viktor would not have the lifetimes of knowledge to know how to tend to the Sea, and that his awareness was undeniably less intense than the man who was ostensibly responsible, but...
How irritating. He cleans what little needs to be cleaned, starts a fire in the fireplace by hand just to have something to do, and spends the rest of his time working on busywork, waiting for the sound of footsteps in the hall, the creak of the door to announce Viktor's arrival. Hythlodaeus answers exactly none of his summons, nor his intermittent inquires, nothing but cool, clear nothingness save for amusement at his consternation. ]
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In the root cellar, it is easy enough to move the shelf back into place. On the way out, Viktor grabs a jar of pickles and a small roll of hard cheese, fully intending to eat his feelings. It winds up being a good idea for other reasons.
A guard stops him in the hall by the kitchens, and he cops sheepishly to sneaking down to the root cellar to steal a snack. He buys the guard's silence with a charming smile and one stolen pickle, and then has an idea.
Into the kitchen he goes, trading a sweet story about being tired and hungry (and another pickle, only tentatively accepted) for a plate of tea cakes from the girls in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow's breakfast. Then, to the throne room, entry for which costs him only a bit of soft laughter at a joke that he doesn't quite get, not being from this shard, and two more pickles, plus the cheese.
Hard to hold onto his anger, he finds, when so many people are so easily pleased by a strange viera, wandering "lost" through the halls of a castle at night. He learns a few names, coaxes smiles from tired, dour guards, and helps himself to the last pickle on his winding journey to their quarters.
In the castle's great hall, on a whim, he pulls a few threads, weakening the left two legs of the lordling's throne. Amused with himself, he does the same in the dining hall, weakening the wood on the seat he assumes the lordling uses to take his meals. A bit of mischief eases what's left of the anger in his heart, and finally he makes an earnest beeline back, tea cakes and empty pickle jar in hand.
He doesn't think to feel awkward until he's right outside the door. Hurt still lingers, makes itself known with a dull pang chased by shame - shame at how readily he wishes to put this away, to forget about the gnawing doubt and pretend this is all fine. With the sort of sobriety usually reserved for facing down primals, Viktor lets himself into the room - their room. He half expects to find the room empty, cold. It is not, and the relief he feels is embarrassingly immeasurable. ]
They had some leftover c-cakes in the kitchens.
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Then, Viktor arrives and Emet-Selch finds himself entirely sidetracked from any attempt at a normal greeting when he spots the empty pickle jar. His brow furrows, doing mental math on the story behind it. ]
Leftover, or have you filched from tomorrow's breakfast?
[ At least the need for tea to go with the cakes gives him something to do other than stare at Viktor. They don't have their stove or their stock of teas, but Emet-Selch did think to pack some of them so they are not bereft of choice. He, of course, brought Viktor's favorites and tries not to think about this like it's some sort of bribery as the water heats. ]
It takes years - lifetimes, even, to gain a fraction of the understanding needed to manage the Underworld. [ He trails off, irritated by how perplexingly difficult he finds the relatively simplistic solution of apologize. His initial foray sounds far too much like an excuse; worse, he can practically feel Hythlodaeus' eyes on them, delightedly watching him fumble his way through. Apologies were not a skillset he'd actively practiced in years, and yet found himself in dire need of more often than not with Viktor. It was incredibly tedious, if necessary. ] I am sorry for my dismissal of your perception. My...assumption was based on your lifespan, aye. 'Twas a thoughtless comment.
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[ A faint smirk hangs on Viktor's features, already looking less thinly drawn than he had at the mouth of the Underworld. The empty pickle jar is left on the shelf by the door, and Viktor deposits the tray of cakes on the table. He cannot know for sure whether his evening tour of the castle will have any bearing on the path this reflection will take, but he is quite sure that it is a great deal more difficult to be an effectively terrifying little tyrant when your subjects cannot help but laugh at you.
Now that he's asked for an apology, he isn't sure where the lines are, anymore. Viktor stands at the table, staring down at the cakes a moment, willing up the courage to move again. His nerves have him reaching into a pocket to run fingers over the citrine crystal tucked away there, as though he must hide the motion needed to work them out. ]
I... may've b-bought my way into a few rooms. Tampered with some things. [ A breath, pulled in, held. He forces his feet to move, stands beside Emet-Selch by the fire as he fusses with tea. Of course he's brought his favorite. Guilt climbs across his heart like ivy, but his voice stays steady as he jokes. ] Surprisingly affordable, the toll to nudge the direction fate leans.
[ He watches, quiet, as Hades starts and stops a lecture, then changes course. A proper apology. The ivy snaking around his ribs squeezes once and then relents, replaced by another wave of welcome relief. Viktor reaches up, clasps a palm to Emet-Selch's cheek, and stares into his eyes.
In a voice barely more than a murmur, he says, ] Thank you.
[ But he does not linger there. Slips away instead to sit at the table and stare at his knuckles, rough and dry from the cold. He's gotten his apology. That could be enough. But it still feels to him as though there is a gap, a blank space yet to be filled in. Whether or not he wants an explanation now, he deserves one. ]
It was not about... what I could perceive, p-precisely. [ Slow, steady, he goes on. ] I do not know how much you know of my travels before we met on the First. Garlean reports likely gave you a glimpse, but- I know that what I have endured pales in comparison to aught you have lost, and I do not mean to ask for pity, when I say... it was hard. It was impossibly hard to s-see what I saw, to do what I did, to fail, over and over, and still have to carry the banner. To lead those people into ever g-greater danger.
In order to... do it at all, I had to flatten myself. I had to stop... feeling. And- and when Fandaniel gave my b-body to Zenos. A-and after, my Scions, they- there was no time to think about what h-happened to me. They needed me to keep w-walking... [ His voice takes a watery, wandering tone, starting and stopping several times as he fights a new swell of pain. And then, quiet, flat, ] As I told you weeks ago, I- I stopped feeling much of anything, then.
