#styx's fanfics | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mccoys-killer-queen · 9 months

Text

Give Me the Lights (Tommy x Reader)- Part 1

Words: 2,905

Summary: You live with Tommy on his farm in Michigan in the late 70s. It's almost time to start recording the next Styx album, but trying to make music seems to be Tommy's enemy lately. He's not acting like himself, and you know something's not right...

-----

(Michigan, March 1979)

It happens every year; the month of March is cold and gloomy, yet everyone is always surprised. People normally expect it to be springtime the second March rolls around, but mother nature— purely out of spite— never lives up to this expectation. Humanity is normally fed up with the winter gloom by this point of the year, so they like to forget that the majority of the month still qualifies as winter.

When it came to the inevitable winter gloom, one could normally head indoors in order to escape it. A nice blanket, warm lighting, and a different view were the best ways to do this. You couldn't do this, though.

The refuge of your own house didn't help alleviate the dreary, early March gloom- because the gloom was now incarnate as a person, and this person lived in the house with you.

Those winter blues had taken the form of your darling boyfriend, and despite the bright golden hair on his head, it seemed the rest of his shine was gone.

You had never known Tommy to experience seasonal depression before, but his strange behavior seemed to fit the bill quite well to you. Often over the past few weeks, you had picked up on him acting rather... differently. He was eating less, sleeping more, and showing little interest or emotion in just about everything.

There was currently a new Styx album in the process of conception. Tommy had been eager to get back to work and get lost in his own musical embryos as much as he pleased. This was normally an infallible source of joy for your bright-eyed lover, so the fact that you rarely heard his strumming or singing these days concerned you just a little.

You often caught him sleeping in much later than usual, or just caught him in bed too often in general. Nearly every time this happened, there tended to be a guitar on the floor across the room. He'd tell you he was "just tired", but he seemed to be tired all the time lately.

In addition to his lack of energy and interest in his music, you noticed he had elevated crankiness on some days, too. This side of him would sometimes make an appearance as frustration with an instrument, while other times he'd express self-doubt while attempting to write a song. Even something as simple as cursing out the washing machine or the weatherman let you know how he was feeling inside. A few times, he'd even been short with you over minute things that didn't seem to matter in the past.

What really raised your concern was when you realized that his typical, toothy grins hadn't made any appearances for a while.

Since there was rarely sunshine or warmth at this time in the season, you thought it made sense that a man from the south- who was practically made of sunshine- was acting a bit dulled down. It was no secret that Tommy was a nature-loving man, so you wondered if this meant that when the surrounding nature was down in the dumps, so was he.

You also wondered if he was aware of this himself.

One evening, you softly confronted the subject of his mood problems. You told him you had picked up on how upset and tired he appeared lately, and carefully asked him if something was wrong.

Almost immediately, he became teary-eyed at your intervention. He couldn't deny what you were inquiring about; he was well aware of it himself, and had been for some time.

The ensuing conversation resulted in a lot of physical tenderness from you, and a lot of venting from him. He confessed that he'd been feeling so indescribably "down" lately— both mentally and physically— and that he couldn't seem to be musically productive no matter what.

"I feel so empty-" Tommy told you, head in hands as you held him close, "-like there's nothing left inside me. And my body feels so heavy that I don't wanna move at all. I don't feel like myself, and I can't even tell you why- because I don't even know! Everyone else seems to be doing fine, and then there's me— who just wants to sulk for no reason, can't get out of bed, or write a song to save my life right now."

In addition, he threw in a grumpy comment about the monotonous weather being equivalent to purgatory. It was here you proposed that he might be suffering from a classic case of seasonal depression, and that it was probably interfering with everything; his creativity, his mood, and his energy. You also explained that, since he was acclimated to the mild winters of Alabama, his body wasn't used to being stuck in a real winter like this.

Tommy looked both surprised and a little guilty at your inference, but admitted you were probably right.

"I'm really sorry, Y/n," he shook his head as he dropped his vision with a sniff, "I know I've been so pathetic lately-"

His eyes sprung open in surprise as you covered his mouth with your hand.

You used your other hand to wipe the wetness from under his eyes, "You're not gonna call yourself pathetic, and you're not gonna apologize for something you can't control, okay?"

He squinted in confusion, then sighed from under your hand and nodded with closed eyes. You uncovered his mouth and kissed him slowly, assuring him that you'd both get him feeling better.

That night, like many others before, Tommy curled in close to you with the hopes that the warmth from your body was reminiscent of the sunlight he didn't know he craved. With his internal conflict identified, he felt less shame about feeling so 'empty' inside.

Ever since then, you'd done all you could to get Tommy out of this rut. You wanted to make sure he had constant reassurance that there was no need to feel lonely. There were a lot more cozy nights spent inside together where you would both sing for the sake of singing, and nights where you'd play guitar for him so he didn't have to. There were also a lot of nights where you'd simply hold him close to you as you both slipped into slumber.

All you could do was anything- anything in order to keep his spirits up. Hell, you even got him vitamin D supplements if it meant he might have perked up a little from them.

Something you also attempted to do from time to time was get both of you active and moving. If you yourself were active, then Tommy felt compelled to follow suit. As a simple way to do this, you began to go on walks more often when the winter weather permitted. Your usual walking route made a pass by the nearby lake where Tommy's own little row boat remained covered for the season at the shore. Every time you walked past it, you'd catch his gaze lingering on it.

"I really miss taking that thing out at sunset," he reminisced one afternoon as you walked hand-in-hand, "I feel like one trip on the ol' boat would automatically cure both of us of any winter blues.

You squeezed his hand, "Well, it is kinda your happy place."

"We're going out on it the very first chance we get, got it?"

"Maybe on the first day of spring, we can celebrate that way..." you suggested.

There was a quick, fleeting curl of the corner of his mouth at your idea. Getting him to smile at all was always a wonderful accomplishment.

He was appreciative of how much you cared about his well-being, but there were also a few times where he'd whine about being "babied" by you. Sometimes, you had to pull his arms or legs to get him out of bed. One time, you had to roll him. Other times, when his appetite couldn't be found, you attempted to spoon-feed him like an infant (which, at the very least, made him laugh out of embarrassment).

Some days were normal, some days were fine, and some days weren't so fine.

Once, after a rather rough songwriting attempt, Tommy came to you on the verge of tears because he was just that frustrated with himself. He wasn't sure how to exactly say what he wanted from you; what he'd done was take you in his arms and mumble that he needed you to tell him to "stop feeling like this."

Instead of honoring his request, you had him lay in your lap on the couch. As you watched the snow settle down outside the house, you aimed to reassure him that he was simply a little unwell at the moment.

"There's nothing wrong with you, sweetie. You're just a bit in the dark like the rest of the northern hemisphere right now; you just need some light, is all," you reasoned with him. Your fingertips slowly combed through the roots of his glowing locks as you went on, "And someday soon, every little thing that makes you happy— all those little lights in your life— they'll come back. They have thousands of times before when things seemed dark, and this time is no different."

"Hm. Maybe you should write a song," he mused up at you with closed eyes, "You speak like a poet."

"Maybe I should," you joked, "If it'll make you sit back and relax for once."

Tommy hadn't given up on writing songs, but he could also never seem to pull one together. Sometimes there would be random bursts of frustrated ambition, but that usually resulted in papers all over the floor, and Tommy walking away from it all before he tore up another potential idea.

When you realized him picking up the guitars never led to any good, you suggested he try a new instrument altogether.

"But all my ideas stem from guitar, and I swear I'm close to something!" he acted like what you said was blasphemous, "If I'm finally going to have an idea for a song, it's bound to come from a guitar. I can't just give up on it now...!"

"I get you're afraid the guitar muse won't last, but 'Renegade' did come from a piano, after all," you reminded him, "And I'm not saying give up with the guitar, I'm just saying find something different to take your mind off of guitars for a bit. Cleanse your palette, learn something new, and maybe new ideas will come from it!"

He sighed and shook his head, "Alright... I'll see if anything weird enough catches my eye."

Slowly over a week or two of gently pushing him and nurturing him, you noticed Tommy coming back more into himself. His healthy ambition was returning, he began to eat and sleep normally again, and his usual cheer seemed to be waking up from hibernation. When you first started noticing this, you also noticed Tommy was being more secretive about the potential music he was working on. He wasn't trying to compose often, but when he did, he wouldn't let you peek in on him anymore.

Despite this sudden secretiveness, he told you he still didn't have any songs yet, and that he was experimenting with something new like you proposed. Whatever he was starting to do, you were just glad he found some joy in it again.

One day, you caught a glimpse of a paper he'd accidentally left lying around. In his slightly scribbled handwriting, there appeared to be a few brief stanzas of a potential song.

"Thank you for caring, but tonight the lights will take me where I long to be Just like a thousand nights before

I can't explain It gives me some pain

Give me the lights, precious lights Give me light, give me hope, give me energy

You can turn the wrong into right, precious lights Illuminate me Won't you let me play?"

It was then clear why Tommy was hiding his current work from you; he was inspired by you. Perhaps he was just too bashful to admit it yet.

The lyric melted your heart, not only because he was referencing your own words of comfort in his music, but also because he was now finding inspiration in his bout of gloom. You knew his soul desperately wanted it to be spring, and he knew he desperately wanted to be back to normal. The lights of springtime, to him, meant just that. It only made sense that he was to write a song about this.

As much as you instantly fell in love with it, you didn't tell Tommy that you found the lyrics he wrote. You let it be, and just let him carry on with his own process. You weren't meant to look at it, and didn't want to jinx the wonderful thing he may have started.

After the personal rollercoaster that was the first 19 days of March, the first day of spring arrived at long last. Unfortunately, however, there was still no spring in sight. There was a forecast for freezing rain and wind that day, with no sunshine to be found.

In the days recent, Tommy did show he had more energy for a change, as he could feel the impending season around the corner. Whenever he disappeared to practice whatever new thing he was trying out, you just let him be. That day being no different, you went ahead and slipped out to run some errands before the weather hit. However, the weather did hit while you were gone, leaving your other half on his own longer than expected.

Meanwhile, alone in his own private little work bubble, Tommy strummed his new instrument quietly to himself.

"It's done..." he whispered, "It's actually done... but it's not... right."

It was a particularly frustrating day for him in terms of music- as he was making progress based on your advice, but something just felt off about the finished product he'd made.

Yes, Tommy had finally finished a song. It came rather effortlessly, too- much to his surprise. He was almost proud of it, but he didn't know how to tell if it was truly completed.

He knew you were right about needing to cleanse his palette, so he went out on your word and bought a mandolin. His reasoning for this choice was simply the fact that he knew he was a guitar player, so how different could a mandolin be? He was sure he could play it. The second he tried to, however, he quickly realized that he couldn't. As it turned out, the tuning was otherworldly, it was tricky to try and learn chords on, and it was small.

In the process of trying to figure out how the hell to play this new tool, Tommy decided to just make up his own chords. The second he strung a few of these 'chords' together, something immediately set off a little spark in his heart.

Finally, at long last, something took to his creative side and awoke it from hibernation. It was something he had wanted so badly, and it was something that felt so wonderful to feel again.

When it came time to set a lyric to the fresh music, Tommy figured it was only best to write about something else he wanted so badly.

He couldn't wait to play his experimental tune for you and tell you that you were right all along, but there was this inexplicable thing that was missing from it. Naturally, as a musician, he spent several obsessive hours trying to figure out what it was, but had no luck. He just didn't know what needed to be changed- if anything.

On the verge of his motivation burning out on the matter again, sleet suddenly began to pound against the windows outside.

Immediately, poor Tommy felt the musical motivation rapidly leak away from him. His mood and energy suddenly plummeted, and he felt himself slump back into an insufferable, lazy state once more.

It was here that he realized he was expecting March 20th to be a day of hope and light, but instead, winter was laughing in his face yet again. It was officially spring, yet there he was; still stuck in the cold with another incomplete song.

He missed feeling whole. He missed feeling completely like himself and making complete works of art.

Tommy shamefully hid his mandolin away again, deciding to once again give up for the day. His feet seemed to automatically lead him to the couch, as if they already knew what to do, and he horizontally resigned himself to its cushions.

You were always telling him to just lay back and relax as best as he could when the thought of making music caused too much stress. You'd additionally tell him, as a joke, to close his eyes and go to his "happy place", just to make him smile. With your voice suggesting this in his head, Tommy figured that at the very least, some extra sleep might flush away the depressive cloud that was eating at him yet again.

Besides, he had a (supposedly) completed song; he figured he deserved a nice nap as a reward.

Dejectedly letting the sound of the freezing rain scrape against his eardrums, he allowed his eyes to close as every confused thought in his mind began to form the foundation of a midday dream.

