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Whenever Halmarult developed anything potentially dangerous, he always made sure to give a notice in advance. This particular one sat on the Akademia’s announcement corkboard for weeks, front and center, the bright red of Halmarult’s sigil drawing all eyes to it. The experimental studies would take place for an entire week and close off a bustling footpath to boot, so the more forewarning the better.
Lahabrea, of course, had ignored the notice and went straight through the tarp that impeded his progress. Wasn't his fault the Akademia was arranged in such an awkward manner, that his own wing was directly behind Halmarult's so-called ‘dangerous’ affairs. Skirting the containment zone was precious time lost, and that lost minute Lahabrea intended on using to the fullest.
This wasn't the first time he shirked warnings, either. The last time was tame in terms of annoyances: Lahabrea gained a few cactoid quills in the hem of his robes and a despondent Halmarult wondered who had burned his precious cactuars. Before then, merely the as-odorous prototypes to morbols. So, as far as Lahabrea was concerned, whatever was behind the barrier would be a minor annoyance at best.
The test subjects within looked as predictably safe as safe could be, lush verdant green plants flowering in equally tame forms. Red curtains of blooms that smelled lightly of strawberries and chocolate, titanic blue globes that glowed faintly in the gloom, vines with sporadic explosions of lavender-colored petals. No teeth, no acid, and certainly no morbols. All things considered, this was probably the most charming restricted area he trespassed in.
The swirl of scents was heady and intoxicating, like the scent of food when one was starving, clawing a growing need in his belly. Lahabrea paused in his march through the hall, drawn to the myriads of blossoms, forgetting that his journey through here was meant to save time, not waste it. He brushed his fingers against a shock of luminous violet honeysuckle, jerking his head back at the cloud of blue motes his actions stirred. His robe quickly became dotted with specks of blue pollen, clawtips drooling with nectar from where they brushed petals.
A faint smell wafted from his fingers, faint and earthy like the deepest woods, with a hint of sweetness that was enough to make his mouth water. Perhaps the warning was not for bodily harm the plants could cause, but in how delectable they smelled. And just a taste proved that to be true. The sweetness was light, fizzling across his mouth, dissolving in seconds while leaving an aftertaste that was like the scent of the sea. The delicate taste made him all the more foolhardy; within seconds Lahabrea again brushed his hand against the flowers, braving a cyan mist that itched in his nose.
A feeling settled, thick, in the front of his mind, an omnipresent, throbbing dullness that stifled his senses. He curled a lip, stepping back to cover his face.
A sneeze made him lose balance and back himself into a wall of red flowers, the vines almost seeming to cushion his fall. His robes felt wet, the nectar staining them, drooling down his mask and overpowering him with the smell of cherry cordial. The taste is thrice better than the smell; a tiny drop that slithers into the corner of his mouth immediately fills his senses with the taste of honeyed peppermint.
He lazily curls his head to the side, pressing nose-first into the flowers, head swimming as he swears he can feel the vines curl around him, nectar-sodden petals pressed to his lips. A numbness begins at the edges of his aether, icy tremble that is almost pleasurable against the heat curling in his core. Time is a lazy circle, an endless glory of taste, scent, and heady shoals of blue dust. It fills his veins with a thrilling buzz, curling slow and ember-warm.
And he gets his fill after what feels like a blissful eternity, stumbling away from the garden on leaden legs, trailing vines until they naturally slide off. His control over his halo is nonexistent, blown wide enough to lap at the edges of walls, brush petals and fronds as he marches forth. It slows him further, makes him shiver as sensitive aether catches and rubs against foliage, phantom sensation of a thousand hands turning and layering in his mind.
Eventually, Lahabrea manages to staggers out the partition, the morning gloom of his halls somehow brighter, a distinctive euphoria hazing the edges of his mind. He can feel every millimeter of fabric that scrapes his skin, shudder in the tactile sensation that brings, growing unfocused and guiding himself through memory alone. The thrill congeals his blood, makes need underscore even the smallest motion.
Lahabrea collapses onto his desk, the room unfocused and twisting in his mind, looping his senses in a delightful cascade of nausea and stimulation, phantom touches ghosting the edges of his halo. His face burns, itches, making him pull off his mask so he could wipe at his eyes, churning his mind enough to make him tip forwards, world going dark around the edges. Within a slowly-rotating second, it overtakes him.