[ Viktor looks up, brows up, mismatched eyes shining, fixed on Hades. ]
But you- you've made me feel s-so bloody much again. There is no man, alive or dead, who makes me angrier than you do. [ The words are leveled with no small amount of fondness and a shaky, crooked smile. ] B-but you also make me feel more... confident and curious and... happy, loved, than I have f-felt in ages. A-and so, when you... call my hurt irritation or- or dance around my questions, it... it leaves m-me feeling... weak. As though all of that- as though I should've been stronger. And I do not know how.
[ He stops, flattens both palms on the table. ]
Y-you did not know that before. And I- I reacted harshly. I will... t-try to be more measured in the future. [ A sigh. ] I cannot feel all of the Aetherial Sea, and I do not think I ever will. I understand so l-little. B-but I do hope that someday, when we've the time, you will t-teach me.
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[ He has no ground to stand on when it comes to a ruling class member taking more than is needed and leaving little for the rest. That being said, he doubts the royalty here are fundamentally focused on sowing as much discord and disorder in a small amount of time as is possible; his neglect comes from selfishness, foolishness, and is altogether far more boring than playing a long (if cruel) game.
He is interested to know exactly what was fiddled with on Viktor's side that it would inconvenience the prince, but has enough sense for once not to ask and change the subject when they are ostensibly to have a serious conversation.
Neither is there a good way to acknowledge that his knowledge of Viktor was, for long periods, simply cursory. If he did show up in reports and analysis provided by his advisors, it would have been in refugee or casualty or other number projections. It was not until far later that the nameless, faceless viera became relevant, and Emet-Selch had, perhaps unwisely, trusted Lahabrea could handle it. Could handle Viktor. He couldn't, and Emet-Selch isn't quite sure he can, either. If anything, he's proven rather spectacularly he cannot. ]
Feeling things is...rather inconvenient when one has a duty.
[ That is the only allowance he'll make, daring, maybe forcing himself to look over at Viktor, who seems keen on baring his heart to Emet-Selch like he somehow thinks Emet-Selch is worthy, or will know what to do with such a gift. Worse, is the awareness that no matter how raw he must feel hearing it, to feel it must be a thousand, thousand times worse. ]
I do not think it is possible for you to be any stronger.
[ This is not a criticism. Emet-Selch utters the words with an undercurrent of grudging respect. A different sort of strength from what he'd originally considered living through the worst possible events occurring one after another, where one bears the worst in expectation of being able to unwrite later what has happened. Viktor is not even granted that potentiality and yet keeps walking forward.
Leaned against the wall, careful not to accidentally set his robes alight, Emet-Selch crosses his arms and tries to muster a useful response. ]
You needn't temper your reaction each time you are reasonably cross with me.
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[ Viktor has never considered himself a leader in the way that Merylwyb or the Exarch had been. He has never dictated policy or given moving speeches to rapt audiences, but the reins of fate have nevertheless ever been in his hands. A leader, not standing at the top, but at the front, and there by virtue of those who have put their faith, their hope in him. It is only right, in his estimation, that their problems should be his problems, that the wick of his life is best spent to make their own a little brighter. He does not begrudge it. He does not regret his journey, his choices, the cost. He is only tired. ]
Better to f-feel. Even if it is painful and... messy.
[ He slouches, pressing his nose into his arms as he curls them together on the table, his hands tucked into his elbows. It muffles his voice when he gripes, ] And I do not wish to be cross with you...
[ Only slightly mortifying, to crack open his ribs, untangle the muscle of his heart, and be met with that familiar grim stoicism. It is familiar, though. Expected, for Hades to stand steady against the flood of Viktor's too soft heart. And there is a strange comfort to be had in that, in Hades taking the deluge of Viktor's hurt and sorrow without complaint or judgment.
Viktor rather loves him for it, but at the moment, he also wants more. ]
I wish to snack on cakes and drink tea while soaking in the bath with you. If you would have me.
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Only feeling a little foolish for not being able to look at him, Emet-Selch turns back to the kettle, fixing two glasses with militant precision and focus, desperately trying to ignore the wretched ache in his heart. Easier, when he didn't feel things at all. Easier, when the decisions he made, ugly as they were, were justified with a purpose. Easier, when he wasn't challenged by someone effortlessly good and dragged along on that path, even if he drags his feet at times. ]
One not befitting of your grace.
[ That's the only answer, but even then, Viktor wouldn't see it like that. Anyone - even the worst, most misguided among them, are worthy of his time and attention in his mind. Maddening. ]
Start the bath, then.
[ He's not going to complain about the idea of eating something with crumbs in the bath. He won't, even if it so incredibly tempting to do. Emet-Selch pauses in placing the teacups on their saucers, casting Viktor a little sideways look. ]
I will draw the line at eating in bed, though.
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Of course he would serve whatever world was left. He must, no matter the shape it takes. He hums into his arms, a noncommittal sound.
It's not that he expects to be told no, only that he doesn't expect a yes to come as easily as it does. Not after the last bell. Viktor rises quietly, brings the tray of cakes over to the table beside the absurd stone tub, and bends over to start the water. He dangles his fingers beneath the faucet, waiting until the temperature is to his liking - almost uncomfortably hot - to stopper the bath.
Fingers dance over the toggles binding his robe shut and then still. One ear angles toward Hades as he speaks, his words drawing a faint smirk to Viktor's lips. He leaves the robe done up - work better left for when Hades is standing before him - and sets to browsing salts and oils to add to the water. ]
Worry not. We are not in such dire straits that I would risk c-crumbs in our bed. [ While he waits, Viktor lifts his hands to undo the strip of leather tying his hair back out of his eyes. Curls fall loose around flowers, drooping into his eyes. Mildly, teasing, he goes on. ] Now, were the world ending, that would be a d-different story. All bets would be off, then - fried dough with fruit syrup and p-plenty of powdered sugar, right on top of the duvet.