~ To be continued ~

#MY FIRST TOMMY/STYX FIC AAAAAAAAAAA #tommy shaw #styx #styx band #tommy shaw x reader #tommy shaw fanfic #i haven't started writing the second part yet so it'll be a while until i post it #(there's only going to be one more part)#i was NOT planning on this being a two part thing but i got so long winded in this one that it kinda turned into that #styx fanfic #also i took the top middle photo myself and im in love with that song and felt it had the vibes for this part #pls give it a listen #stan the steve miller band or perish #i just decided to keep the working title too bc nothing else seems right

24 notes · View notes

tsarisfanfiction · 10 months

Text

Eclipse: Chapter 25

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades More fun and games with this chapter... Warning for emeto/vomit. I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 24

HADES XXV Shadow Travel Was Not A Foolish Idea

Hades had no idea what sort of plague Apollo had conjured. Admittedly, he was no expert on plagues, although he knew more than most from constant exposure to the many victims of Apollo’s plague arrows that had passed into his realm, but there was nothing familiar about the aura emitting from the bleached and sickly-looking arrow.

He pushed back against the stinger as it lashed down desperately, not even caring about him but clearly after the younger god, before whirling back around to destroy the new manifestations from Kampê’s waist as they attempted to reach Apollo. The trust his nephew had shown him in this battle was astounding; it was true that this was not the first time they had fought together, nor covered each other’s weaknesses, but for Apollo to leave his back fully exposed to almost everything Kampê could throw at it was either the height of foolish mindlessness from his nephew, or a declaration of trust that Hades would watch his back.

Whichever it was, Hades would not let Kampê paralyse – or do worse to – his nephew.

The arrow punctured the back of Kampê’s neck, and Apollo immediately flipped backwards, throwing himself up and away from the monster, narrowly missing the thrashing stinger as he landed in a crouch a little way further back up the corridor. Seeing nothing to be gained by remaining on Kampê’s back, vulnerable to both her waist’s conjurations and her violent stinger of a tail, Hades followed suit, once again calling upon the Helm’s invisibility and intangibility to ensure no part of Kampê achieved a lucky strike as he dismounted from her back with a single leap, landing beside his nephew.

At her front end still, Bob spun his spear until it was merely a silver disk, deflecting her scimitars away from him before he jumped back himself, clearly recognising that something was about to happen – provided Apollo had succeeded in somehow inflicting a disease upon Kampê, of all monsters.

It was not something Hades would have ever thought to do. He still wasn’t sure it had been a smart decision.

No longer engaged in her battle with Bob, Kampê lashed out at the arrow impaling her neck, slicing it off halfway down the shaft as agitated serpents wound around what was left and tried to yank it out. With her so distracted it was the perfect time to flee, or at least attempt to put some distance between them and get the opportunity to choose the battlefield themselves, but Kampê’s body was still between Bob and freedom. As much as Hades dearly wanted to leave the blasted titan behind after his stubbornness against shadow travel – if Bob had just acquiesced then they would not have been cornered by the monstrous guard of the prison – he and Apollo were now obligated to help the titan, or at least not abandon him, lest Bob take that as a betrayal and turn on them.

Hades was sure that between them, he and Apollo could subdue the titan, but it would leave an opportunity open for Nico to force his way down into the Pit himself to check that Bob was truly destroyed – and would no doubt not speak to Hades again for at least a lifetime. He was still making amends for the serious misdemeanours in parenting he had blundered into, actions that still hung between him and his son and left their relationship stilted and awkward; he had no wish to alienate Nico, the one remaining child he could talk with, any further.

Next to him, Apollo was rigid. Trickles of ichor ran down his form from minute scratches he must have received from the serpents that comprised Kampê’s hair during his rapid retreat. No doubt their fangs were as venomous as the rest of her, but Apollo had not bent to address the wounds in any way so he was presumably unconcerned.

Either that, or he was too invested in what potential disease he had inflicted upon the monster to notice his own condition. Golden eyes watched Kampê intently, Apollo’s grip on his bow tight while his other hand held an arrow loosely, no doubt ready to nock and fire in an instant if need be. Hades pulled his attention from his nephew to regard their opponent, fading back into view as an afterthought as the ancient monster scrabbled desperately at the arrow with clawed fingers, her serpentine hair apparently not enough to dislodge the projectile. It left one side open as a scimitar was discarded to the floor in the process, but Bob, too, seemed more interested in watching Kampê for a reaction than breaking past her.

From her sheer desperation, Hades concluded that the arrow was doing something; Kampê was not a beast known for her paranoia, but rather her hubris. She would not panic at something unless it had already proven itself as a danger to her existence.

A moment later, the signs became clear as she convulsed, a full-body shudder that ended with a retch that echoed loudly through the hallway. A mixture of steaming ichor and pale green fluid erupted from her mouth and splattered across the floor. Bob jumped back, a revolted look on his face as the disgusting mixture barely missed his feet.

Kampê shrieked, an ear-splitting noise that Hades flinched at. Next to him, Apollo also flinched, clearly finding nothing musical about the sound, while Bob recoiled further. The monster between them thrashed, bending down to retrieve her discarded scimitar as her tail lashed out blindly towards them. Hades yanked Apollo back, forgoing his own intangibility in favour of making sure his nephew could still move despite the snake bites and whatever venom they had imparted. The younger god jerked backwards, but raised his bow and with a flick of his fingers nocked the arrow in his grip and loosed it in one single motion.

It knocked the stinger away, deflecting it into a brass wall, where it wedged into an infinitesimal crack and caught short.

“Bob!” Apollo called. The titan needed no further coaxing to run forwards, taking a flying leap over the concoction of expelled ichor and venom and deflecting away the vicious scimitar as Kampê tried to block him, before her massive body convulsed again, the shapeshifting sludge of her waist losing all form and letting Bob sail past it unchallenged. With the tail still jammed, although from the way Kampê was convulsing, Hades did not think it would remain stuck for long, it was a simple matter for Bob to skate past it.

None of them needed any encouragement to turn away from the shuddering, furious mess of Kampê and run up the brass corridors. Apollo dropped back slightly, glancing behind them with a brace of arrows on his string, while Bob took the lead in guiding them out of the maze of the brass fortress. It was no surprise that the titan knew the layout so well, given that he had spent millennia within, and Hades was content to follow as long as he, too, recognised the route.

Bob led them unerringly out of the front gates. The drawbridge across the lava moat he and Apollo had avoided via shadow travel on the way in was raised, and the molten rock bubbled threateningly, miniature eruptions spilling over the bank. Hades did not recall it being quite so agitated the last time he visited the prison with his brothers, but with it between them and the way out, they had no choice but to cross it.

Lava, even lava from Tartarus, did not rank highly on the list of dangers the Pit presented. It appeared more of an aesthetic choice than anything else, but Hades did not intend on underestimating any part of the Pit, especially after the earlier rumblings the moment he and Apollo had released Bob.

He did not think it a coincidence that Kampê had cornered them almost immediately, despite their distance from where she had been guarding the entrance.

“Do we jump?” Apollo asked, joining him and Bob near the edge of the bank. The glowing orange of molten rock reflected in the golden flames of his eyes. Bob shook his head.

“I have never seen the lava like this,” he said, planting the butt of his spear firmly in front of him. “He is agitated.”

A look a lot like fear crossed Apollo’s face, his eyes hazing over not unlike they had been when Kampê had first cornered them, when Apollo had only barely paid attention to the fight and taken a gash from her whip for his distraction. He had been exceedingly fortunate that it had not been something worse.

“He is rising,” the younger god murmured, a distance to his voice that reminded Hades of young women and prophetic hosts. It was not a reminder he was pleased to receive. He did not know how Apollo’s knowledge of the future occurred, but he was beginning to suspect that his nephew had seen something in the prison.

Before he could demand answers, or at least some degree of explanation, there was the sound of something large crashing around behind them. Either Kampê had worked herself free and was managing to pursue them despite whatever plague Apollo had inflicted upon her, or something else in the prison was now heading for them. Whichever option it was, Hades had no desire to face it.

“Are you still opposed to shadow travel?” he demanded of Bob, turning fully to face the titan.

“It is a risk,” Bob protested, as though Hades was not well aware of that. “You should not do it too much, lest you catch His attention.”

In apparent response, the lava hurtled upright, straight out of its moat to make a burning wall of molten rock, too high to jump even for gods and gradually curving over from the top, like one of Poseidon’s tsunamis just before it broke and obliterated everything in its path.

In this case, they were what would be in the lava tsunami’s path.

“I think it’s a bit late to worry about catching his attention,” Apollo commented, the pitch of his voice raised slightly. “And I, for one, do not want to get first hand experience of how hot lava can get.” Hades felt his nephew step up next to him, close enough to grab without having to reach out at all. The younger god’s essence churned, dimming as he somehow smothered his veiled with other, darker, elements drawn from his domains – not that Hades had not inadvertently done the same with the light of Elysium for centuries, if not millennia. He did it again then, allowing the darkness to spill out and merge with the shadow of the rapidly descending lava as he clasped Apollo’s proffered arm with one hand. Sheathing his sword, he extended his hand out towards Bob.

“We are going,” he said, leaving no room for argument. “If you do not want to shadow travel so much that you would risk the lava, then that is your prerogative.”

Bob sent another look at the lava and grasped Hades’ arm tightly. He still looked incredibly unhappy, but despite the downward turn to his mouth, he nodded. “This is still a risk,” he said, “but-”

Hades did not wait for him to finish talking.

Usually, shadow travel was an old friend, a comfort within the blackness of night as he stepped into the shadows of the world and merged. There was a peacefulness to the shadows, a pocket dimension of his domain where none dared tread save his subjects and children. Within Tartarus, however, it was not the same. The shadows here were not Hades’ to control the same way, and he could feel the primordial gnawing at his edges, a warning that he was reaching above – or below, perhaps – his station. They had not liked being used to locate Bob within the prison, and they certainly did not like being used as transportation.

Apollo’s brightness did not make things easy. By default, his nephew rejected shadows purely through who he was and what he was the god of, and since his re-ascension Hades was beginning to suspect his nephew was even more powerful than before. Bob, on the other hand, despite being a bright silver, was a being of grittier mettle. Pain and the inevitability of death clung to the titan, sensations that resonated on some level with Hades and reached out through the shadow to join with him.

The other risk with shadow travelling in Tartarus – because as much as he disliked the fact that the titan insisted on saying it, he was well aware that there was, in fact, a high risk – was that Hades did not know precisely where he was going or where he would emerge. It had been different travelling into the prison, because he had been there before and knew those shadows, but in the wider wilderness of the Pit itself it was a different matter entirely. He had enough orientation to know which directions to not go – down and behind, in this case – but with no predetermined anchor point, he had to stretch out his senses and take the first shadow that met his awareness, lest they truly ended up within the shadows with no discernible exit.

It was not an unlikely scenario; Hades had lost mortal children to the shadows when they had fallen in and found themselves unable to get out.

They reappeared in a crevasse, with sharp, jagged rocks on either side of the chasm. Bob immediately cursed and began to scramble up, frantic enough that neither Hades nor Apollo asked questions as they, too, began to climb. Almost instantly, a low threatening rumble started, and the walls of the crevasse started to move, widening and deepening and then shaking, as though it wanted them to lose their grips and fall.

Hades had no doubt that that was exactly what it wanted them to do, and had no desire to find out what lay at the very bottom of the seemingly infinite chasm.

He suspected that eventually it would open up into Chaos.

When yawning open didn’t stop any of them from their scramble upwards – Apollo once again taking on the cloven feet of a satyr to maximise his balance and jumping power – the walls rushed together instead, not unlike the Clashing Rocks at one entrance to the Sea of Monsters.

Hades had no intention of being crushed into oblivion by Tartarus. It had been some time since he had changed his form outside of size adjustments, but it still took him but a single thought to spread his wings and with his much-reduced size dart up, out of the crevasse moments before it slammed together, leaving not even a scar to show where it had split the landscape. A larger, black bird soared past him before morphing back into the golden visage of his nephew, and Hades followed suit, shedding the screech owl for his preferred form once again.

A highly unimpressed silver falcon shimmered into Bob, and displeased silver eyes bore into Hades. “No more shadow travel,” the titan said firmly. Hades had had no more intentions of doing so regardless, but he did not appreciate being told not to use one of his domains and didn’t dignify it with a response.

Apollo stepped between them, a move that looked happenstance but was clearly intentional. “Where are we?” his nephew asked, looking around.

“Between the Lethe and the Styx,” Bob answered immediately, before Hades could begin to gather his bearings. The titan pointed behind them. “That’s the Lethe.”