_____
Emet-Selch had made it clear that he was to never be called to collect his coworkers. Yet, that did not make him immune to intervention when the problem stemmed from two particular sources. And, as a very flustered and mildly embarrassed Halmarult stammered in his doorway, it had to be Lahabrea. He didn’t know whichever of his partners was more naturally prone to pandemonium: Altima’s pugilistic predilections or Lahabrea’s knack for proving Murphy’s Law.
In either case, he needed to go collect Lahabrea.
The timeline of events, as Emet-Selch so gathered, was thus: Lahabrea arrived well before the dawn (he knew this for fact; the man never failed to wake him up in the mornings), cut through an experimental corridor, managed to make it to his office, and then proceeded to embarrass himself in front of a curious Halmarult. And by embarrass, by the way Halmarult was stammering and red in the face, Emet-Selch expected something lascivious in nature.
Which was probably why he was the first to be contacted. Lahabrea may be an idiot, but the whole Convocation knew he was his idiot, and that made all the difference.
Emet-Selch made his way to Akademia Anyder after giving Halmarult a curt glare along with a flare of annoyance for the indignity of interrupting his work, shouldering past the other man and parting clerks with the sour exasperation his aether radiated.
The Words of Halmarult were a mess. The corridor that was made into a presumably hermetically-sealed greenhouse was partially opened, several undergraduate students bustling around, respirators covering their masks. Annoyance slowly drifted to a touch of worry, then back to absolute disgust for how indifferent Lahabrea could be for his own safety.
The degree of Lahabrea’s meddling was very clear once Emet-Selch got to see the opposite end of the closed-off hallway. Bright, luminescent blue pollen made sweeping track marks, thick and prominent right by the exit that then trailed into thinner and weaker lines and skids. The middle of the hallway stuck to his boots, making Emet-Selch furrow his brow as he followed the sparse trails to Lahabrea’s door.
The handle was covered in smudges of blue, the vaguest outline of a figure smashed into the door. It would be comical if it wasn’t abundantly clear that Lahabrea was disoriented even before his unfortunate encounter with Halmarult. It’s concerning, even though he would never say it. Halmarult had long since absconded from his side, but Emet-Selch levels a scathing look to the empty halls he came from, hoping the homicidal horticulturalist could feel it, wherever he may be.
Inside, Lahabrea’s office is dark, a vaguely sweet smell underpinning that of dust and old books. The only light comes from a small crack in the curtains…
And Lahabrea himself.
The man is covered in blue pollen, solid on his sleeves and face, trailing off into bright pinpricked galaxies on the rest of his robes. And it glows with a gentle, cold light. He looks almost dead, eyes open with his upper body spread on his desk, unmoving. Drawing closer only confirms him the source of the gentle smell; it crests into an overpowering fragrance of chocolate and tea. The scent flares into his mind, ebbing before piercing his senses anew once he thinks he is used to it, a periodic throb in his mind.
Lahabrea does not stir when Emet-Selch moves to stand next to him. A tap to the shoulder elicits no reaction. With each moment, a small pit grows at the bottom of Emet-Selch’s stomach. Lightning quick, his fingers dig into Lahabrea’s shoulder, shaking him once. His eyes remain opened, the shake only moving him like a ragdoll.
“Lahabrea,” If Emet-Selch was less perturbed, he’d deny that there was a distinctive concern in his voice.
He grabs Lahabrea by the chin, hoists him up to look into his face. His pupils are blown wide, the barest sliver of color on the edges. Blue pollen dusts his eyebrows and the bags under his eyes, minuscule freckles that burn with cold light. His lips shine with pollen and spit (or nectar, he cannot be sure), parted and kiss-red. The only proof he yet lives is in his dormant aether, something vile and foreign clouding the surface, forcing Emet-Selch to jerk his own halo away.
A small part of his mind curls at Lahabrea’s appearance, an intrusive thought crooning how debauched and lovely his partner is. Emet-Selch curls a lip the moment it passes through his mind, a chill crawling down his spine. What pulls him from pondering at that horrible thought is Lahabrea’s faint breath on his wrist, a vague stir in his aether, a flicker of emotions past the film of contamination.
It’s a palpable relief, but what exactly Lahabrea ingested is still a mystery to him. Were Lahabrea’s actions towards Halmarult a result of delirium from toxicity, or were his actions the point of Halmarult’s creations?