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[ Just in case Viktor gets any ideas. Teacups placed on their saucers, Emet-Selch brings them over to the bath, settling both on the stone lip. There is wine he could quite easily fetch, but has no desire to partake now that they're here. He has no need for the low heat it kindles in his stomach, nor the way it sharpens his tongue.
For now, he contents himself with the fact that he can probably distract Viktor from fetching the teacakes and make do with the tea. For all that Emet-Selch'd hesitated to look at the other man, he finds his gaze drawn when Viktor lets loose his curls. There's an itch in his fingertips, aching to right the curls amongst the flowers and resisting because they'll just be mussed when they bathe.
His hands freed from their burden, Emet-Selch lasts all of a few moments of resisting while Viktor browses, and then he finds his fingers have found their way to the tiny thread toggles and buttons. His thumb hooks beneath the loop, nudging the toggle loose, baring an ilm of flesh Emet-Selch gives serious consideration to kissing. This, he manages to resist, barely. Instead, he plucks up the plate of cakes, moving it out of reach of one sitting in the bath and settles himself atop in its place, thinking himself clever for all of a heartbeat.
His index finger traces the v of flesh bared, toying at the other toggle. There are a dozen different ways to manipulate someone into doing whatever you wish. Bribery is the most boring of the options, followed shortly after by threats. The easiest solution often requires the least effort and feels the least satisfying when at its culmination. Manipulation is most satisfying to orchestrate and execute. This was, he thinks a little bitterly, perhaps no small amount of what Viktor meant when upset and the realization makes him want to nudge the plate further away, spitefully. The next words sound like they're dragged up from within, Emet-Selch's jaw tight. ]
I would prefer we left the teacakes until after the bath.
[ The second toggle loosened, released. The spill of his curls against the nape of his neck, another ilm of flesh, the knob of his spine revealed. Emet-Selch resists pressing a kiss then, too, feeling positively ridiculous, more frustrated over how attempting to do this the right way makes something irritatingly like discomfort pit in his stomach. There would be no satisfaction to be found at manipulating Viktor over teacakes, just a worse version of this already horrifically unpleasant feeling pooled in his stomach, threatening to rise to his ribs. ]
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Well, 'tis very lucky that your quarters so often seem to become my quarters.
[ Realistically, Viktor knows that it is nothing for Emet-Selch to Make whatever soap, salt, or fragrance he desires. Reasonable, that even when traveling, he should have an extensive collection of bottles at his fingertips. That does not stop it from feeling absurd. Though, Viktor allows, any amount of soaps feels a little absurd to someone who is still having trouble with the idea of letting go of the convenience of one bar for everything.
Baffling as it all is, he cannot deny the appeal of all these little luxuries. There is a bottle of something that smells dark and sweet, a little like a plum liqueur. It would be nice, he thinks, to smell like something so decadent. To breathe in a scent that makes him think of Hades each time he moves in just the right way. It's a lovely line of thought that ends the very moment Emet-Selch begins to fiddle with the fasteners of his robes. He stills, smiles, pleased to be touched and tended to, as though Emet-Selch cannot help but steal contact.
That smile turns crooked, incredulous when Emet-Selch next moves the cakes away. He opens his mouth to level a joke about the obvious maneuver, but the thought dies on his tongue as he studies Emet-Selch's features, the telltale if miniscule signs of too much thinking. Viktor contents himself, instead, with tipping his chin down to watch Emet-Selch's hands dance over skin and fabric, waiting for Emet-Selch to find his voice.
And oh, what a wait it is. It is not the cool air that prickles his shoulders to gooseflesh when Emet-Selch reaches out to touch him again. Were he not certain that some thought percolates, near ready to bubble out, he might think Hades was teasing him - drawing the endeavor of undressing long to drive him crazy. Even if that is not the case, it does not stop the patter of Viktor's heart from quickening.
His ears twitch when Emet-Selch finally speaks, attention settling on him, brows lifted, lips parted, curious. Viktor's eyes dart to the cakes, then back, and he smiles and sidesteps into Emet-Selch's space. Pastries are fine enough, but the real prize, what he wants more than any confection, is closeness, contact. ]
Aye, of course. [ He smiles, bright. ] No soggy bits in the bathwater. And more interesting things to s-spend my attention on, anyway.
[ Emet-Selch undoes another toggle, exposing more skin and earning a shiver that is as much about the slowness of the process as the cold air. Right away, the desire to have as little clothing separating the two of them becomes urgent, but Viktor stills himself, more concerned with the storm cloud that Hades seems to be trying to shake off. He turns, finally, putting himself before Emet-Selch, still leaning on the table.
After a moment more of watching turbulence slow Emet-Selch's movements, Viktor sets the little bottle of fragrant soap aside and reaches up, presses a palm to Hades's cheek. The touch lingers for a heartbeat, and then he slips away, turns to show Hades his back, the robes drooping around freckled shoulders as they fall away. If busywork eases the storms of his mind, Viktor can certainly find some for him to do. He scoops up Hades's hands in his own, and sets them lower, to buckles and toggles still in need of undoing, and leans into him as he does so. ]
Here, next.
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[ The little noise of acknowledgment is as good as agreement. Viktor's right. The quarters are no longer just Viktor and Emet-Selch's, but theirs, like the links to the aetherial sea, like everything else. Like it used to be, almost. The thought is, oddly, a comfort. Almost as much of one as Viktor reaching out, pressing his hand against Emet-Selch's cheek. He allows himself the indulgence of tilting his head into it, a favored pet receiving affection from its master, inhaling and exhaling a little sigh.