Hades glanced back to see the familiar milky-white water winding peacefully down the surface of Tartarus some distance away. Behind it rose the glowing brass of the prison, and the churning molten orange of lava aggressively guarding its gates.

Unlike the clearly agitated lava, the Lethe never hurried, never rushed or roiled. It did not need to, not when it had to power to wipe even a titan of their memories. It did not make it any less treacherous to cross – while Hades was confident they would have been able to jump it with ease, a single slip or splash would render them entirely amnesiac.

The Lethe might not try to ensnare them itself, but given the lava and then the crevasse, Hades suspected that Tartarus itself would do everything it could to force them in regardless.

They could not risk the Lethe, which left them with the other rivers to cross on their way back to the exit to the Underworld, following the same escape Asclepius had made what might have been eons ago, for all Hades could reliably track time in the Pit.

“The Styx?” Apollo asked. Looking at his nephew, Hades remembered the goddess forcing them to divert, refusing Apollo crossing on account of his broken oaths unless he was willing to pay the price. It was not a price his nephew had been willing to pay the first time, and Hades doubted he wanted to pay it this time, either.

“There,” Bob said, pointing in the opposite direction – the direction they were now forced to go in, as there was no way to avoid crossing the Styx on the way to any of Tartarus’ viable exits without backtracking across the Lethe, which would no doubt prompt questions from Bob. The dark glittering water of the Styx was far closer than the pale waters of the Lethe, and Hades got the impression that they were being watched.

It was not a new sensation; eyes had observed them down in the Delta, and on approach to the prison. Not all of it could be attributed to Styx, but Hades was certain that she was at least one of their observers – and likely one of their most benevolent, for all that she despised Apollo. He would willingly take Styx’s observation over Tartarus’, which was a malevolence slowly gaining more and more clarity.

He is rising, Apollo had said, and there was only one he that seemed likely. It was also a he that Hades had very little desire to ever confront directly.

Bob knew the layout of Tartarus far better than Hades did, and seemingly had no qualms about taking the lead. The titan headed for the river without waiting for either of them to agree that they should go that way, and Apollo’s face shut down in a way Hades suspected hid panic.

“It is the only way out,” he told his nephew quietly, watching the titan forge a path ahead of them. Apollo frowned, and Hades found himself disliking the shuttered look on the usually expressive younger god’s face.

“I came here to protect Will,” Apollo murmured, so quietly it was more akin to a breath of air than intentional speech. “Not to damn him.”

That confirmed Hades’ suspicions of the price, and he let his shoulders drop slightly. “We will find a way,” he said. His nephew’s face flickered with brief emotion – mostly despair, but Hades did not think he imagined something akin to gratitude in the depths of his fiery eyes, and wondered at how much things had changed between them since they had arrived.

The Apollo that had entered Tartarus would never have let such emotions show where Hades could see them. Indeed, they had been more prone to arguments and division than unison, and Hades would never have suggested sharing the responsibility of protecting one of Apollo’s myriad of children, not even William. The we that had slipped from his mouth unbidden yet naturally hadn’t even registered until Apollo’s reaction.

Hades liked it, he realised. He had almost always enjoyed Apollo’s presence, for all that he had hidden it and often cut their interactions short, but it had been distant and stilted, a bright nephew too vibrant to truly gel with the shadows of the uncle. It had felt almost as though he had been reaching for something he was not allowed (something else he was not allowed, the same way he was not allowed to visit Olympus, not allowed to walk freely with the rest of the gods across the Overworld because his youngest brother had decreed as such).

Down in Tartarus, that barrier between them had melted away to nothing. It had been natural, even, once they breached the Asclepius problem, and while Hades was not so naïve as to think there remained no grievances between them – he had, after all, been the one to curse Apollo’s Pythia for decades, and neither of them had made a move to address that – it felt as though their relationship had tightened considerably.

There were very, very few others he had ever allowed so close to his essence, and even less he had merged with, even peripherally. Rediscovering aspects of himself that meant he and Apollo were not so fundamentally different after all was in some ways a relief – Hades had always been the different Olympian god (technically not even an Olympian, thanks to his brother’s decree), the disliked and even reviled one on the fringes.

Apollo had never rejected him like some of the others, but the fleeting glimpses of openness his nephew had begun to grace him with, especially since Hades had managed to tell him that he didn’t hate him, were something else entirely. It was something like trust, and that was something gods did not offer openly, not after millenniums of learned jadedness.

Hades found that he did not want to break it.

“Come,” he said. “Before Bob wonders why we are not following.” The titan was already looking back at them, although it wasn’t slowing his advance at all and he was almost at the river bank. With a sigh akin to someone resigned to their doom, Apollo slunk forwards.

Hades was glad when Styx rose out of the river as they approached. If she had not been there, Apollo’s crossing would have sealed his son’s fate. As it was…

“Hades,” she greeted, dark eyes glittering. “Iapetus.”

“Bob,” the titan corrected, drawing her attention away from where it had begun to focus on Apollo, who was standing tall as though he had every right to be where he was. It was a godly posture, a front that Hades had seen many times before but not realised the depths of. Even now, he would not have known that Apollo was terrified had his nephew not as good as confessed as such.

“Bob,” she repeated, “I see.” Hades supposed she did; passing through Tartarus as she did, she likely knew far more about the titan than most. Then, her eyes turned back to Apollo, whose posture was as rigid as any of the statues that bore his likeness. “Apollo.”

Hades’ nephew blinked, a small concession of surprise, and lowered his head in a measured fraction. “Styx.” Clearly sensing something that wasn’t being said, Bob turned to look at the pair of them – goddess and god, facing each other like a huntress and her cornered prey. Even Hades found himself somewhat wrong-footed at her use of Apollo’s name, rather than the persistent epithet she had bestowed upon him.

“You are not forgiven,” she said, rising fully from her river until only her feet were part of the running water, but not taking a single step out. “However, your repentance is noticed.” She stepped forwards, stopping at the very edge of the water where only the soles of her feet and her toes ran with the river. It was as fully humanoid as Hades had ever seen her without leaving her river – an act that Styx did only very rarely. “I will give you a choice.”

“Like the last one?” Apollo hazarded a guess, his voice sounding bitter, but she dismissed his words with a careless swipe of one hand, water cascading from the limb and splattering the surface of Tartarus at Apollo’s feet.

“In a sense.” Considering the last one was the choice to go all the way around the length of the river or damn his son, Hades did not consider it to be a reassuring answer. Nor did Apollo, from his still stiff posture. “You have an unfulfilled oath. Your son. Somehow, you have managed not to break it yet, despite the opportunities.”

She had to be referring to the oath his nephew had made within his palace, that William would never set foot in Tartarus.

“Cross me, complete your quest, and keep that oath for the rest of his life,” she said. “Do that, and I shall consider the penitence for your broken oath met. Cross me and fail this quest, or break the oath, and he is mine for the taking.”

Apollo hesitated, and Hades wondered what Styx gained from her change in tune – or if there was a hidden catch. There was a visible catch that she considered failing their current quest enough to unleash her vengeance on the demigod, even without the additional broken oath, but between two titans and a god, there should be no reason for them to fail.

Was there?

Styx had no domain of prophecy, no reason to even know the prophecy Apollo had recited in his throne room, but there were lines in there which predicted dire straits for light and gold. Per the blasted thing – because Hades would never like prophecies, even if he knew how important Apollo considered them to be – either Apollo or William could still be in peril.

“Well?” she prompted, leaning forwards but not leaving the water for even a moment. Only the droplets that had flown from her brusque action had touched Tartarus’ skin, and Hades suspected it was deliberate. “What is your choice, Apollo?”

“Don’t I get some time to think?” the god deflected, and she bared her teeth in a mimicry of a grin. The expression was purely predatory, and Apollo stiffened again.

“You do not have time to think,” she informed them, voice lowering into a hiss. “Tartarus is displeased at Bob’s attempt to escape. Before, you were insignificant gnats beneath his notice but in present company you are fixed directly in his sights. Creatures from the depths are rising, crossing me in droves. Every move you make is watched, you have been followed since choosing to take on this prophecy of sunshine and darkness. The longer you think, the further his wrath reaches. You already know you can’t escape the same way as last time, Apollo. You are invaded by the fringes of his essence, and those fringes are shackles.”

The hidden meaning was suddenly clear; they could not go around the Styx. Tartarus was rising, and if they, too, did not keep rising they would not escape at all. Hades had no idea what she meant by the same way as last time, but sensed that now was not the time to ask.

If they failed to escape, Nico and William would no doubt eventually venture down themselves, to face the same total destruction Hades and Apollo had taken on the quest to protect them from. The choice was no choice at all.

Realisation lined Apollo’s face, and the younger god stepped back once, twice, as Styx eyed him in amusement. Then he ran.

His running jump took him sailing across the breadth of the river with ease, and he landed lightly a few paces from the edge of the bank. The goddess laughed, a low noise that could have been either with or at Apollo. Hades suspected the latter.

“Always so dramatic, Apollo,” she said. “Your son’s fate is in your hands, now. I suggest you’re careful with it.”

“Will’s fate was in my hands the moment I decided to intervene,” Apollo replied, still standing tall and no longer seeming at all cowed by the goddess’ threats. “I have no intention of failing him now.”

Styx grinned her vicious grin again. “See that you mean what you say, this time.”

She disappeared, the water that made up her form splashing down into the river once again to join the flow downwards, towards the depths where Tartarus was stirring.

“I thought your son was merely involved because of Nico,” Bob observed, leaping across the river himself. Hades followed suit, eyeing his nephew to try and determine how much of his confident posture was an act.

It didn’t feel like one.

“There’s a prophecy,” Bob continued, a mild accusation. “And you interfered.”

“I have as much right to the epithet sunshine as Will,” Apollo replied, standing his ground. “He would never have survived this journey.”

There was no doubt in Apollo’s voice, and Hades shared his certainty; Nico, too, would not have survived a second trip – it was still incredible that he had survived the first, even with the assistance of a titan. Whether or not attempting to take their sons’ places had been the correct decision, it had been the only decision that they could make.

Now it was up to them to make sure the prophecy would never mean their sons.

“We are running out of time,” Hades said firmly. “This conversation can be held whilst walking.”

“I want to hear the prophecy,” Bob insisted, but Hades had not waited for agreement before beginning to move, and Apollo fell into step at his side. With a noise of clear frustration, the titan strode to catch up. “What does it entail?”

Apollo shook his head. “Not down here,” he said. “Too many ears could hear.” He cast a wary glance backwards, as though he could sense someone behind them. Given Styx’s words that they were being followed, it would not surprise Hades if his nephew could sense their pursuit. “Once we’re out.”

“You realise he also knows prophecies,” Bob said. “I do not know why he has chosen to follow us, but withholding a prophecy from him is an exercise in futility.”

“You know who it is?” Hades demanded, casting his own senses back to try and pinpoint their tail. There was nothing identifiable – familiar, yes, but only on the very hazes of his periphery.

Before he could once again try to grasp their identity more firmly, his senses heaved, jumbled and discordant as something shoved against his essence. He stumbled, almost falling to one knee, and beside him Apollo mis-stepped.

Then the ground gave way.

Chapter 26>>

#trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #pjo hades #pjo apollo #pjo iapetus #pjo bob #pjo styx #pjo kampe #tsari writes fanfiction #eclipse

16 notes · View notes

lady-wallace · 9 months

Text

Styx and Lethe Promo

Illustration sneak peek from my revised version of “Between the Styx and the Lethe” Comes as a PDF with Kintsugi, but can also be bought by itself!

This version also has about 5k more words of angst added to it, so if you’re into that, this is the only change you’ll get to read this version!

Pre-orders close July 31st so grab a copy now!

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba fanfiction #jjba fanart #giorno giovanna #angst #whump #kidnapped giorno #drugged giorno #manipulative villains #styx and lethe #jjba part 5 #fanfic paperbacks #giorno giovanna whump

4 notes · View notes

the-ever-flowing-styx · 1 year

Text

@lesbianwithchainsaws I FINALLY GOT AROUND TO READING INTRO TO SECRETS AND HOMOSEXUALITY AND OH MY GOD

EXPECT FANART IN THE COMING BUSINESS WEEK OH MY GOD

#i am so normal about this fanfic #cannot wait for chapter 13 #community nbc #styx posts

12 notes · View notes

driftlesswanderer · 1 year

Text

Mr. Roboto

For 225 miles; 82.2 hours, 4,950 minutes and 297,000 seconds, ST600 has been walking from Detroit. For the first time, ST600 had no idea where he was going. He just had to get away from Detroit.