(Why Halmarult would intend to create a potent aphrodisiac is beyond him. If it produced these effects for his beloved researcher, then it was knowledge best left unknown.)
A weak grip around his wrist stirred Emet-Selch from his increasingly-indignant thoughts. He snaps to attention, watching Lahabrea stir between his fingers, lean into his hand, massage his wrist and exhale slowly. He weakly tugs at Emet-Selch’s hand, twisting, letting Emet-Selch curl a palm around his cheek, eyes slowly going half-lidded with the touch. His halo even gently probes, groggy curiosity that hid an undercurrent of another emotion Emet-Selch did not want to brave contact for.
His face is warm, radiating through Emet-Selch’s gloves. Lahabrea being reactive is a relief, though there’s something off about him snuggling into the touch, how his hand is slowly sliding up Emet-Selch’s arm, how his halo is slowly creeping closer, forcing Emet-Selch to retrieve his further and further into his body. Lahabrea’s thumb brushes light against the sleeve, caressing as his hand slowly winds its way to Emet-Selch’s shoulder. Then, fingers curl deep, the pure need in that grip almost alarming.
At once, the lethargy that had gripped Lahabrea melted away. He moved far too quickly for Emet-Selch to properly process, Lahabrea’s other hand on his chest pushing him back. The sheer shock and applied weight forces him back, smacking heavily into the wall. One of Lahabrea’s knees lands next to his hip, his face inches away from his neck. They both freeze in that position, Emet-Selch stunned and staring up at the ceiling with Lahabrea’s breath warm and so close to his skin. Their aether touches, the film on the surface fogging Emet-Selch’s senses despite how quickly he retracts his halo.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Lahabrea’s voice is the barest whisper, swirling in his mind, a smile pressing into Emet-Selch’s neck, the hand on his shoulder moving up to thread into his hair, “I though you or Altima would never come.”
Lips are so soft and feel like the finest velvet, Lahabrea humming under his breath as he lavishes Emet-Selch’s neck with wet kisses. There’s an undercurrent of desperation, a need born of lust, the unnaturally straightforward praise that comes in Lahabrea’s words and actions. His bottom lip drags against the skin, sucking and biting where Emet-Selch knew he liked. And it clouds his mind with feeling, fogs his head like standing up in a sauna.
Under normal circumstances, he’d be more than excited from this attention.
Lahabrea, pliant, lax, humping the meat of his leg, was not at all normal circumstances.
This was uncharacteristic, in both words and actions. And on top of it all, Emet-Selch sincerely doubted Lahabrea was fully aware of what he was doing. It felt vile to continue this farce, his will cutting fierce through the haze of beatific passivity.
He slides a hand between them, pushing Lahabrea away with little resistance.
"Lahabrea," Emet-Selch bites out between his teeth, low in warning, ignoring how his own voice buzzes in his ears.
The change in demeanor is instant. Lahabrea’s eyes widen, posture turns sharp, surprise smacks him in the face.
"Wait, no, please."
Lahabrea's voice is faint, breathy, toned in all shades of desperation, reaching a hand out to him, taking a wobbly step forwards.
There's no answer, which only seemingly inflames Lahabrea's addled mind, his breath now audibly stilted, lips twitching in nervous smile, hand trying to desperately grasp onto anything Emet-Selch allows. Which would be his hand, offered half out of pity, half because he doesn’t want to see what Lahabrea would do without.
Lahabrea clutches at his hand like a lifeline, drawing it close, nipping at fingers, tongue tracing metal, warm and wet, Lahabrea's cheek rubbing against the fabric, intoxicated and desperate in how he tries to look coy. Beautiful- no, he couldn’t let his thoughts continue to coalesce down that path.
Lahabrea takes a step forwards, Emet-Selch one back. The grip on his hand tightens, a cheek presses with desperate force into his palm.
He can watch Lahabrea get an idea. His body goes rigid, the look of desperate fear on his face morphs to ecstatic glee one muscle at a time. Lahabrea brings Emet-Selch’s hand from his face to his crotch, making it very clear he is painfully aroused. His dick is a firm weight against the back of his hand, and if this was any different circumstance he'd be more than willing to return the affection.
He slips his hand away, Lahabrea jerking to capture it with both hands, delicately firm.