Perhaps more irritating is the fact he keeps expecting for the other shoe to drop. For Viktor to realize he's still incensed with Emet-Selch's choice of words, to realize that Emet-Selch had given no small amount of consideration to the simple act of manipulation rather than asking for what he wants. Maybe, because disagreements with the Unsundered often lasted decades, centuries. When one had forever, it was nothing to have an argument that resulted in one or both parties not seeing each other for a long period of time. They are not allowed that here and now. Viktor's mortality is, in a way, a blessing, forcing Emet-Selch's hand. ]
I've done...a disservice to you, I think. [ As he speaks, his fingers keep working on the fastenings to Viktor's robe, undoing them one at a time, lingering, stroking fingers against the skin bared, tracing constellations of freckles that put the stars to shame. ] To have any part of the management of the aetherial sea, one must needs attend countless seminars, study for what you would consider lifetimes. Time we do not have.
[ It feels a little like unwrapping a present, doing this. Intentional, slow, baring each new ilm of skin, the cloth gathering and then sagging lower and lower with gravity's help. Emet-Selch finally gives into the impulse nagging at him, and presses a lingering kiss against the swell of Viktor's shoulder, nosing into the warm skin there greedily before he masters himself and continues working.
Another subject to add to their studies, then. He'll have to figure out how to best condense so much learning into so little time, but he can make a passable attempt at the effort and like with so much else, they will simply make do with what they have to work with. ]
To add a method of...transition between the aetherial seas would irrevocably change the souls within. There is a chance - infinitesimal, but a chance - it would not be an issue. There is equally a chance that to do so would cause souls to bloat and gorge themselves on each other, and we would turn the Underworld into a copy of the ruined Thirteenth. Souls would only exist to be consumed while fragmented, while those larger and more powerful gained too much to exist unchanged, transforming into...well. 'Twould put the horrors of the last few months to shame.
[ This is, perhaps, not the conversation best served whilst he undoes Viktor's clothing, but he can multitask, and blessedly, Viktor is wearing smalls beneath his robes. When the buttons are finished, he sweeps it off Viktor with all the showmanship of a magician, flicking it into the air where it reappears hung up for later wearing moments later. Any remaining clothing is divested, one at a time until there's nothing but socks and smalls left. One finger hooks in Viktor's underwear, the other arm braced for Viktor to hold onto as he starts to drag them down to fall around Viktor's ankles, keeping himself braced for Viktor to step out of them. ]
We had a goal when venturing down there. Were you able to learn what you wished? To identify a way to locate Meteion?
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Hades leans in and tastes his skin. Nuzzles the space so near his pulse, and Viktor bends his neck to give him room, threads fingers into his hair to offer gentle encouragement. He hums a soft protest when Hades pulls away, but does his best to listen when he goes on. Heartbreaking that even in the Sea, the cauldron of hope for their star, there should be the potential for such cruelty. Turning it over and over in his head pulls Viktor out of the moment. He frowns. ]
I s-see. [ Viktor angles his head toward Emet-Selch, glimpsing him out of the corner of his eye. ] 'Twas my th-thought that like might seek like. If not... reflections of the same old soul, then... those who had loved in l-life, who c-could not... bear to be separated again. [ A rueful smile crosses his features, fingers curling together and then parting to let Emet-Selch help him out of his robe. ] H-head in the clouds, I suppose.
[ Kindling fire anew, Hades handles his robe with a flourish that coaxes a weak but genuine smile back to Viktor's face. A huff of laughter escapes him, and then Hades is hooking fingers beneath the band of his smalls. His breath hitches. His heart aches. The faster he's naked, the sooner he can stop thinking about all the ways the world can go wrong, the better. But, a moment later, he decides to say more, softly, ] You have not done me a disservice. You have done the best you can with the time we have, and that is all anyone can hope to do.
[ His smalls fall. Viktor does not need Hades's arm for balance, but he wants it, and clutches tight as he steps out of his underwear and tugs stockings off. Unceremoniously, he drops his socks on the floor and turns to undo the cord holding Hades's dressing robe shut. Though still unsure where he is welcome, Viktor parts the robe and steps closer, into Emet-Selch's space. ]
I've made progress. [ He fiddles with the buttons on Emet-Selch's silk shirt, undoing the first of them before going on. ] If I close my eyes, I c-can feel... aetherytes, importance places, everything that m-mattered to her. A-and, were I to push, I think I could call more. Memories, hers and the lives who came before her. 'Twill become clearer with more connections. I must make them on each reflection.
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Perhaps more irritating is the knowledge that he might simply be wrong. Such a event does not occur naturally in the aetherial sea as it is. What he assumes might happen is, frustratingly, because of their work. He has no way of knowing just how drastically their work has changed the souls on the different shards, but the Thirteenth is one of the worst potential options. If he knew without hesitation, without doubt that such a thing would not occur, he might be more easily swayed. He might see the inherent romanticism in what he'd always considered a rather romantic ending, even if he would never admit it. Viktor's fingers tangle in his hair and Emet-Selch hates how easily he wants to fold at so casual a touch, how much he thinks about being touched when once he used to be able to ignore the thought easily. ]
It...could. However unlikely the chance, there is a chance, though it is the most unlikely one.
[ He knows he's treading ground he's already walked upon, explaining what has already been explained but better here not to be misunderstood, he thinks. Not with a subject that is so delicate. Not when one of Viktor's most charming traits his his inability to take no for an answer, and to physically manifest a different answer through sheer force of will.
Part of Emet-Selch would like to think that he's already seen Viktor naked a couple times, and so the novelty would have worn off. A naked body is like any other naked body, save for a few differences; the soul is the truest version of someone, regardless of what their flesh and blood resembles. He can talk himself in circles all he wants; it is wildly ineffective. Emet-Selch's eyes linger first on his shoulders and then trace down, belatedly shaking himself out of the trance and looking back at Viktor's expression as he steps in closer, fiddling with Emet-Selch's own clothing slow enough it seems like he waits for Emet-Selch to tell him no. He settles for a complaint that sounds toothless, even to him. ]
I am able to divest myself of my very uncomplicated clothing.