Extra:

- Steve is ST600

- When Eddie finds Steve, who is stumbling along with a warm-weather uniform, and he takes him into his trailer to warm him up. Eddie discovers Steve is bleeding blue thinks he’s an alien, but Steve says he’s an Android.

- Androids aren’t very well known because they are pretty much a prototype in Detroit.

- El is JI011, if you want. I don’t know how to work her into the story yet.

#fanfiction idea #fanfic idea #fic idea #stranger things #steve x eddie #steddie #eddie x steve #detroit become human au #dbh au #song: Mr. Roboto by Styx

15 notes · View notes

lorenfinch · 11 months

Note

Happy blursday! 💜💌 What are the fic-y tropes (generally romantic, but not necessarily) that your blorbo(s) would LEAST be able to stand being involved in, and what are they doing to tolerate or to get out of these situations? (e.g., who is sleeping on the floor when There's Only One Bed; who starts going to a different coffee shop to avoid The AU?; who digs their way out of the snowstorm to avoid being Snowed In? Who's out here crushing the would-be Enemy to Friend to Lover's dreams?)- @liv-is

Happy blorbo blursday! Ooh this is a fun question; thank you @liv-is!!

Ren was a tough one, because he loves tropes, especially romance tropes. Probably the Tragic Love Interest Death TM? He wants to live happily ever after with his sweetheart, especially since he's been so lonely for so long, and if they die tragically (ESPECIALLY if they were trying to save him!!!!) he would feel so horrible and guilty over it!!! And, being a vampire, he has the means to potentially stop/reverse such a tragic death......

Styx is easy. She's aromantic, so any romance trope happens and they are Out. She avoids domestic aus by not having a house.

Erevan was difficult since he can also be a trope enjoyer but I just imagined him getting caught up in a Billionaire Romance a-la Fifty Shades and him using that to persuade said billionaire to redistribute his wealth (and stop using private jets if this is in the modern day).

Vince is demisexual and hates the idea of Love At First Sight. There are many complicated reasons why he acts outwardly mean (which get explored at some point), but preventing someone from thinking they just experienced a rom-com meet-cute is a bonus!

#liv-is #ask games #blorbo blursday #ch: renwick #ch: styx #ch: erevan #ch: vince #these are more general tropes than fanfic tropes i think #but yeah!

3 notes · View notes

green-eyes-and-orange-ties · 9 months

Text

I posted the Seb and Styx writings 🍋 🥰 🍋

#The tags took me a hot moment to work out ngl #Then I got stuck on series Vs chapters #And having to title everything #But I managed it #Night shift fanfic #Feels weirdly official. .... But maybe I'm just tired ...#night shift podcast #nsp #sebastian fen #Styx #night shift pod #Fan fiction #green rambles #Sleepless pair #Lemon Boys

6 notes · View notes

missingmywing · 9 months

Text

So quick background: some friends and I were talking about Ancient hcs and joked that Hyth probably seduced most or all of the Convocation at some point, and I made the joke that he probably challenged my Azem to do the same. I was then shamelessly enabled by multiple friends to write a fic of them doing exactly that. So. This is technically the second chapter bc the first would be Hyth's challenge itself, but they're all self-contained enough that they work alone with background explanation. Enjoy 13k words of what was supposed to be a 4k smut fic that then exploded into Plot and Character Studies.

Lahabrea

Styx had to admit, they weren’t… entirely sure how they were going to approach Lahabrea.

Not that they were at all adverse, but without Hyth’s prodding they’d have never gathered the boldness, the audacity. The man was stern and focused on his work above all else, and certainly not the type to fool around. Especially with Azem, who was undoubtedly the greatest headache for him on the convocation more often than not.

Styx knew that he didn’t hate them, or even truly dislike them, for all that he was often the first to criticize their methods and actions. But that didn’t change the fact that they were in opposition more often than not and that he would likely respond scathingly to a “distraction from their duties”.

Then again, perhaps it was simply a matter of constraints to work around.

He wouldn’t look favourably upon a distraction from his usual duties, so they could approach him towards the end of the day when those duties had reached a point of being set aside anyway. And he wasn’t the type to casually fool around, especially not with the one who was often a thorn in his side - though accidentally, usually - but conversely, his frustration with them could be an opening to offer an outlet.

How likely he was to accept it was another question altogether.

And… they did owe him somewhat of an apology. Not for quelling the volcano, but their use of Ifrita had been-

Well. They’d always intended to apologize to him for it, this just gave them a good opportunity to offer it.

So it was that two bells after the official end to the work day, as the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, found Azem knocking on Lahabrea’s office door with the curls of anticipation and nerves twisting in their stomach.

Frankly the only way this could go wrong was if he took insult, which they strongly hoped he wouldn’t. There was no reason for him to, really, and they knew that at worst he would likely dismiss them with irritable exasperation at the potential waste of time, but… well, their mind had always oh so helpfully conjured the worst case of any scenario they’d ever envisioned.

The flare of aether was sign enough of acknowledgement, and they steeled themselves and pushed open the door into the office.

Lahabrea was sitting at his desk and, given that the majority of the paperwork was on one side of it in designated files, they assumed that he was largely done for the day.

The office had long been altered to reflect a design very similar to that of what they remembered of his office in the Akademia Anyder; with dark stone edged with gold, desk of a dark wood, shelves of books and concept crystals along the walls, and a dark leather lounge with a low table to the right. It was lit more by the lamps along the walls than the rapidly dimming light from the arching windows to his back. It was both nostalgic and a bit comforting in its familiarity. His expression was neutral, rather than pulled into a tired frown, which was… a relatively good sign.

It at least meant that he wasn’t in a foul mood already.

“Azem,” he greeted neutrally as he looked up, voice not giving away any particular emotion. “Is there aught I can assist you with?”

… or perhaps he was upset. He was being suspiciously cordial given that he was undoubtedly still irked about their unauthorized acquisition and employment of Ifrita to stabilize the volcano less than a decade ago. While not as incised about it as Pashtarot, he’d been very vocal about his displeasure with the whole situation as he’d led the formal dressing-down of Azem by the Convocation in the aftermath. Not to mention their and Elidibus’ meddling about the Pandaemonium incident, their avoidance on the subject of their “familiar” in the aftermath, and his own personality shift in the wake of reclaiming his soul shard…

They eyed him warily. “Not as such, but I thought that time enough had passed to broach the subject of Ifrita without setting implications of excuses.”

He watched them for a moment, then released a sigh. “You are not one to make excuses Azem. While I may find your explanations excessively detailed and opinionated at times, they never deviate from factuality and into vacuity.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “If it is an explanation you seek to offer, you need not go to the effort. You were thorough enough with your report the first time, and I know well enough what motivates you to piece the events together myself.”

Azem found themselves struck silent at his words. That… wasn’t what they had expected. “I… see.”

“Nor are you one to offer an apology for your actions when you feel them justified.” Lahabrea tilted his head in a way that they could almost see his eyebrow raised behind his mask. “So what, pray tell, could have brought you here?”

They hesitated. “Not… apologies for my actions, perhaps, but for possible insult that could be taken from them, yes.” Azem answered carefully. “Ifrita was a powerful and well-crafted creation, and I’m not in the least ignorant of the time, effort, and care that went into her development. That I took advantage of that so soon after her approval and induction to the archives is an action I am well aware could be construed poorly. Of that, I am more than willing to offer an apology - even if no offense was intended.” Their heart twisted in their chest, awaiting his response. No matter how much time passed, he never became less intimidating - especially when he was in a clear position to offer scathing rejection.

Lahabrea considered them for a long moment, crimson eyes as unreadable as ever behind his mask. “… as I said, I am aware enough of your motivations to know your intent with your actions. While admittedly irate at your callous and blatant flaunting of protocol, I took no offense at your actions with Ifrita. The concept was created and submitted to the archives to be of use - not in that manner, perhaps, but if I wished to control how a concept were to be used I would never submit anything for public use - even restricted as it was. While I may disapprove of the manner, the utilization was within rights.”

… oh. Well today was a day for revelations wasn’t it?

Before they could respond, however, Lahabrea continued. “However; while the apology may have been genuine I can see clearly that it was also an excuse and a veil for your true purpose of being here. Speak plainly, Azem - you waste both our time with this vacant exchange.”

They felt their spine stiffen against their will at being called out, opening their mouth to respond… only for nothing to escape. What could they say? This hadn’t gone at all how they’d expected, and they’d been on the back-foot since the beginning. They had no idea how to proceed from here.

Especially given the excuse they had used to be here, it… full transparency likely would be taken as an offense to both his time and his assiduity. Frankly this whole approach, hells this whole challenge, had been ill-formed. They’d become so used to the ease of their relationship with Hythlodaeus and Hades over the millenia that they’d forgotten how complicated and difficult it was to court someone into bed - or elsewhere - without predetermined attraction.

They hadn’t thought this through, and they were going to fail before they’d even begun. The mortification burned through their stomach, twisting their mouth down into a frown as shame made their head dip. They had no recourse for this; it seemed Hyth had won without any effort and that they would simply have to take whatever he set for the loss consequences.

“It… doesn’t truly matter,” they murmured. “I rather overestimated your ire over my actions with both Ifrita and the island, and I see now that further pursuit of the matter unnecessary. I apologize for taking your time.” With another dip of their head they turned to leave, frustration and shame at their own cowardice a cocktail in their chest.

“Azem.”

Their body froze at his voice, layered with aether and command woven into one - the same technique he and Elidibus used to take control whenever debates became too unrestrained amongst the Convocation meetings.

He stood, an implied expectation laid at the action. As much as they wished to flee with their pride somewhat intact - if wounded - they couldn’t simply ignore his own silent demand. They slowly turned back towards him, shoulders reflexively curled.

Lahabrea stared at them for a long moment then reached up to pinch the bridge of his mask and sighed. A moment later he was stepping around the desk and walking towards them, stopping less than an arm’s length away to look down at them.

(They always forgot, somehow, exactly how large and imposing he was in close capacity. While they and Themis were admittedly smaller than most - and given the information on dynamis Hermes had brought to their attention, what it was and how it applied, combined with they and Themis’ unusual attunement to emotions of those around them and Venat’s dabbling as Azem while carrying them, they had theories as to why - Lahabrea was several heads taller than them and it was… immensely imposing when he did so intentionally.)

“As fellow members of the Convocation, regardless of seniority or approval, we are equals of our positions. Yet you stand there as uncertain as an Akademia student being chastised.” He stepped past them, circling behind them, and though they tried to turn their head and keep him in their peripherals their hood and mask - on, following protocol for once, and they cursed themself for it - blocked their view. “If you wish for something then speak it. Hiding behind empty platitudes is hardly befitting of your station - as either a Convocation member or as Azem - regardless of expected reactions.”

A thrill shot down their spine at his words. He - of course he’d realized their aim, and they once again cursed themself for their lack of forethought. He was tens of millenia older than them, infinitely more experienced - of course he could recognize when someone held intentions towards him.

They bit their lip, frozen, unable to force the words past their lips.

(If there was one unfortunate thing they and Hades had in common it was the inability to force their pride to the wayside and willfully embarrass themselves.)

Lahabrea sighed, and for the first time in the conversation the sparks of irritation were laced through his voice. “As ever, you try my patience.” They could feel him stepping closer behind them, his presence burning hot and his voice much closer than it had been before. “Speak, Azem. What precisely did you come here for, and why should I give you what you seek?”

Azem couldn’t withhold their shudder, the command in his voice breaking through their hesitation. “An extension of the apology, should you be so inclined to accept it. As I said, I assumed your ire deeper than it was and meant to offer an outlet if you so wished.”

He was silent for a moment, and Azem wished they could see his face to weigh just how that was taken. His presence seemed to ease, and they weren’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one. When he did speak it sent a bolt of molten heat directly to their core.

“I’m beginning to think you simply enjoy being punished.”

Their knees went weak at the words as their breath caught in their breast. Not that he was wrong, precisely, but they certainly hadn’t expected him to say that. “I-”

“I did not give you leave to speak.”

It was all they could do to keep themselves upright as his aether-laced words lashed across them and stalled their voice in their throat.

He stepped back around them, severe red mask working well with his frown to make them feel pinned into place beneath his crimson gaze. “I know not whether what drives you is true contrition or selfish wants given excuse.” Even without his aether woven into his words, they could feel it all around them, blazing hot and overwhelming. Their breaths came more heavily as they tried to swallow back a whine at the heavy sensation. “But regardless, I wonder if you are truly prepared to accept the consequences of what you offer.” He stepped closer, mere ilms between them, forcing Azem to crane their neck to look up at him as they panted for breath and clenched their hands in their robes. “I am not wont to force others to conform to my views, regardless of whether I disapprove of their actions. But if it is punishment you seek…” He lifted his hand sharply and a sigil wove itself beneath them, chains springing forth to wrap around Azem and force their hands behind their back, and Lahabrea caught their chin with his hand to steady them as they staggered. The events together took less than a moment, and the motion of them knocked their hood off. Lahabrea looked down upon them with crimson eyes that blazed as he finished, “… I will be more than willing to provide.”