“You’re not in the right mind-”
“Yes I am! Can’t you see how much I want you?” Lahabrea interrupts, fervent and husky with his words, punctuating each thought by trailing kisses up Emet-Selch's hand, “Never had a dalliance in your office, Hades? It’ll be perfectly quiet, I promise. Nobody will know. Nobody would have to.”
He’s unmoved.
His stony silence turns Lahabrea’s desperation into something fiercer. Barely-needy smile curls into something more ferally desperate, his halo presses like a desert sun into his skin, but Emet-Selch had pulled his aether to where it could not be reached. With no reaction, Lahabrea lets go of his hand, arms hanging limp at his side as his mind clicks away. Then, the weight gives out under Lahabrea’s feet, sending him to his knees, looking up at Emet-Selch to give him a look he never considered possible on his face.
Halmarult surely outdid himself if he intended to Create something that dissolved all sense of reason.
Tears instantly spring onto Lahabrea’s face, collecting blue pollen in their wake, leaving gentle blue streaks by his nose. His teeth chatter, shoulders shudder with ever-so-slight sobs, a portent to inevitable escalation. A tear drips onto Lahabrea’s lap, his hands in front of his knees, leaning forwards in a disturbing mix of submission and hedonistic need.
“Is this better? Do you want me crying? To break my fingers? I’ll do anything for you. You can choke me, step on me, hurt me, cut me until I have your sigil bleeding on my chest. Is that what you want? This hurts," And Lahabrea's hand is tracing the hard outline near his waist, warbling with every other word, "I need you. I want you to do anything to me- just touching you felt so good."
It's a disgusting show of depravity, especially combined with the crocodile tears. Doubly so when a part of his mind wants it, a part that suspiciously appeared the moment he drew too near. Unfortunately, a step forwards is taken as tacit confirmation he likes this. Lahabrea arches his back, screams like he's being whipped, hands coming up to claw at his face, gasping in perfect facsimile of pain. Tears bead heavy in his eyes, blur what's left of his pupils as he open-mouth gasps and sobs against invisible torment, whines lust and pain between teeth.
Emet-Selch almost rolls his eyes at the display. He needed to put an end to this, for his sake and Lahabrea’s, but a sleep spell would never work- Lahabrea’s resistance to such magic was self-inflicted. The amount of soporific spells inflicted on him in the name of going to bed on time… On the other hand, Lahabrea had always been frail, though, and with him so desperate for orders…
“On your belly,” Emet-Selch’s voice holds no mirth, drawing closer as Lahabrea almost concusses himself trying to obey.
His boot lands square on the small of Lahabrea’s back, making a half-orgasmic, mumbled warble drift up from below, the action spurring a curl of contentment. With a weary sigh, Emet-Selch lifts his foot and promptly turns to use Lahabrea as a cushion, crossing one leg over the knee of the other as he sits, hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
It took Lahabrea a few minutes to catch up to what Emet-Selch did to him. The sparse twitching and stilted breaths pause for a few moments, and then Lahabrea is trying his best to flail, unfortunately pinned down and in a position that further restricted what little strength he had. His fingers scratch on the tile, try to grab at Emet-Selch’s ankles, but he moves them just out of reach. His halo is indignant, lashing the air with buffets of warm air, chagrin and desperation held together with a binder of unctuous toxin.
The cry of frustration is, at least, familiar. Lahabrea struggles in vain, Emet-Selch trying to stay comfortable on his violently-protesting seat. After minutes of futility, Lahabrea went completely still, breath heaving irregularly. And in the silence, the decision to sit on Lahabrea until he was sober was quickly losing appeal. The quiet dragged on for far longer than Emet-Selch predicted, his eyes slowly drifting to the back of Lahabrea’s head, humming in amusement at how blue pollen stuck to even his cowl.
“Asleep?” He asked, hoping that the answer would be that simple.
Lahabrea’s head jerks up at his voice, pulling a disappointed sigh from his lips. No, not that simple.
“Why…” Lahabrea’s voice is raw, almost inaudible, “I thought we were…”
“Lovers? Congratulations, Lahabrea dearest, you’ve so correctly stated the obvious.”
There’s a tiny, frustrated grunt from Lahabrea, a soft tap as his head hits the tile, “But you don’t want me!”
“Now, now, don’t be hasty, it’s unbecoming of you. I quite fancy you, despite what you may think.”