[ Further trips are, he supposes, not out of the question. Not ideal necessarily, not when they are not certain of the state of those different shards, but he understands the necessity of doing so. Pressed this close, the heat of Viktor's body is nearly more tempting than the hot water awaiting them; if they hadn't been wandering about in creature and cobweb-infested areas, he might not be so eager to freshen up. They were though, and even with a magic spell to clean oneself off, there was still a feeling that lingered until a proper bath or shower was had.
Viktor steps in close, eliminating any desire to think about mortality, instead replacing it with the utterly insane desire to sweep the robe on either side of him to keep all that bare skin from becoming too chill. As if they weren't going to get into the bath in a moment as if he weren't responsible for that chill in the first place. ]
And if we cannot make that connection, what then? I cannot feel any drastic changes to the Underworld as it is, but the connection is best, sharpest when actually on that shard. [ He won't know, not until he gets there, not until they check the state. ]
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Rather he ruminate than decide there's no use planning at all.
Viktor undoes another button as he ponders how best to answer, eases back fabric with splayed fingers to feel the shape of Hades's chest beneath his flattened palms. This touch is indulgent, studious, entirely for himself. Once he has touched his fill, Viktor undoes another button. Pushes fabric. Leans in and brushes lips against the V between Hades's clavicles.
There are other paths than this, but Viktor is not given to planning. ]
'Tis so much more satisfying to have someone else manage buttons and bangles. [ He says to fill silence, undoing another button.
Viktor is not given to planning, no. Not for lack of ideas, but for a mislike of the ones that pop into his head.
Another button, and another. Not quite so achingly slow as Hades had been to disrobe him. He seeks fewer barriers between them. More warmth, more skin.
If Meteion is a creation of Hermes, then could they not crack open the soul of Amon and wrest out a thread of what he had been? Take that and tug, like a leash, like a noose. Cruel, cruel, cruel, but effective.
Two more buttons. Viktor traces the dips of muscles, presses fingers to soft skin, certain he will never tire of feeling Hades's body.
The short answer, the worst answer, (and, if he is honest, the most likely one) he knows, is that he will burn the candle of his life to a stub to power magic he only partially understands, so long as it is their best chance of saving their star.
But that is the thing about the Warrior of Light. His responsibility is to know the short answer, the worst answer, and come up with something better. ]
If we cannot make that connection, we will f-find another way. All legends must start somewhere. If I cannot tap into what I was to s-see this through, then we will access what we are. [ Viktor undoes the last button on Hades's shirt, pushes fabric out of the way. ] Venat thinned our aether when she sundered the star, but it granted us a closer connection with dynamis. [ A breath. Viktor lifts his gaze, meeting Hades's eyes with a ferocious certainty in his own. ] I will learn to wield it. Make what needs must be done reality.
[ Still staring, one corner of his mouth tugs up. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Hades's fine silk pants, at the delectable point where his hipbones jut and nudges the fabric down half an ilm. ]
Will you be doing the fancy flourish trick with your r-robe, as well, then?
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Viktor talks about this almost-plan with such certainty, with such clarity of purpose that Emet-Selch envies him for a moment. Viktor might feel that surety, but Emet-Selch himself feels unmoored, useless. The ability to reshape the Underworld is not one they will need to fight Meteion, and he'd tried with two of the other best minds of their past world to find her, unsuccessful. It is not that he doubts Viktor's ability, not after all that has occurred. Perhaps is it his own efficacy he doubts.
Viktor effortlessly distracts him from that train of thought, splaying his hands over the newly bared flesh of his chest, warm, rough skin pressed against his own, wresting a shuddering little breath in and out. There's nothing his quick wit offers up in response to Viktor's little declaration; Emet-Selch understands. Viktor slowly undoing each piece of his clothing, mapping out the expanse of skin with his hands directly after is far too distracting to manage more than a little hum at the back of his throat.
If Viktor intends to use Dynamis to combat Meteion, Emet-Selch now has two duties. The first, obviously, is to learn all that he can about something they barely considered real let alone viable, back in the past. The second, and perhaps even more daunting task, is figuring out how to synthesize that information into something one or either of them could use. ]
I believe you. That if anyone could find a way to manifest their will, 'twould be you. [ So it is said, uttered out loud without any hesitation or the shudder in his breath that is both nervousness at the intent behind Viktor's hands, and arousal. He will not, in fact, be doing the same trick. The robe is flicked away, landing silently upon the bed and Emet-Selch's eyes trail down to where Viktor's fingers linger near his half-hard cock. It is worse tonight, he thinks wryly. Before, the want had been something he could acknowledge, move past. Now, he found that same unanswered want has returned tenfold, anticipatory. ]
Get in the bath before you freeze, or I do.
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This, Hades, is not that.
I believe you, says the endlessly particular Sorcerer of Eld, looking at him like he's hung the moon. And... he does not mean the Warrior of Light when he says it. Hades looks and sees Viktor. Ordinary, exhausted, refugee, adventurer, soldier Viktor. Something worth studying, savoring, and it's almost embarrassing how nourishing it is. Under his gaze, Viktor is not just admired but seen, understood, and still wanted. It leaves him hungry, starving for more. This, Hades, is something worth craving.
Intimacy is nothing new between them now, but Viktor still notices Hades's arousal and can't let go once he does. Hades looks at him. And he allows it. But in this there is no control. It is not transactional. He cannot help but stare, but want, ravenously, near craving what should be the natural conclusion to their bodies being bare, pressed so close. Shocking to realize he doesn't know what to do with this feeling, this want. His fingers slip beneath the band of Emet-Selch's pajamas, his smalls, to touch the skin where his hip and leg meet. And in the same breath, Hades gives his command, and of course, of course, Viktor obeys. There is no control here, and he likes it.