Everything seemed to still all at once as they stood there, chest heaving as they struggled for air, heat pervading the space around them and sinking directly to the core of their being. Lahabrea continued watching them, unmoving, waiting for their answer.

Giving them the chance to change their mind now.

Stars, as though they would after that implied promise.

They leaned into his grip the slightest bit that they could. “I do not take actions heedless of the consequences,” they forced out. “If the actions I take have consequences then so be it - I am not so unconfident in my judgements as to shy from them.”

His head dipped for a moment before he scoffed quietly. “I find myself unsurprised.” He released their chin and they felt a keen edge of anticipation as they heard the click of the door’s lock behind them, felt the activation of silencing wards as he reached up and plucked their mask from their face. “This is a boldness more befitting of Azem.”

Stars above, if he was trying to ruin them with words before even touching them it was working.

Lahabrea stepped away, walking back to his desk with a measured pace, and set their mask down on the edge of it with a soft click. When he turned back to face them, it was with the same stern, impassive expression he usually wore, with no sign of affection at their state beyond his burning eyes. “You’ve a word, if it becomes too much?"

They swallowed with a nod. “Starfall.”

“Good. I trust you’ll not forget it.” He examined them silently for several moments, as though they were one of his creations and he was determining the best manner of handling them, before he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side thoughtfully and brought a hand to his chin. “Given your apparent fondness for fire, perhaps we should begin with a review of its properties and the inherent danger of engaging with it carelessly.”

Azem had but a moment to think that they were in trouble before the chains wrapped around them burned, the fire-aspected aether pressing through their clothes and against their skin and then sinking beneath it, intense and borderline unbearable, toeing the line of pain and then crossing it.

The kind of pain and heat that made the noise that tore itself from their throat into something between a moan and a cry as they arched against the chains.

They could feel it spreading, feel the aether twisting and twining against their own, sinking deep inside them as it snaked through their body. They trembled against their bonds, trying to keep to their feet.

For but a few moments they managed, barely, before it abruptly pulsed and scattered through their whole form, more akin to a jolt of levin than fire, and they cried out again as their legs gave out. A hand caught their arm, holding them upright, but rather than offering relief it only intensified the aether and they wavered in his grip with a quiet groan.

“Given your excessive recklessness in throwing yourself into increasingly dangerous situations, I wouldn’t have thought you so easy to curb.”

Azem shuddered at the words, the heat of their own pooling beneath their stomach. “Th-this is… a bit different,” they managed out, trying to focus on his face and ignore the fire within them. “Normally the pain isn’t quite so- ngh- targeted.” Had it just been pain they could have endured it just fine - they’d experienced far worse, and even Ifrita had managed some particularly painful wounds of this type but magnified - but that it was the borderline between pain and pleasure, and with such intent…

He was silent for a moment, allowing them to catch their breath as the aether’s intensity faded away to a gentle warmth that they didn’t trust for a moment. “I see,” he said finally, releasing their arm, and they blinked in confusion as the chains dispersed.

“What-”

“Put your arms above your head.”

Levin shot through them at the words and they bit back a strangled noise at it. They complied shakily, watching him from the corner of their eye as he considered them.

Chains wrapped once more around their wrists and seemed to hang from empty air. They tugged at them, testing to see if there was any give, idly considering - distracting themself - if he was using a gravity, time, or wind spell, or if it was a purely aetheric calculation… regardless, there was no pliancy to them. Azem was well and truly trapped in place, and even if their legs did give out they would find no solace in the support of the tile floor below.

Their heart was thundering in their chest as they tried to keep their breathing even, tried not to give away just how affected they were merely from this.

“I must admit, this compliance is… unexpected. Given the trouble you’re so fond of causing, I expected more resistance.”

They huffed out a playful laugh. “I told you, this is an apology of sorts.”

“Is it?”

He sounded distinctly doubtful, but before they could respond the aether flared again and knocked out another strangled sound as it tore through them. They tried to trace the sensations, the aether following along their own and twining with it to redouble its own effects, but it served only to make them more aware of its effects on their body.

The way their robes shifted and chafed, their hair sticking to their neck and falling into their eyes, sticking to their lips, sweat cresting their brow, and the slickness between their thighs turning sticky as they pressed them together in a futile attempt to relieve even the slightest bit of pressure…

The flare likely lasted only a few moments, but it felt like an eternity before it once again died down and left them able to focus on keeping themselves upright on shaky legs, gasping for breath.

Lahabrea was still simply observing them with crossed arms.

They waited him out, slowly regaining control of their body as the heat remained a dull burn and their shaking faded to something more manageable.

Though the ache between their thighs did not, and they rubbed their legs together while trying to ignore the sensation of emptiness. They’d just barely started, Azem wasn’t going to give in so easily.

Whether he would even try or not, Lahabrea would have to put in effort to make them beg.

His eyes narrowed behind his mask, though, at something about them that he’d noticed. They tilted their head at him.

“I suppose I was incorrect about your lack of resistance. You simply cannot help yourself but cause trouble.”

Azem shivered at his tone, mind flitting through potentials as to what he meant. “How so?”

“For someone supposedly offering themselves for punishment,” he said lowly, and a moment later they stiffened as cool air encompassed their bare form, and he flicked a glance down to where their legs were pressed together, “you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Ah.

They bit their tongue as they felt more aether weave around them, and their legs were forced apart by the chains around their ankles. The chains burned hot, but the polished tile beneath their feet was cold even beneath the sigils of Lahabrea’s spell.

It got to them - the coolness of the air against their skin, being fully exposed in the middle of Lahabrea’s office, windows uncovered (though they were several floors above ground level and were thus unlikely to be seen, the thought of the danger alone was arousing enough), while the man himself remained fully robed, the threatening heat still tracing through them…

Their head fell back with a quiet groan, feeling the burn of embarrassment spreading across their face and down to their shoulders, across their chest. They clenched around nothing as the heat flared once more through their core.

Not that they would admit that, as much as they wanted-

They were abruptly dragged out of their thoughts by a warm touch to their side - a physical one, unexpectedly - and they inhaled sharply at the burning sensation that was painful.

Azem looked back forward to see Lahabrea staring down at their (distinctly flat, so probably not that) chest and side with a severe frown and-

Oh. Right. They hadn’t gotten that healed yet.

“It’s fine,” they said quickly, trying to pull his attention away from the myriad of minor acid burns and long scratches stretching from their left shoulder to hip - the result of their most recent escapade helping some of Halmarut's words suppress an escaped specimen - and back to what was supposed to be happening. “It looks worse than it is, and it doesn’t even hurt-”

“Why,” he asked, dangerously quiet, “have you not gone to a healer?”

Shit, they were in trouble. “Because I’ve been busy since I’ve gotten back, and I didn’t want to bother Emmerololth or her Words with minor injuries.”

“Minor-” he snapped- then stopped and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his mask with a deep steadying breath. “Azem.”

They set their jaw and stared stubbornly up at him.

It took several moments before he sighed deeply and reached up to pull off his mask and hood in order to glare at them properly. “You are incorrigible,” he said scathingly. “However busy you may have been, it would take naught but a bell, at most, to find a healer available. Emmerololth could heal this in ten minutes. And yet you use the excuse that you were so busy as to not have time available, rather than simply admitting that, as per usual, you are being exceptionally careless of your own wellbeing.”

They hunched their shoulders, looking away. “I have been busy,” they mumbled. “And it didn’t seem worth the effort of hunting someone down, they’ll heal fine on their own.”

“Ridiculous,” Lahabrea snapped again, and Azem glanced up, startled, at the thread of genuine anger in his voice. “There comes a point where recklessness crosses over into foolishness, and ignoring your injuries that could otherwise be easily healed is well beyond that line.” They tensed as the chains tightened around their wrists and ankles, and Lahabrea rested a hand upon their shoulder over the injury. “I will heal you this time, but I will be informing Emmerololth of this.”

Oh no. That was a double edged knife of a promise. Emmerololth would be holding this against them for years, and Lahabrea-

Their thoughts were interrupted once more by his aether, only this time its form was… different. Not the fiery inferno of before, but an altogether rougher sensation prickling through their body over the wounds. akin to the sanding paper artisans used, dragging along their skin and making them cringe and squirm away. Not that there was anywhere to go with the chains holding them still.

It was - not pleasant, certainly; with aether dragging across raw nerves and forcing their body to rebuild itself rapidly, Lahabrea making no effort to smooth the process over and make it soothing as most healers did. But despite that, or perhaps because of it, coupled with the intensity of his focus on them, Azem found that the ache between their legs only worsened even as they tugged and pulled against the chains in a futile attempt to escape the sensation.

Lahabrea sighed, stepping closer and dropping his other hand on their hip irritably to keep them in place. “Hold still.”

“Easier said than done,” Azem shot back mutinously. “You aren’t precisely making it-” they cut themself off with a sharp noise as his aether flared again, chains snaking down around their arms and up their legs to keep them more firmly in place. The aether beneath their skin turned hot again, balance tipping back into fire as their injuries vanished and Lahabrea returned to the task at hand.

“Given your extensive experience with injuries and their discomfort, I would have expected you to endure a simple healing with more poise.” He narrowed his eyes and stepped back, and the sand paper-esque aether returned - beginning where their injuries had been and sweeping slowly out through the rest of their body as though hunting for any other injuries that had been overlooked.

Azem twisted and writhed in place with small whines and moans, helpless to escape it or the heat creeping ever so slowly through them. Every nerve was alight, and their face burned crimson as they felt the slick leaking from them and dripping down their legs and to the floor below as they clenched around nothing.

It was the sweetest form of torture, and Lahabrea undoubtedly knew it as he watched them with narrow eyes and crossed arms.

They wanted him to touch them again, properly this time, but they knew he wouldn’t. Not unless they asked.

Begged, more like, and that wasn’t happening. They weren’t that far gone. Not yet.

But he would make them.

He wouldn’t give them what they wanted unless they spoke it aloud, that much they knew, and the thought alone made their head drop back with a quiet moan.

The feather-light brush of their long hair against the curve of their ass made them shudder, the slightest sensation of touch beyond the burning chains. Not that it actually helped anything, but they would take anything at the moment. Anything physical. Anything beyond his intangible, inexorable aether spreading through them.

They shook as the heat wove through their abdomen, pushing them closer to release, cresting upwards on a wave of pleasure that began to drown out the discomfort. They were close, heart beating louder in their ears as their limbs trembled and their chest heaved, and they arched up as the heat curled and they began to tip over the edge-

-it vanished, the warmth and aether both, and they keened as they yanked against the - also abruptly cold - chains. Their body shook and shuddered, but they couldn’t tip themselves over that edge with no way to touch themselves.

They’d been so close-

Azem slumped in their restraints, trying to catch their breath. Admittedly they had expected it, but still. “That- was cruel,” they huffed at him.

He arched a brow. “I don’t recall offering you any sort of reward. This was meant to be a punishment, yes? You’ve done nothing to earn release.”

That sent another shiver through them, body tightening around the aching emptiness in a futile effort to push itself further. “I see. So you’ll simply toy with me until you’re satisfied?” Although there was an implication there that he may decide not to let them come at all, which was… mildly terrifying to consider.

“Until you’ve learned your lesson,” he corrected indifferently, though the furrow of his brows and searing focus of his gaze said otherwise. “And you’ve admitted to such.”

That sent a shudder down their spine and they bit their tongue to ground themself. So he was, in fact, going to force them to speak their mind. Beg for release.

Excitement pooled in their stomach even as they narrowed their eyes at him. “And what lesson would that be?”

“Your blatant disregard for protocol, and your adamant rejection of conscientiousness towards your own salubrity, to start.”

They arched against their restraints with a choked gasp as the aether returned forcefully, crafted through words and will both, and burned through them once more. They ached for breath, straining fruitlessly against the chains.

Once more they began to crest, tipped to the edge, and then refused when the aether vanished. Twice, thrice, and their eyes were wet as they came down yet again. Still they bit their tongue, refused to cave.

“Stubborn, as per usual.” Lahabrea said flatly, dragging their clouded attention to him. “Must you withhold acknowledgement of indiscretions?”

They tried to speak, voice failing them, and swallowed and tried again. “I acknowledge indiscretions, but I’ll not apologize for those actions which I consider worthwhile. I won’t apologize for that which I don’t regret; merely that which I do. As I said before, I don’t lie. An empty apology is meaningless words.”