“You do not,” A growl, Lahabrea glaring at him, straining his neck and eyes, “I offer and you’re sitting on me. If you truly wish to prove it then… then pick me up and shove me up on my desk. Fuck me. Make me explain the cum stains on my papers.”
Well that was enough to make Emet-Selch raise an eyebrow. He could see a flicker of hope in Lahabrea’s mouth when he shifted his weight, but it soon fell when he stayed seated on him, “No.”
“Is it not tempting enough? Then drag me to the Akadaemia’s entrance, pull my robes up and claim me in front of the public masses. Let them know who owns me, make me scream loud enough to echo in Mitron’s bloody Words! I want my screams to be the background noise to a lecture!”
“...Ah, I see Altima told you about our first time.”
Well, it wasn’t the full truth, and judging by the look on Lahabrea’s face, caught him completely by surprise. Interesting, he had assumed Altima would have told him by now.
“He… What?”
“He did not, then. Granted, it was in an easily-forgotten alleyway, but I will applaud your vivid imagination.”
Pause.
“… Then what if… you fucked me during a meeting?” Emet-Selch was a fool to hope he could shock Lahabrea into silence for long, “Have Elidibus try to give summaries while I moan loud enough to drown him out. Make me give my own report while reaming me from behind, have me restart if I dare stutter or moan. Claim me and shove my face into Nabriales’ crotch, spitroast me as Elidibus critiques how I could do better. Have me in your lap pleasuring you while you speak to the Convocation, finishing all over my mask…”
“I will also add that incident was the last time I did such things.” At least in the streets.
Lahabrea huffs, frustrated, shifting under Emet-Selch again, bucking his hips until a heel makes contact with his side. Unfortunately that is taken as inspiration.
“Oh, do you want to tie me up, bind me with red rope like the decorations on a weapon, whip me until my back is indistinguishable from the ties that bind? Trace the gashes with your tongue as I keen and moan in pleasured pain? Every lash for every failure, every missed deadline, every time I went to bed a minute too late? Take a knife to my back and arms, carve tattoos that well in my own blood, clean every shallow gash with your tongue and nails? Make me scream on every stroke.”
“Regrettably, I’m more likely to take your place. But do keep going, I might just suggest that to Altima.”
A pause. Curious.
“Altima, Altima, Altima. Is he all you think about?” Lahabrea spits, a sudden vindictiveness replacing desperation, “Am I just some accessory to you two? A warm hole when one of you is without the other?”
Emet-Selch freezes, looks away, momentarily stunned at something not unconscionably horny flying out of Lahabrea’s mouth. Perhaps the poison lowered inhibition enough to turn thoughts directly into words, which only made what was said worse.
Since it meant Lahabrea had that thought far before his current state.
“No, but we’ll discuss this when you are less… compromised,” And he meant it. With any luck, Lahabrea would prove that sole line to be an anomaly in a sea of debauchery.
“How can I be less compromised than now? You could just tear my robes and-”
Tuning out Lahabrea’s voice was easy now that he was back to speaking filth. It was simple background noise as he pondered greater problems, only tuning in every so often to see what Lahabrea’s mind was currently fixated on.
“- want you and Altima to have me between you, both of your cocks in me as you kiss me slow. Hold me and split me open, gentle and sharp, for the whole night…”
Perhaps that could be arranged sooner rather than later.
“At least sit me up and curl your legs around my shoulder so I can suck you off,” Lahabrea hummed appreciatively at that, “You have such nice legs… Use them to make me swallow your dick. No, wait, step on my dick. Grind your heel on the base of my cock, call me every filthy insult imaginable as you brutalize me.”
So violent. Emet-Selch’s vision was wavering slightly, drowsiness taking hold at the edges of his limbs. He shouldn’t be responding to Lahabrea’s stream-of-consciousness comments, but the Speaker lives up to his name. And the subject matter was worth at least a consideration for a later date.
He’d think of it as Lahabrea simply giving him ideas. Nothing to be done now, and Lahabrea’s voice was smooth as silk, rising and falling with a lit he commonly used in the bedroom. The man could get him hard just through words, and that just raised the question: could he come just from that voice alone?
He could ask, but at present, he shook the thought away. Not the right time, Emet-Selch chided himself, and a bed would be a better backdrop than Lahabrea’s dusty office. Part of his mind sulked, but it was easily overridden by common sense.