He runs fingers over the jut of Hades's hip bones, sparing a few reluctant seconds for closeness. ]
You have made it feel possible, you know. This- I am only here because of you. [ he murmurs, half tempted to ignore the chill and pull him into their bed, instead. But Hades will want to rid them both of dust and cobwebs and sweat before they climb beneath his fine sheets. And so, after a second more, Viktor steps back and into the tub.
He lowers himself slowly into water almost too hot, staring up at Hades, expectant. ]
Must I go through the whole rigamarole of getting c-clean before you allow me to indulge in you? I could've kept you p-plenty warm, you know.
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He'd half expected that after having Viktor the once, the feeling would abate regardless of whether or not it was mutually satisfactory in the same way. He had been satisfied - the closeness, the malms of bare flesh, wringing pleasure from Viktor instead of pain and settling at the end of the night to greedily savor the press of him close. He had been satisfied, but today is a new day and that night may as well not have happened for how badly he wants yet again. The most frustrating part is he doesn't think he's particularly discerning about what he wants. He wants Viktor, in whatever way, shape, form he can have him. If this sort of intimacy were not included in that equation, he would not mind. That he lives is enough. ]
Well, that sounds rather self-serving, doesn't it. [ Flippant, light, like just the promise of Viktor's fingers stroking along the v of his thighs doesn't have his stomach flipping, gooseflesh rising, his cock stirring where it starts to strain against the loose line of his waistband as Viktor teases it down. ] Must you - what, wash before you touch me?
[ Viktor climbs in and Emet-Selch hesitates the barest fraction of a moment before slipping off the rest of his clothing haphazardly, walking the cold distance to the bed to dump the pile of clothing and then walking back, feeling a little absurd for wanting to cover himself. A cock the same as any other, he'd told Viktor earlier; there was nothing particularly unique or exciting about it, and so he pads back to the bath and delicately starts to ease himself in, hissing at the heat of the water after just a few moments of being bare in the slowly warming room. ]
Warm, aye. And dusty, and cobwebbed and - [ His complaints are, regrettably, not as interesting as the bow of Viktor's lips, unkissed. Swiftly, with only a little water sloshing in his wake, Emet-Selch fixes that problem with both hands framing Viktor's face gently, daring to indulge. The world doesn't end. They are no closer or further from obliteration than they were before he made the move; it is just a kiss, and dangerously, for a moment in a way only Viktor can cause, he is only Hades. ]
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If asked, Viktor would say, without pride or reservation, that he has been a prolific paramour. Aside from it being a fun diversion, and ignoring his penchant for catching fluttery feelings, physical intimacy had simply proven itself a useful tool for a young man who failed to fit in adequately anywhere. He has enjoyed, endured, initiated countless kisses in places both public and private. And right now, none of that matters.
There is only this: a kiss that is in no way just a kiss. Lips that erase impending obliteration, warmth that whites out every worry and ache. It is a moment without duty, without the Warrior's tithe. It is a realization, that were the world to end, were this to be his last kiss, just this would be enough, perfect, and were they to win, were he to have the opportunity for many, many more, each one would belong to Hades, to do with as he sees fit.
He breaks away only long enough to catch his breath. ]
You will live. [ murmured in the heartbeat's breadth that their mouths are parted.
Even that gap is too much, like a gasp of oxygen fed to a starving fire. Viktor tips his head, leans in and nuzzles the side of Hades's nose. He wants, needs more hotly than he has ever felt. Like he is half his age, again. In a way that makes him positively stupid. ]
We will live.
[ Viktor pushes forward, slings an arm around Hades's shoulders as he presses his lips to his mouth anew, water splashing as he climbs into his lap. The feel of Hades's cock against his thigh shakes a breath out of him, and he lets the fingers of his free hand dance over Hades's thigh. ]
I will stretch every second of new time we make so that I might spend it with you.
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Eventually, they must part; he is, in effect, immortal but must still breathe. For a fleeting, foolishly romantic moment he almost wishes he need not if only to steal a few more seconds. ]
Living filthy can be far worse than dying. [ He thinks, somewhat against his will, of the people in the wake of the Sundering. Fractured, malformed, unable to keep themselves cool in the heat, warm in the cold. Dying over and over again when such a fate was easily avoidable. Viktor shakes the thought from his head as cleanly as salt from the shaker taken from the holding facility Emet-Selch had maintained of all their old belongings, and replaces it with the swift, savage awareness of Viktor's naked, wet form clambering into his lap. Emet-Selch's breath catches, straining for a memory so old it may as well be the same dust they'd been trudging through. Distantly: a bath, and a body with parts that were new and exciting, and the laughing disappointment of discovering being intimate in the bath was possible, but perhaps not the most comfortable. ]
The water will chafe you know.
[ He's less concerned about himself - he doesn't think that he would, personally, last long enough for chafing to be an issue, more concerned with Viktor and pleased to have something to complain about. His mouth slants over Viktor's before he can muster a response, managing all of a few seconds of kissing him gently before he licks into Viktor's mouth hungrily, one hand dropping down into the water with a faint splash, fitting itself firmly, unhesitatingly to the curve of Viktor's bottom to ensure every ilm of him is pressed as close as possible. Then, the hand flinches, flexes, like he realizes that pawing at Viktor will not just be welcomed but encouraged. Mindlessly, distracted by the kiss, by Viktor pressed this close he rocks his hips up. The motion isn't exceptionally smooth or graceful; not so much a proper grind as the motion is a jerky, half-finished jacknife. His body certainly doesn't care.