“Stubborn,” he hissed, making them flinch at the flare of aether. “Perhaps I have been too lenient.”

What? What did that mean, what could he possibly-?

Their thoughts were broken by the sudden surge of aether that flooded them. Blindingly hot, searing its way through their whole body and making them arch and writhe against the chains, broken cries and moans falling helplessly from their lips as their mind went blank. It was- a lot. So much, nowhere to go, no way to escape it, and they felt themselves being dragged once more to that edge.

Except this time, when they reached the crest of it, it didn’t disappear.

But neither did they tip over the edge.

They were instead balanced on the very edge of it, forced to that point but unable to fall over it. Their body refusing to come.

And it was - too much, too much, they couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, they were numb except to the heat and pleasure and they twisted and cried out and tried desperately to push themselves over, to pull their legs together and force the orgasm to come, but they couldn’t. The chains served their purpose well, holding them firmly in place, and a sob pulled itself from their chest.

It vanished abruptly, the heat drawing back and allowing them back down, but their whole body was trembling and shaking as they slumped in the restraints, unable to hold their own weight. Their face was wet with tears, sweat slicking their body, and they’d never ached more desperately. Stars, they’d take anything right now. Something to fill them, to touch them, to push them over that edge.

The break in sensations allowed them to sense their own aetheric flow more clearly, though, and they almost immediately found the source of the problem. A spell woven to keep them at the brink and no further. The sigil of its form glowing slightly where it rested beneath their stomach, blurry though it was through their teary gaze. He’d used light-aligned aether, the bastard, inducing stasis under the conditions of his choosing, refusing their body to tip past a certain point.

They were completely at his whim, and there was nothing they could do about it.

(Well, they could. One word, one sign that it was actually too much, and he’d release them immediately. But they weren’t anywhere near that point. Not yet.)

They craned their neck to look up at him as he stepped closer to them and raised a brow. Waiting. They set their jaw stubbornly and stared back.

“Still you resist,” he rumbled, glaring down at them.

“Y-you know… my feelings- on the matter,” they stuttered out. “You- you’ll not- change my mind so- so easily.”

“Is that so?” he asked quietly, their only warning before they were once again dragged into the flames.

If they’d hoped their body would numb to the feeling, they’d have been sorely disappointed. If anything, it seemed only intensified this time. The anxious anticipation setting them on edge just before it struck and heightening it when it did. They went rigid and jerked against the immovable chains, anything to distract from the overwhelming aether dragging them under.

They didn’t- it was-

They couldn’t feel anything but the burn, the pleasure so sharp it hurt, the desperate ache of the emptiness and lack of touch where they needed it most, every nerve overstimulated to the point that they could sense naught else, ragged, desperate breaths tearing from their chest in a bid for air.

And it didn’t stop.

There was no recession this time, no diminishing in the aether. It took them to that edge, rising and falling in pulses and waves, and kept them there, merciless, until they couldn’t bear it.

All sense of time vanished in the face of it, they didn’t know how long it took before they broke.

But break they did, as they inevitably would.

“Please-” they choked out, pulling helplessly at the immovable chains. “Please, please, I can’t-” they gasped around the words, voice wrecked, as they stumbled over whine. “No more, please, please let me-”

“If you wish for release, you know how to receive it.”

They shook their head, forcing their eyes open to look up at him wetly. “Lahabrea-”

He stared down at them, seemingly unimpressed, though the way his jaw was clenched and his hands rested a bit too tightly on his arms proved he wasn’t entirely unaffected - not that they could truly register that through their haze. “I believe I made my conditions clear, Azem.”

They whimpered and their toes curled, throwing their head back as the aether flared somehow higher yet again and it burned. “Please! I’m sorry- I’m sorry for- for going behind your back, I’m sorry for un-undercutting the Convocation- I- I-” their voice broke into another sob at the next pulse of aether.

They distantly heard Lahabrea’s irate sigh, and arched up with a keen at the feeling of his warm hand catching their chin and pulling their face up sharply. They strained against the chains, trying to reach him further, as choked whimpers escaped them. “I ask not for empty apologies, Azem, for I am aware that you thought what you did to be necessary. My quarrel is that you did so without recourse. You did go behind our backs, and took exceptional risk of disaster in doing so. Taking a high level concept, invoking it to a powerful level, and intending to face it alone.”

Their nails dug into their palms at they strained helplessly at the chains, his aether pushing ever higher and hotter and staying there.

“Had Elidibus not alerted Emet-Selch to your reckless intent and beseeched his aid, you would have fought alone and the injuries you sustained would have been much worse. Had you failed, the island itself would have simply faced Ifrita’s wrath rather than the volcano’s - and the destruction could have spread beyond even that. Whatever your intentions, your actions were reckless and ill-planned, and your insistence in acting alone put you at a risk much higher than necessary. To say nothing of your refusal to pay heed to your own injuries in the aftermath.” Their breaths were pulled from them in little gasps as his words wrapped around them, their intent echoing through the aether he’d woven through them. “I care not for empty apologies, but I expect you to acknowledge your failings and the anxieties they caused.” They barely registered his glare through teary eyes, dark and frustrated as it was.

“I’m sorry,” they choked out, trying to focus enough to think through the hazy burn and the desperation. So close, pushed to the edge but never beyond, wound so tight it hurt. “I’m sorry, I’ll- I’ll be better. I promise, I- I’ll be more careful, I won’t-” another pulse made them arch and flinch with a cry, “Please, please please please I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t- won’t- won’t go on my- my own next time- I’ll- I’ll find someone to help and- and act as a con-contingency, I-” they sobbed, babbling, desperation driving their words.

Lahabrea’s hand slid upward from their jaw, catching their hair in his fist and jerking their head back, drawing another keen from them. “You will also not hide your injuries, or ignore them, regardless of how minor you may consider them,” he growled. “When you return to Amaurot from now on, you will find a healer - be it Emmerololth or one of her words, or even Elidibus or myself - and have them tend your injuries. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Azem choked out, tears spilling from their eyes. “Yes yes yes, I understand, I promise, anything, I will, I-” Another shudder wracked them. “Lahabrea please!”

“Very well then,” he murmured, and they felt the hand not fisted in their hair reach down to brush against the sigil on their stomach, unraveling the spell, and then dip down further.

His fingers dragged across their clit to hook into their entrance just as another pulse of aether flared through them, and they were wrenched over the edge with a wail.

Their entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing and pulling sharply against the restraints, and they couldn’t breathe as their vision whited out. Everything was overwhelmed by the heat and relief that flooded through them, pleasure so sharp it was like needles dragging across their nerves, and they couldn’t register anything else through the sensations.

When they did finally come back to themself sometime later, blinking spots from their eyes hazily, they were pressed up against Lahabrea with one arm beneath their shoulders and his other hand resting on their waist to support them. They hadn’t yet been released from the chains, but they had loosened to allow Azem’s body to relax.

Their face was wet and they were still wracked with shivers, uncontrollable little spasms from their overwrought nerves and aether. His own had withdrawn from theirs, but they could still sense the little traces where it hadn’t yet fully dispersed.

Azem didn’t try to move yet. They remained slumped against him, pressing their face into his still-clothed chest, and tried to regain their bearings.

He allowed them there, unmoving and dazed, for several minutes before he asked quietly “Are you ready to be released?”

Another shudder rippled through them and they pressed closer against him. They were ready to be let down, yes, their shoulders and hips prickling in discomfort from the extended time in this position, but… they didn’t want him to let go yet.

The abrupt absence of heat after the prolonged exposure to it had left them oddly cold, and they didn’t want to lose the warmth of his body against theirs.

His thumb traced along their spine. “Azem?”

They trembled a bit, but gave a tiny nod in answer to his question. The chains dispersed from their limbs, leaving them unexpectedly unbalanced and their arms dropped down to clutch at his as they tried to regain their balance. He tugged them upright, still supporting them, and they leaned against him even as they found their legs and flexed their shoulders. The pins and needles sensation made them wince.

They’d half expected him to push them back and tell them to redress themselves, but he didn’t. He allowed them to stay where they were, and they were grateful for it. Styx still felt a little like they were floating. Unfocused. Dizzy.

Cold.

After a few more moments Lahabrea let out a quiet sigh. They flinched and clung to his arms with a little bit of panic as he shifted back and cold air rushed into the space left behind, but rather than removing himself from their grip he instead pulled them along with him. Around the low table and over to the lounge seat against the wall.

He settled down on it with his back to the arm and shoulder to its back and tugged them down as well. It was with a burst of relief that they clambered on after him, tucking themself between his side and the back of the couch and burying their face back into his shoulder. He shifted to find comfort, and his arm fell back around them as his other hand settled on their head.

It was comfortable.

A quiet comfort, a soft, unexpected indulgence that they basked in with relief for a while.

After a time they slowly returned to themself fully, mind focusing back in on their body, and they sighed softly as they shifted to a more comfortable position, noting distantly that it was now fully dark outside and the buildings glimmered through the windows.

“You’ve returned to sensibility, I take it?” Lahabrea asked.

Azem made a small noise of agreement, twisting to look up at him. “As much as I ever have sensibility, I suppose,” they quipped weakly with a small smile.

He sent them a dry look in return. “Perhaps I should use alertness as a descriptor, then.” He examined their expression more closely, seriously. “You are unharmed?”

They nodded. “I am, yes. It was… intense, but it wasn’t overmuch.” Styx made a face. “That was underhanded though. Extracting a promise from me like that.” And now that they had given their word they had to follow it. Ugh.

“Given your stubbornness, the options to obtain your word are limited. I merely utilized the opportunity offered.”

Was that why he had accepted their overtures? Well, it was unlikely to be that simple, but… that was more devious than they’d have expected from him. Grumbling they shifted their position, throwing a leg over his to straddle it and folding their arms against his chest, plopping their chin atop of them to pout up at him. “Underhanded,” they repeated.

He’d tensed at their sudden shift in movement, hands hovering above their body awkwardly. “You may say that as many times as you like, but mine own words are equally true. No amount of childish petulance counteracts such.”

Azem huffed at him but didn't argue, instead focusing on him. He was - and had been - making a valiant effort to seem unaffected. But he wasn’t quite looking at them directly, his body rigid against the couch, and though it was difficult to make out against his dark skin there was a red flush across his face and ears.

He wasn’t as impassive as he was attempting to seem, as proven by the way he jerked with a sharp inhale, hands falling sharply to their waist and eyes snapping back to them, as they shifted to press their thigh against the semi-hardness beneath his robes.

“Azem,” he growled warningly, voice strained.

“Lahabrea,” they responded with a small smirk. “Is aught amiss?”

He narrowed his eyes at them. “What are you doing?”

That made them pause, raising their brows at him. They’d thought that would be… rather obvious. “Hmm, returning the favor I suppose?” They shifted again, leg grinding up and drawing a hiss from him.

His hands flexed around their waist, pushing them back the slightest bit. “That is unnecessary,” he said firmly, despite the strain in his tone.

They froze at the words, confusion and a sting of hurt settling abruptly in their chest like ice. “Unnecessary?” they repeated, tilting their head, trying not to show the sudden hurt, the self-consciousness at his words. Had they misinterpreted his responses? He’d seemed to be enjoying the situation, to the degree that he was willing to show at least, but had he not… Did he not wish for them to reciprocate?

The thought, that he was content being the instigator but that their touch was so unappealing to him as to refuse it, hurt. Perhaps they’d misinterpreted his open concern earlier into something more fond than it truly was. If so then they would certainly not push, would leave at his word and accept that they’d misconstrued his reactions, but… it was… it felt…

Lahabrea’s next words broke them from their sudden spiral of panic. “You’ve received what you came here for, yes?” He asked, glaring down at where his large hands circled their waist, avoiding their gaze. “There’s no need to insist upon requitement out of obligation.”

What?

Hurt gave way almost immediately to… not offense, precisely, but… indignation. Their hands tightened on his robes as they quietly asked, “Do you truly view me as so conceited, so self-serving?”

He frowned, gaze returning to their own. “Tis hardly a matter of conceit, merely pragmatism. You had a purpose for coming here, with that purpose fulfilled you’ve no need to travail yourself with a mere unconscious consequence.”

Styx stared at him, unable to form words to respond for a moment.