Lahabrea was in the middle of a sentence, Emet-Selch having indulged in his thoughts a bit too much. Before he realized what he was doing, he reached out to Lahabrea, gently tapping the side of his head.
“- Up my - …Ah?” Lahabrea lifted his head, chasing Emet-Selch’s hand, giving him a curious look. Even his halo, having retreated long ago, finding no stimulation from Emet-Selch’s hidden one, was back in the air, twining about and probing his body, searching.
“Say that again?”
Lahabrea blinked at him, licking his lips. “Huh? I was talking about you, actually… You’re powerful, you know, with that sight… Remember when you came here to take care of that rogue Creation? The bird?”
He hummed in response, narrowing his eyes. Now, logic dictated there would be a rather concupiscent end to this tangent. What made this all the more tantalizing for Emet-Selch’s slightly-delirious mind was how his abilities factored into it. He never once considered any… alternative uses.
“You channel the Underworld itself, magnificence in how you bend it to your will, cloak yourself and drink deep of power so few can ever touch. Let the aether hum with the corpse dust of the dead… And change yourself to the arbiter of final paradise.”
Lahabrea gave him an appreciative sigh, shifting an arm a few inches, completely resigned to being an impromptu chair while he convalesced. Emet-Selch, though, hadn’t realized who else may have been watching his conflict with Phoenix- in his annoyance at Hythlodaeus he assumed they would be, bizarrely, unattended.
“That form’s lovely, if you ask me. Delicate corpse-fingers, masked and robed in death shroud… There’s something I think is so vividly gorgeous in that macabre form. Just imagine taking that power to bear against me, a farce of a fight that would end with my loss. Brush my hair away from sweat-speckled scalp, soothe heated flesh with icy touch…
“And then take me. You’re larger than any of us in that form, and I’m willing to bet my pride on your cock being proportional too. Can you imagine? I’d be so tight around you, you’d be so massive in me,” Lahabrea made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan, “You could use me like a cocksleeve. I don’t care what you’d do to my body, I just want you to annihilate me with that form. Wait, is your cock the same? And oh, no, those wings. Hold my hips with your hands and twist my chest with those talons.”
Emet-Selch’s mouth was dry, Lahabrea’s words playing out in his mind’s eye. Delicious, tempting in how crass it was, a flagrant abuse of power he never even considered possible.
(And, he never actually saw what channeling the Underworld did to more… private areas.)
“Mmm, speaking of your powers, I’ve seen you summon tentacles before, too. Have you ever considered using them on me? Bind my ankles and wrists; shove one down deep into my throat… or up my rear. Oh, I can just feel it. They’d have that velvet-soft skin that slides so easily over slick muscle… My mouth's watering from imagining how it would taste. How about that, hm? To your liking? You could let me have a test, you know, just a small one. Or one big enough to choke me, maybe even be able to fill my throat with sticky tar that tastes of the sea…
“Ah… wait. Wait,” Lahabrea drawls the word, eyes squinting against the floor, “Was this before our time? I once spent the night with Nabriales, he gave me a gift.”
Emet-Selch at once jerks himself from a half-sleep, too caught up in the vivid descriptions from before. Lahabrea and Nabriales? He assumed the latter loathed his lover, let alone invite him over to receive a gift of all things.
“Huh, I never mentioned it? Well, remember when Nabriales was out sick?”
“Yes? He was insufferable for the next week. Please tell me you didn’t…”
Lahabrea’s giggle was downright gleeful.
“Pray tell, how did you get Nabriales to sleep with you? Curious minds are dying to know, Lahabrea dearest.”
It takes a few moments for the giggles to die down, only to bubble forth once again after a second of quiet. Emet-Selch gives him time- he has his undivided attention.
“Well. Nabriales’ hobby in his spare time is working on Trials of Acherousios agema-”
“So you found the only other Amaurotine that plays that insipid game-”
“Shh,” Lahabrea hushes him, another laugh spontaneously rising from his throat, “See, he likes the game, yes, but also Creating dildos.”
Emet-Selch’s mind went blank, rebooting in waves to process this. Lahabrea’s mirthful laugh at his facial expression rang in his ears, rising in octave when Emet-Selch finally glared down at him.