Just the bit of friction is enough to wrest a strangled breath from Emet-Selch, a little nnh in shock, nails digging halfmoons into the swell of Viktor's bottom before he catches himself. Masters himself back down from a roaring, mindless bonfire to something less out of control, pressing his mouth against the swell of Viktor's shoulder, instead, inhaling through his nose. He wants, and he's rather tired of pretending otherwise. Tomorrow, he can feel ridiculous about his weak will. For now, he presses teeth into a healing mark from earlier and then forcibly draws back to meet Viktor's gaze. ]
I assume your offer of - [ a pause, clearly straining for a non-clinical referral and dodging all the way around a filthy one ] - reciprocation did not come with an expiry date.
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But even those wretched memories cannot dampen the fire burning low in his stomach, the roar of his pulse between his thighs. Hades says more. Something Viktor doesn't quite catch before he's kissing him again, a sweet and soft second burnt up in the supernova blast of want kindled between them. Sex in a tub isn't exactly easy, but the repercussions are best left to sort out by the tomorrow version of him - the one that isn't aching to be claimed after a long day of little heartaches. A hum escapes him when Hades's palm fits against his bottom, hiking up to a whine when he flinches, squeezes. And then- a jerk of hips that Viktor isn't quite prepared for.
A laugh bubbles out of him, impossibly fond. His voice shakes, elated, when he whispers, ] Hades.
[ Viktor pets his hair, dragging fingers through platinum strands and then smoothing them down again, anything to keep him close, to pull him closer. He murmurs nonsense sounds of approval, hiking into a whimper when he feels nails dig into his skin. Then, a second later, another bite, and Viktor has to swallow the urge to beg for more.
Hades is speaking again, and Viktor nearly swallows the sound in another kiss. He is less than an ilm away, breathing hard, when he computes what's being asked of him. Silence settles as Viktor gains purchase on his own composure, meeting Hades's firefly eyes with an adoring gaze of his own, mismatched eyes half-lidded. ]
Anything. I would do anything for you. You need but... t-tell me you want it.
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Once again, Viktor shakes him out of the thought, this time with laughter and Emet-Selch has never particularly been one to be offended at being laughed at - that required some level of respect for the person doing the mocking and that respect was not often found when Emet-Selch was the one being mocked. Frustratingly, he finds he has an endless well of respect, begrudging and otherwise, for Viktor. ]
What, are you at risk of forgetting my name if you do not utter it enough?
[ For all Viktor's fondness and affection, Emet-Selch finds himself squirming as if instead of stroking hands over wet skin he'd wiggled his way beneath, dug his fingers into Emet-Selch's flesh and muscle. ]
I want - [Because he can. He's allowed to want, not just for the greater good, for their goals, for their duty, but for himself. He stalls out, thinking of a dozen, a hundred different ways to ask for it, in countless languages dead and old and finds all of them insufficient, inadequate. ] I want you to put your mouth on my cock.
[ No, that's worse, somehow. Not clinical, but neither is it particularly arousing, and Emet-Selch's nose wrinkles as he meets Viktor's mismatched eyes, kissing him instead to distract. He's thousands of years old, he shouldn't find himself like this. ]
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Once, he had not thought to live long enough for such things to matter. Now, time feels like something he will never have enough of. And so he would, with repetition, stitch that name upon his soul, to forbid himself from forgetting.
Rather than risk spoiling the moment saying as much, Viktor looks instead to the past for a proper answer, and finds it between kisses pressed from mouth to jaw. Breathless, matter-of-fact, he answers, ] You'll forgive me wanting to make up for lost t-time.
[ Easy enough not to get caught up in such dour thoughts when he finds himself with fingers wound around the threads of the most impassive Emet-Selch's composure. The right tug, and Viktor's sure he will unravel. It leaves him half-feral, feeling every twitch and jerk of Hades's body with the two of them flush together.
Hades struggles to give voice to what he wants, and Viktor only loves him more for it, loves to watch words fail him as he wrestles with desire. Hades has lived for years beyond counting, is sometimes so good at hiding his reactions that Viktor has wondered whether he even feels at all. He has none of that composure now, and those words, your mouth on my cock, and the rushed, exasperated kiss that chase them coax a little groan from the back of Viktor's throat.
He nods eagerly into the kiss as he considers their options, whether showing off his water breathing would be an amusing little trick or if he'd rather prove his devotion kneeling before Hades at their bed. A second later, he decides there's still fun to be had, toying with the just fraying edges of Hades's composure. He breaks their kiss, only to press another, quick, upon his lips. Viktor shifts the hand slung around Hades's back to press to his face, holding his gaze. The other eases down between his legs, thumb glancing against his shaft. ]
Where do you want me to put your cock in my mouth, Hades? [ Viktor cannot help but smile when he asks, eyes glinting in the firelight with animal focus. ] Here in the bath? On the bed? Perhaps... elsewhere?
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Making up for lost time, Viktor tells him, and Emet-Selch is not so frustrated he cannot acknowledge the truth of Viktor's words. He tries to imagine the opposite - being fractured into dozens of pieces like glass, patching pieces of his soul together, and feeling faint hints of familiarity over someone but never being certain why the sight of certain people winds its way around his heart and tugs tight enough to bleed. For once, no bitter question arises of how can you think we feel anything similarly; Emet-Selch knows they do. His mouth sets in a little line and he kisses Viktor instead of think any longer about it, the hand still against his face shifting until he can grasp Viktor's chin, long fingers splaying against the curve of his jaw, smoothing over his cheeks like he can't bear not to touch him if the option is there. ]
I suppose if I must.
[ Hard to sound like an ageless sorcerer who has experienced everything when he's in this state; he aims for sturdy and ends up somewhere in the neighborhood of flustered, squirming under the weight and attention of Viktor's gaze and touch. He wants to chase the little sound he'd unintentionally wrested from Viktor, wants to lick the taste of it out of his mouth and as there's no good reason not to, does, promptly, hungrily.