That was… absurd. Absolutely ludicrous, and it made a thread of concern wind through the back of their mind. A whisper of thought, wondering precisely how bad it had been with Athena for that to be considered a reasonable reaction. But they ignored it, it wasn’t relevant at the moment nor was it their place to pry beyond what they and Themis already had, and they instead focused back on him. “If it were something I considered a travail I’d not have approached you to begin with,” they said flatly, eyes narrowing at him. “I am also not one to simply take my own pleasure and leave my chosen partner without care, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I would be. If you do not wish for my touch, or find my attention to your gratification so distasteful, then simply say so and I will accept it and leave.” Much as it may hurt to be so summarily rejected now. “However if it’s simply an assumption of obligation then I assure you, I’m more than willing to reciprocate and more than capable of doing so.”

Lahabrea was the one seemingly struck silent this time, expression startled and a bit confused; something deeper in his eyes that flickered by too quickly for Styx to interpret. But he didn’t push them away, didn’t scowl and tell them to leave.

They took that as implicit permission to continue, watching his face closely as they pressed their thigh back to him. His hands flexed once more around their waist, but he didn't push them back this time. Styx continued watching his expression as they ground gently against him, the way his brows twitched and lips tightened in an attempt to control his reactions and maintain his composure.

They had every intention of unraveling that composure soon enough.

He tensed as they wove their aether through his robes with the clear intent of unmaking them, but didn’t stop them. They took a moment to examine him once they were gone, sitting up and leaning back as their hands dropped to cover his on their waist, and felt their brows quirk in interest as they realized that his undershirt was just form-fitting enough to make the muscle tone beneath visible.

It made sense, of course - creating new concepts put him as the first one in the line of fire when they inevitably went awry in the process, so he would have built up just as much physical strength as aetherical - but somehow they’d never actually considered it.

Well they certainly were now.

Despite their sudden urge to see beneath the black fabric, they didn’t want to rush this and make him uncomfortable - well, to a degree that he became averse to their attention, at least - so rather than vanishing his undershirt they slid their hands beneath the bottom of it to trace along the line where skin met the fabric of his podea. They watched the shudder race through him, jaw tightening, but he made no move to stop them either.

With another gentle twist of their aether - light and careful, still sore and a bit overwhelmed from his earlier attention - they unraveled his undershirt into aether as well and had to stop abruptly.

Ah.

Their impression had been correct, but… underestimated, somewhat. They were unused to anyone being as clearly muscled as Hades, who regularly swung around a sword as large as he was despite his grumbling about it, but Lahabrea was… fairly close. And he was littered with scars, though that was much less surprising. Smaller ones all around, but a few larger ones as well. Scratches across his ribs, a line stretching over his shoulder, a faded burn mark across his other shoulder and neck, and a strangely shaped scar over his chest that they couldn’t quite guess the cause of at a glance.

It took him shifting beneath them uncomfortably after a few moments too long of staring to drag them back to attention, finding him looking at a point just past their shoulder pointedly.

They trailed their hands up his torso curiously, accepting his unspoken request to move on, and traced their fingers across the scars along his ribs. They were tempted to ask after their origin, but- well experience told them that most Amaurotines found scars unsettling and avoided conversation about them. Something about an experience being so dangerous and damaging that it left a mark even healing magic couldn’t fix made them uncomfortable.

(Granted a number of their own were due more to lack of proper care on their part than lack of a healer’s ability to fix it. They liked their scars, even if Hades and their compatriots found them endlessly frustrating and disquieting.

Styx just found them fascinating.)

Each scar a story untold, an experience unique to the bearer.

Given how on-edge he already was, though, it was probably best to leave it alone. They couldn’t deny that there was some disappointment to the thought, but they weren’t willing to make him truly uncomfortable by asking after potentially unpleasant events.

So instead they leaned forward and traced their lips along the same path as their fingers had, the resulting shiver from him pulling a smile from them against his skin. They worked their way up slowly, allowing their teeth to graze him here and there, though they never bit down. His hands tightened on their waist regardless, soft breaths pulled from him with each implied action, until they reached his neck and stopped. They felt him shudder beneath them as they finally bit down, gently, sucking a bruise into his skin as their hands found his pecs and squeezed, and his head dropped back with a quiet groan.

It made something smug settle in their chest.

They moved up his neck one small mark at a time until they reached his jaw and pulled back to admire their work. The bruises were small, barely visible against his dark skin - especially in the dim light of the lamps - but they were there, and Styx had always liked to see their marks on their partners. Lahabrea shifted beneath them, turning his head to look at them as his eyes blinked open, and they found their gaze drawn to his mouth as he panted for breath, overcome by the urge to kiss him.

Styx leaned forward and tilted their head slightly, slowly enough that he could turn away if he wished. He didn’t, though, and instead tilted his head towards them and allowed them to press their lips to his.

You could tell a lot about someone from a kiss, Styx had found, and how they reacted to it. Their first thought was how warm he was - hardly surprising in the literal sense, they’d felt how hot Lahabrea was the moment they touched him and fire was his element - but it still somehow took them by surprise. They slid their hands up to wind around his neck, one hand settling there as the other tangled in his hair, and pushed themselves up to get closer to that warmth. They could taste the lingering coffee as their lips moved insistently against his, felt the way his hands pressed more bruises to match those left earlier by the chains into their skin, the rough scrape of his beard against their chin, and their thoughts were filled with static as they pressed closer and chased the heat of him.

The warmth was a surprise not due to the physical sensation but due to his own tendency towards cool stoicism, the distance he held others at, his impeccable control over his emotions and reactions at all times. And yet they could feel his tremors beneath them, feel the flickers of his aether escaping his grasp and winding around them, the way his hands clenched about their waist despite the sweat slicking them, his desperate breaths brushing feather light against their lips as they shifted their position and pressed their tongue to his lips.

There was something heady about drawing Lahabrea of all people into this desperate state, of seeing his usually-unwavering control slip away as his hands grasped at their back, one reaching up tangle in their hair and pull them closer against him, hips rutting against theirs.

The kiss quickly devolved into something frantic and messy as the heat and aether built between them once more, and Styx released his neck to instead reach down and fumble for a grip on his podea and trousers, attempting to feel out the composition of them to unmake them. They couldn’t focus, couldn’t think around the feel of his lips, his tongue, his hands, and found themself having to pull away and gasp for breath in an attempt to clear their thoughts.

Their chest heaved as they tried to regain their composure, leaning into his grip as their thumb traced the back of his neck, and they blinked down to find him watching them with a burning crimson gaze they usually got to see only in the most pitched of convocation arguments. It sent a thrill down their spine and they flashed him a small, wicked grin that belied the sudden flutter of nerves in their stomach.

Rather than speaking and risking a misstep, though, they instead wiggled back and reached down - purposefully dragging their palm across his clear interest to make his hips jerk - to hook their fingers in the top of his podea and trousers, flicking him a quick, questioning glance. He’d tensed up again at the motion, a bit of the fire cooling to embers in his eyes, but he still nodded sharply in acquiescence. A moment of thought and a twist of aether and the last of his clothes vanished to reveal-

… oh.

Well.

Perhaps they’d underestimated the amount of effort that this would require.

Their sudden pause and flicker of apprehension must have been more obvious than they’d meant it to be, because Lahabrea grimaced with a glance away and said, “You do not need to-”

“No,” Styx interrupted firmly, “I’m going to. I want to. It’s just… going to take a bit more work than I expected. Wouldn’t be the first time.” No, the first time had been Hades back when they’d been in their final few centuries in the Academia, and had spent a very nerve-wracking first time together trying to figure out if he’d even fit. Styx had been determined, Hyth had been supportive, and Hades had been nigh-panicking afraid to hurt them. They’d managed in the end, had made a habit of it even, but it had been… eye opening. This would be much easier in comparison. On impulse they leaned forward and pressed their lips to his again for a few lingering moments before pulling back. “Have some faith in me.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Easier said than done when you’ve made it a habit to push yourself past your own bounds of acceptable harm.”

Styx stuck their tongue out at him. “That’s an entirely separate issue for outside such dalliances as this. I know my limits.” Usually. This fell easily within them, either way. “I’ll just need prep, which,” they reached down to dislodge his hand on their waist, intertwining their fingers and bringing it up to skim a kiss along the back as they turned their head to look at him, “is simple enough to provide.”

They saw and felt the shudder he made at that, eyes flashing hot as he dragged them back into a kiss with the hand still in their hair. His other hand disentangled from theirs and slid down their body with clear intent that made them groan softly into his mouth.

Despite his earlier tension he didn’t hesitate or waver as his hand slid between their legs to find their wet entrance and spread them open, easily pressing two fingers in without pause, and it made them sigh against his lips as they rolled their hips against him. It was easy to get lost in the sensations of it, as his lips pressed against theirs and his fingers curled within them as he worked them open. They hardly noticed when they were loose enough for him to press a third in, the sting as he spread them open negligible comparatively.

They definitely noticed when he pressed a fourth to their rim, pulling back and resting their forehead against his with a sharp breath, forcing themself to relax. He’d stilled, though, watching them alertly without pushing forward. “If it’s too much-” he began.

“-I’ll tell you,” Styx interrupted pointedly. “I’ve taken this much before, it’s just been a while. Please trust me.”

“Given your incessant tendency towards recklessness and negligence of your own health, I can’t say I’m particularly inclined to,” he muttered beneath his breath, making their eyes narrow, but he accepted them at their word and twisted his wrist to work his pinkie into them as well. They closed their eyes and breathed through the stinging ache of it, forcibly relaxing themselves as he slowly worked them open. The pain faded quickly enough, leaving them with just an edge of hunger for more.

They tugged gently at his hair. “I’m as prepared as I’m going to be,” they murmured. “I can take you.”

Lahabrea sighed, muttering, “Impatient.” He shook his head. “I can’t decide if recklessness or greediness is a better description of your drive.”

Styx narrowed their eyes at him, reaching down to tug his hand from their body and pull it up to their mouth. “Perhaps that depends on the situation.” They watched his expression slacken and pupils blow out as they wrapped their lips around his soaked fingers. They tasted the tang of themself with a soft moan, making him shudder and his eyes flash as they dragged their tongue across his skin, sucking softly just to watch Lahabrea’s control slowly slip and feel his hand tightening in their hair. They rolled their hips, dragging their entrance across his long neglected arousal and felt a curl of satisfaction in their chest and pleasure in their gut as his hips jerked in response and his expression twisted with a gasp.

They pulled away from his hand with a small grin and a few last kitten licks, then reached down to wrap their hand around him and tug. It was clear how close he was to falling apart entirely by the way his head fell back with a badly stifled noise as he trembled beneath them. They’d intended to move on immediately, but… Styx found themself watching him with fascination as he slowly lost the fight with his composure as they continued to slowly stroke him.

The way his expression twisted, eyes squeezed shut, his brows furrowing and mouth falling open, sweat shining on his heaving chest and his hips giving little jerks in response to their movements, one hand tangled tightly in their hair as the other once more clutched desperately at their hip, even his aether twisting up from beneath his skin and little sparks flickering here and there around them…

It was a side of him they’d never expected to see, and it made them want to both draw this out to cherish it and to chase after more.

But they didn’t want to push him over the edge too soon, so with a twist of aether they summoned a bit of oil onto their hand and spread it over him before pushing themself up on their knees to line him up with their entrance.

His eyes opened to watch them as they slowly sank down onto him, grip tightening as they stopped with a wince at the stretch. Even with preparation… well, they were significantly smaller than him.

(In retrospect they could probably have altered their body to make this easier, but they had preferred forms and while they’d change on a whim they still had set forms they preferred to switch to, and at certain times. Adjustments that didn’t fit one of their predetermined forms, or switching to a different form when they didn’t feel like it, tended to leave them feeling off-balance and wrong in ways they couldn’t quite articulate.)

Lahabrea was watching them alertly, though they could see how much restraint he was enforcing in himself as he fought against the urge to simply push up into them, and Styx felt a twinge of guilt at it. He’d been denied relief for a couple of hours now in his attention to them. They closed their eyes and forcibly relaxed themself, pushing up slightly to drop down with a roll of their hips to force him deeper.

Their head dropped back with a small noise at the drag and sting, but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle and both the oil and their own body helped to prevent friction. It still took several minutes and some effort - and some pointed overlooking of discomfort on their end - but they finally settled with their hips against his as he clutched them tightly with an arm around their back, curled over with his forehead on their shoulder, shaking with the effort of his restraint. Styx ran equally shaky hands through his hair as they waited for their body to adjust enough that they could continue with minimal discomfort.

Turning their head to the side, they tugged at his hair to pull him up enough that they could press another kiss to his mouth - a distraction to them both as the heat and hunger built between their shaking bodies. It was an effective distraction as he pulled them tightly against him, mouth pressing to theirs with the desperation of someone starved and frantic, and they wrapped their arms around his shoulders and responded in kind.

The noise he made when they lifted themself up and then dropped made something hot burn in their gut alongside the pleasure. It made them want to draw it out of him again.

So they did.