“Tis true without lying! He draws on his lunch break, you know, that’s why he’s always eating alone! And I caught him~”
“You blackmailed him into-”
“No, no, just asked, and he agreed! I came to pick it up and lo and behold, he choked! It wasn’t finished, and I decided to be a most gracious coworker and test it with him!”
Emet-Selch had no idea if this was factual or some sort of lie twisted by the pollen Lahabrea cavorted in. The scenario seemed truly absurd to begin with. Nabriales was, barring Elidibus, the most stuck-up, straightedge Convocation member. Him having sex was already a smack to the senses, but sex with Lahabrea?
“Oh, here’s the kicker, my ever-stupendous Emet-Selch, his Creation I so selflessly bound to my corpus was no ordinary dildo, no. It was one that laid eggs!”
“… You have to be making this up. For shame, Lahabrea,” absolutely absurd was the best description for this.
“No,” Lahabrea whined, “No, no! It’s true! Poor dear could barely walk after I was done with him! Best sleep of my life, that was. I think I was out a full eight hours! Can you believe it, Emet-Selch? Me sleeping for more than four hours?”
“Are you really telling me that you made Nabriales miss his perfect attendance record because he had eggs up his ass?”
“Seven!” Lahabrea’s crow was proud, “Figured he spent the whole day digging them out. Didn’t speak to me for a month after that.”
“Do you still have the-”
“Oh yes, but I won’t be the one using it. Perhaps you or Altima, I can make a crystal for the advanced spell…”
Lahabrea’s voice lost the sonorous quality it had before, now much more conversational, his usual excitement underlying his words. And, unfortunately fortunate was it that he was fixated on technical discussions. Emet-Selch could feel his focus waver as the gentle exhaustion that leadened his limbs now spread to his eyes.
A few moments of struggle and Lahabrea’s voice started to grow distant, easier to tune out, only catch bits and pieces as he talked of advanced phantomological concepts with a sparse ‘cock’ here and there.
“… Hades? Hades? Ha~de~s!” Lahabrea’s voice slowly grew louder, stirring Emet-Selch from a slumber he didn’t remember taking.
And then, the realization that he shouldn’t have fallen asleep, since his weight was the only thing keeping Lahabrea…
Emet-Selch jerks from drowsy to fully awake, looking to his side, hopeful that Lahabrea had not moved at all. And his fears are assuaged when the man only looks mildly perturbed, still laying on the floor, still pinned. Lahabrea’s aetherial halo was mild, a pressure he was familiar with, without the heat that burned within not so long ago.
And, to test, Emet-Selch unfurled his in return. Curiosity, surprise, and relief hits him all at once, the edges of Lahabrea’s aether having no veneer of toxin pervading it. He echoes the curiosity, only adding the warmth of a greeting for Lahabrea to sense. To finally use his corona was euphoric- cutting off a part of himself for his own protection is something he’d rather never do again.
Surface thoughts and feelings can be a conversation all their own: the last vestiges of Emet-Selch’s drowsiness are scattered by the gentle brush of Lahabrea’s underlying energy. He can sense Lahabrea subtly reacting to the relief he was trying to keep hidden. Like a key trying to slowly turn inside a lock, any deeper resonance would eventually lead to Lahabrea deducing what he wanted to keep hidden.
For now.
“Why am I on the floor?” Lahabrea refuses to part his halo from Emet-Selch’s, chasing the invisible tendrils as the other man retreats.
“Do you remember how you got on the floor?”
“Don’t answer a question with-” Lahabrea gives a tired sigh, “No, I do not. Now get off me, I can feel the arthritic flare you’re cooking in my spine.”
The sparse vitriol in his words are not echoed in his halo- Lahabrea presses delight and affection in the same moment he grouches. It’s amazing how something so simple can spark such joy, but Emet-Selch gives a paltry burst of exasperation to distract Lahabrea. His knees ache as he stands, staggering on his feet and needing to brace himself on the wall.
Lahabrea at least makes an attempt to get up, but stop at getting to his knees, lances of pain bleeding into his halo, making him withdraw to avoid sharing the sensation. Wordlessly, Emet-Selch comes to his side, offering a hand to bring him up, a braced shoulder to lean on as he adjusts.
Sometimes he forgot how much older Lahabrea was.
The thanks is silent, rolled into the furthest edge of Emet-Selch’s corona, Lahabrea looking at the curtains and touching his cheek.
“Where’s my mask?” The confusion is back in his voice, “And where did the morning go? It was barely morning!”