Moments later, Viktor's hand starts to move; he hears the slosh of bathwater, however slight, and feels fingertips, then the proper weight of a hand between his thighs, and knows there's no stopping the visceral reaction that occurs at the faintest glancing touch, the threat, the promise of it being more. He is certain he makes his own embarrassing little noise again, wholly unable to swallow it back, and bites his own tongue only when he's certain Viktor's is not in any danger, panting shallowly against Viktor's mouth. ]
You must think yourself so terribly clever, hm? Reversing our positions like this. And you ought to elaborate - where is elsewhere? The princeling's throne, staking your claim? [ For all his complaints, he is at least admiring of the tack. He would do the same thing in Viktor's shoes - has, in a very different situation - and take no small amount of pleasure in wrecking one's carefully held control. Perched above him, Viktor's damp skin gleams in the firelight and Emet-Selch gives into the urge to slouch back against the stone wall, to properly look at him, to drink the sight of him in, before finding an answer to Viktor's question. ] I can promise you the finer details of exactly how you facilitate - [ A pause, a cringe, not liking the alliteration but neither is he able to find a satisfactory word and so he continues. ] - fellatio are not overly concerning to me.
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Hades voice shakes as he grips at the reins, trying to assert some measure of control, and it's frankly absurd how readily the Warrior's will slips. There is something to be said for consciously relenting to a man whose will rivals your own. Viktor opens his mouth to let Hades steal his breath, explore with his tongue, and answers with a soft, wanting sound. Half-mad at the sound that rushes past Hades's lips the very moment he's touched, Viktor lasts just 'til they've parted; as Hades's hot breath warms the skin of his throat, Viktor exhales a heavy shuddered sigh of his own, rocks his hips against Hades's lap, eager and urgent, once, twice, before he gets control of himself.
In the split second before Hades begins to taunt him again, Viktor grips his wrist and blurts, barely louder than a whisper, ] Sh-shite, I love when you do that.
[ Hades sinks low in the bath, and Viktor takes a moment to admire the sight of his most stoic sorcerer stretched out languid beneath him, still struggling to maintain that exacting composure. ]
I think of myself very little, Hades. You know that. [ It feels like something he's said a thousand, thousand times before. He does not realize that, technically, it is. ] Anywhere is elsewhere. [ He flattens his palm on Hades's chest, liking the look of it there. ] The aviary, a garden, the lordling's own tub, for a l-laugh. Though the throne might be most fun. [ He grins wicked, wild. A smile that brightens when he's given direction, however vague, however hesitant, the orders. ]
Very well. Watch your head.
[ Viktor slips back, out of Hades's lap, making room for what he's about to do next. Slipping his head beneath the water, while certainly a novel trick, rather precludes catching glimpses of Hades's face, but neither does Viktor want to risk dampening the heat with cold air and the short walk toward the bed.
So, instead, he flattens his palms on the tub's basin, hooks his fingers into the stone's aether and pulls. With a crunch of stone against stone, the entire bath shifts, the basin beneath Hades lifting into a crude, rocky seat - a throne that lifts him partway out of the water. Viktor uses his foot to force the other edge of the tub out further, easy as molding raw clay, to accommodate displaced water. He slides forward again, taking one of Hades's legs on his shoulder with a low chuckle, staring up at him hungrily. ]
Let us be about it, then.
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Viktor's little interjection distracts him from the task of kissing him within an ilm of his life but before he can ask what, exactly, Viktor had so enjoyed that he had unintentionally done, Viktor slips out of his grasp with nothing but the fleeting pressure of the half-aborted rolls of his hips sparking heat in Emet-Selch's stomach. He hadn't held tight enough to make it a difficulty; Emet-Selch's hand flexes at the loss before he forcibly grips the stone seat instead of chasing him. ]
I am very well aware. A task to attend to in full when we've completed our duty. [ He has no intention of allowing Viktor's acknowledgment to go unanswered, unnoticed, but neither does he press the point despite the desire lingering. He has far better tasks to turn his attention to, namely, imagining having Viktor in any one of the places listed off. Imagination is always insufficient when compared to reality, though. Imagination does have the benefit of not getting dirt into uncomfortable places, and not dealing with feathers and bird waste, though. ] If you think I am letting you or I flounce about naked in one of the glorified bird cages -
[ He feels what's going to occur before he realizes it; the hum in the air, the way the aether shifts in anticipation of whatever magic Viktor intends to work. When the bath shifts beneath him it's not a surprise. His ability to manipulate aether may not be as refined as someone who's lived for thousands of years and studied officially, but the Emet-Selch can admit that doesn't matter. Not when the end result is still aether and being reshaped nearly effortlessly, water sluicing off him as he is abruptly raised a few ilms and - oh.
Later, he'll be a little mortified about how quickly he goes from do I find this arousing to oh, no, I find this terribly arousing; for now, he swallows back any embarrassment and intentionally, slowly, lounges once again. Tries to make a show of it, to put himself on display no matter how it makes his stomach twist with discomfort he has no patience for. Viktor arranges himself beneath Emet-Selch's leg, and for all that the position puts Emet-Selch arguably in the powerful position, all he can think is he is entirely at Viktor's mercy like this. His cock twitches, hands aching to busy themselves or cover himself and so he splits the difference, gently but intently carding a hand through Viktor's hair, cautious of the lilies, and then grips, spreading his thighs a little wider. If Viktor attempts to dive forward and set about his task, Emet-Selch's grip stops him, his head tilting, eyes lidded as he examines (admires) Viktor, too much Hades in his expression to be Solus properly even as he tries for the facade. ]
Before you do - you mentioned you loved something done. Elaborate.
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