Emet-Selch does not immediately answer, but cranes his neck to get a good view of the desk, “Your mask’s on the desk, next to the bill for my time.”
He lets the humor mix against the dry annoyance Lahabrea radiates, helping the older man push off to stumble towards his desk. Emet-Selch’s lip twitches when he notices a slight limp, how hunched Lahabrea walks. He’d have to look at that later. Lahabrea lifts his mask, scowls at the dimmed blue peppering deep red, then retracts his halo as he gazes at his sleeves.
“So what did I do?”
“Burned Halmarult’s cactuars.”
“I’m serious.”
Emet-Selch shifted on his feet, trying to find the simplest way to explain the past few hours, “A bout of toxicity from cutting through Halmarult’s experimental Creations. Again.”
“Which ended with you sitting on me like a misbehaving sibling?” Lahabrea’s aether stabs into him, probing for hidden emotion. And Emet-Selch lets him, lets him feel the relief he is better, the awkwardness of having to word previous events. He owes him that, at least.
“You were particularly amorous, I’ll leave it at that.”
The horror that spikes, electric and citric, needles into Emet-Selch’s mind, Lahabrea withdrawing like a bolt of lightning, yet it was slower than his emotions. Emet-Selch does not react, only gives Lahabrea a tired wave towards the door. Dazed, Lahabrea actually moves to follow, horror still plastered on his face, perhaps dredging up memories of all the things he said.
Lahabrea doing things he should is rare, and Emet-Selch utilized every instance to its fullest. He opens the door, lets Lahabrea out, and the other man follows him, like a lost and confused puppy, down the evening-darkened halls.
Halmarult he can feel before he sees. His coworker’s halo was spread wide, no doubt trying to sense his approach, and Hades does not react to the gentle brush. Showing his vitriol would be a waste now, and Halmarult is quick to find them.
He thinks he is so safe because Emet-Selch has his hand around Lahabrea’s hip, approaching from behind, seemingly forgetting Emet-Selch can sense his soul without eyes. Lahabrea can sense the minute change in his aether, how his hand hovers at his hip, corona tensing as Halmarult approaches.
And he strikes.
Like a viper, Emet-Selch spins and grabs the other Convocation member by the jaw, Lahabrea having preemptively reeled his halo in, safe from the burst of vitriol and hatred Emet-Selch releases. Aether, dark and grave-cold, rises and mists about his form, Halmarult twisting like a worm on a hook in his grasp, trying in vain to grab at his arm.
“You. Put a lock on your work or next time you’ll be cleaning your Words, not a hall. Out of my halo, Halmarult.” And he let go, Halmarult backpedaling so hard he tripped over his robes, sliding for a few steps before picking himself back up to speed away whence he came.
Emet-Selch sniffed at his retreating form, shrugging when he noticed Lahabrea staring, eyebrow raised. “What, a lock wouldn’t keep you out?”
“It would, until I learn how to pick it.”
That pulls a snort from Emet-Selch, giving Lahabrea a withering look as the other man looks over his shoulder, no longer following behind him.
“Wait, I forgot my projects at my desk…” Emet-Selch immediately turns and grabs Lahabrea by the hood, jerking him backwards.
“You need a bath, food, and first aid. Work can wait til tomorrow.”
“But- ah, I’m behind on so many deadlines! I wasted this whole day…”
“No,” Emet-Selch could tug harder than Lahabrea could pull himself forwards, successfully reeling him further back. He sulks at Emet-Selch’s side, refusing to meet his corona with his partner’s own.
“And who gave you freedom to act like a nurse from Asklepieion Anyder? Last I checked, your patient mortality rate was a hundred percent.”
Lahabrea fell in step with him regardless, Emet-Selch allowing a smug grin to split his face, “Oh, but my patient satisfaction rating is quite high! After all, the dead cannot complain!”
That drew a snort from Lahabrea as he placed his mask back onto his face, the entrance to Akadaemia Anyder within a few strides. Very few students were around, but Lahabrea’s disheveled state still turned heads.
“Oh fine then, nurse, what is my prognosis?”
“Rather grim, esteemed Lahabrea. I dare say the treatment would take all night, perhaps all hands will be on deck to assist you. But you’ll make a full recovery, don’t worry, you’ll be right as rain and worrying away tomorrow~”