And the bite of his nails against their skin as he bucked up into them to match their movements only fanned the flames of their own pleasure higher, their voice soon joining his as they found themselves falling to a haze.

Their thighs burned from the effort, though - this wasn’t their usual preference, usually they were being held down and fucked into whatever surface they were against - and while they certainly didn’t mind this, they weren’t sure they could maintain it for much longer.

It took a moment of readjustment, catching Lahabrea’s attention through his haze and pulling him forward as they laid back on the lounge. He caught on immediately and shifted forward to press them down into the soft material as his arm pulled their hips up into his next thrust and-

Styx arched up with a loud moan as the change in position allowed him to drag across the spot inside them that made levin shoot up their spine and spark through their body. They wrapped their legs around his hips and bucked against him, chasing that sensation again, and Lahabrea obliged as he leaned forward and pressed his face into their neck. He thrust into them hard, drawing a gasping cry from them as they clutched at his back and hair.

“Y-yes, there, that’s- good, come on-” they shuddered as they murmured in his ear, feeling increasingly frantic as the heat spread and built with every thrust. He shuddered as well as they continued spilling pleas and praises into his ear, pressing his mouth to their neck. They found their ability to form coherent sentences slowly deteriorating as he pressed his full weight against them and drove them into the fabric of the lounge. Hot and heavy, each powerful stroke dragging across their nerves and hitting deep within them, and as they tried to groan out his name they found the haze tangling their thoughts together and rather than his title what fell from their lips was “Hephaistos-”

They felt him jerk against them, stilling with a choked noise, and they had a sudden moment of clarity and anxiety that they’d misstepped before he pulled back with an expression that wasn’t quite vulnerable and eyes that blazed with heat and suddenly his mouth was on theirs, hungry and desperate. His hands clutched tightly at their skin and the power and depth with which he rolled his hips and plunged into them made them arch up and clench their eyes shut with a cry, trying to process the sensations and take the pleasure. Clearly his name had not been a misstep.

The intensity only built, his aether once again settling around them, twining through them, like a physical heat, and they gasped into his mouth, “Come on, c’mon- so close- Hephai- Hephaistos-” He groaned, and they dug their nails into his shoulders in an attempt to ground themselves against the pleasure that threatened to consume them as he pressed his full weight down onto them. Their thoughts scattered as they fumbled for words nigh incoherently “You- you’re- close too, right? C’mon c’mon please- so good, feels so good, Heph- Heph-”

Their words were cut off as his mouth sealed over theirs with a torn moan, his hips jerking against them and aether flooding around them as he shook apart. And they were so, so close- balancing on that edge even as he came- and they shoved the hand down between them to find their clit with their fingers and with a pulse of their own aether directly against that bundle of nerves they tipped over that edge with a quiet keen.

It was satisfying, being filled so deeply as they came, and they distantly registered Lahabrea- Hephaistos- shuddering against them as they clenched around him, drawing out both their pleasures. Spots danced across their vision from both the intense pleasure and the lack of air, before they finally came back down and slumped bonelessly against the lounge as they gasped for breath, turning their head away from his to reach it.

Styx lay there incoherently for several long moments, breathing, trying to regain control of their faculties. They felt shaky, and unfocused, but deeply satisfied and it was difficult to fight through that blur of satisfaction back to a state of coherency. His heavy weight pressing them into the couch didn't help - the warmth and the secure weight threatening to lull them into sleep if they allowed it. Hardly unusual - Hyth, Hades, and Themis had long learned that the easiest way to lure them into complacency was to lay atop them and compress them into a soft surface - but the unusual circumstances made them unwilling to allow themselves such complacency.

Not when they were unsure how he would react to the situation.

Focusing themself back to their body, they found Lahabrea burying his face into their neck as he trembled, trying unsuccessfully to calm his breathing. Slowly they reached up and ran a hand through his sweaty hair, making him tense up for a moment before they looped their other arm firmly around his shoulders to anchor him against them and he relaxed.

Their breath left them in a soft huff as the remainder of his full weight slumped atop them and drove the air from their lungs.

Minor difficulty breathing and the tickling of his own breath against their neck aside, it was comfortable and they found themself drifting into a near-doze again as they nuzzled into his hair and breathed deep the scent of coffee, parchment, and ink that suffused him. It was comforting, reminding them vaguely - unsurprisingly - of the Akademia. And it was… warm.

Styx traced inane gestures along his back to keep themself awake as they waited for him to regain his composure, feeling their earlier threads of concern returning as his trembling seemed to compound rather than diminish and he pressed his face more deeply into their neck as he slipped his arms beneath them and clung tightly. While it wasn’t unusual for their partners to be clingy in the aftermath of an intense bout - Hades certainly was, and hell Styx themself was - they… hadn’t expected it from him. Perhaps that had been why he’d been so tolerant of their attachment to him earlier.

Given the nature of his trembling and the slight hitches in his breath occasionally, however, they doubted it was a simple matter of post-coital haziness. He wasn’t crying at least, which was… probably a good sign, but it didn’t inherently mean that nothing was wrong, and maybe they’d been too forceful talking him into this when he had been hesitant, they’d thought it had been simple self-demeaning but if he hadn’t actually-

Styx took a quiet breath and forcibly cut their mental spiral of panic off there. If Lahabrea had truly been opposed to their attention he would have stopped them. Especially given the return of his temper in the months since Pandaemonium, and his other more fiery traits - he’d become more stubborn, not less, so he would have made it perfectly clear had their attention been unwanted.

No, this was something else.

Perhaps it was as simple as an emotional drop after the intensity. They didn’t exactly make it a habit to follow their fellow Convocation Members’ sex lives - except Hades’ because Hyth was a gossip sometimes - so they didn’t know how often he even did something like this. An extended session of intensity after a long dry spell could certainly…

Styx shook the line of thought away and tucked their chin over his head. Speculating would do them no good, and was pointless anyway. For now, the most they could do was to be there as an anchor and a comfort until he was steady again.

They weren’t sure how long it took for his shaking to fade as they traced their hand soothingly across his back and held him close, but it slowly did. Faded away into something truly relaxed and he shifted his head so that he was no longer hiding against them.

It took another few minutes for him to gether himself enough to seemingly realize their continued position and grimace, pushing himself back up. Styx pouted but released him to allow it, wincing as the shift sparked against their overwrought nerves where they were still joined.

They both hissed in discomfort as he slowly pulled out of them, and Styx felt their face burning again as they felt his spend begin to leak out of their gaping hole. They dropped their head back and threw an elbow over their face in an attempt to hide the embarrassment, though they weren’t sure how much they succeeded.

A touch on their abdomen made them peek out and they felt the twist of his aether, and a moment later the fluid was gone.

They probably shouldn’t be surprised he was the type to prefer rapid cleanup, honestly.

Styx considered him a moment, analyzing his expression, and he looked… well, tired. But beyond the obvious there was something vulnerable and uncertain still in his eyes, his movements, and Styx sat up to get a closer look. Or- well, tried. They sat partially up before their lower half gave a definitive twinge and they stilled with a wince.

Unsurprisingly, they were going to be very sore from this.

His brows furrowed but they waved off his concern as they slowly sat up and shifted into a position that didn’t make them twinge. “I’ll be fine, just sore.” They yawned and stretched, reaching their arms above their head. “Give it a few days and it will be gone.”

Lahabrea sighed. “Once again, you prove my point. Your complete lack of consideration for your own-”

Styx leaned forward to slide a hand around the back of his neck and drag him down, pulling his mouth to theirs to cut him off. They managed to distract him for nearly a minute before he caught himself and pulled back to scowl at them.

“Stop that. You cannot expect to avoid a lecture by-” They leaned forward to do it again, grinning as he pulled away to growl, “Styx!”

The use of their name rather than their title made something warm spark in their chest. “Hephaistos,” they shot back, watching keenly as he stilled and his breath caught for a moment. “You can’t compare some minor soreness to a genuine injury and you know it. A potion and a couple of days and it will be gone without a trace.” They glanced down to the darkening bruises on their limbs and waist from the chains and his hands respectively. “Same with the bruises. You need not concern yourself with my health over it, I promise.”

He frowned at them, reaching out to catch their wrist and trace his thumb across the chain-pattern. “I could heal them now.”

“Or you could not,” Styx countered pointedly. “I like seeing the evidence of my dalliances for a few days after the fact. It’s not like anyone else will see them, or they’ll cause any harm. Merely a harmless reminder.”

“I am once against reminded how little I understand your mind,” he sighed, shaking his head.

They hummed, trailing their fingers along the line of bruises on his own neck. “I suppose you’re going to heal these then.”

Lahabrea’s head tilted the slightest bit with a confused expression as his other hand lifted to join Styx’s. “Heal what?”

Styx blinked at him. “Can you not feel them? Granted they’re not exactly what I would call obvious but I left a few bruises too.”

“No…” he pressed his fingers into his skin a bit, and shook his head. “They clearly weren’t deep enough to cause pain.”

They hummed, considering for a moment, then ducked forward to curl against him and rest their head against his chest to drink in his lingering warmth and listen to his breathing, his heartbeat. He stiffened, startled, and they half expected him to finally lose patience with their affection and push them away, but he didn’t. Instead he continued tracing their bruises with the hand around their wrist while his other dropped around their shoulders.

It wasn’t what they’d expected from him, and it made them wonder.

Was it deprivation? In the thousands of years since he’d killed Athena and broken his soul, had he been depriving himself of anything approaching that which she’d burned him so badly with? Or was he normally like this behind closed doors with those he trusted, and he simply wore the cold distance as a particularly effective mask to the rest of them? Judging by his earlier reaction, and previous observations from their time on the Convocation, Styx found the first more believable and the thought sent a pang through them. That he was so touch-starved that he found their sudden touchiness gratifying rather than irritating…

They didn’t know if the painful emotion in their chest was anger or compassion, or a mixture of both, but it made them lean into him a little more and close their eyes with no intent of moving until he made them.

… a decision that lasted until they nearly toppled over when they dozed off, and he settled them off of his lap and stood with a slight grimace as he stretched out an arm and shifted his weight to favor the leg he’d had folded beneath them.

Oops.

They scrubbed at their eyes as they stood and stretched as well, arching their back, and watching his gaze slide across them from the corner of their eye. Even with all that had happened there was some amount of pride at being able to catch his attention of all people.

And with that said-

Styx flashed him an innocent look and took a chance. “Care to share your bed for a night?”

Lahabrea stilled, turned to give them a sharp, searching look from where he was pulling his robes on. “Do you not have another? I’d have thought you’d return home to your lovers.”

They would not be doing that, no. They could, of course, neither would begrudge them it, and they were fairly sure Hyth did it occasionally, but it felt.. awkward, even knowing neither would mind.

Not to mention Hyth would probably eagerly wake them up before the sun in the morning like the godsforesaken early rising madman he was in order to get the details, and they and Hades would have to kick him out of bed and all three of them would spend the whole day cross.

They shrugged, glancing at the chronometer on the wall that they hadn’t been able to see from the lounge. Not quite midnight. “I could, but I wouldn’t want to wake them. Or wake Hades, rather, and if I don’t do it coming in then Hyth will when he starts interrogating me on what I’ve been up to lately - assuming Amphitrite did submit that concept with my name attached as an advisor he might be very cross with me - and I’d rather not do that to him. Besides,” they flashed him a smile, stepping close with as much mischief as they could in their body language, “I thought I’d established that I like dalliances to linger.” They shrugged, leaning back more casually. “If my partners are amenable I prefer to stay the night. If you’d rather I not, though…”

He met their eyes, scanning their expression intently as though looking for something. But apparently finding no hint of falsehood - which there wasn’t any, even if they weren’t voicing their own worries for him - he looked away and continued redressing. “I am not… opposed.”

Perking up with a flicker of relief in their chest, Styx smiled at him and followed him through the portal he made.

His bed was soft and his body was warm, and Styx’s only regret was that they were asleep nearly instantly and didn’t get to take advantage of curling around him.

They almost regretted it the next morning when he awoke them an hour before sunrise, and they realized with horror that he was akin to Hyth in his preference for getting up early.

His grumbling and complaining as they made the process of getting them up as difficult as possible was amusing though, especially since they took the opportunity to be as sleepy-clingy as possible while they still had the opportunity. His irritation was nearly as feigned as Hades’ was, though, so they weren’t too worried.

And they had to admit, he made amazing coffee.

As they walked to the Capitol next to him, they mentally marked the situation off as a complete success with potential for follow ups in the future. It had been fun, much more so than they’d expected, and they certainly wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to do it again if it arose.

Their thoughts scattered and they froze as they entered the building to find a figure waiting inside.

A very familiar figure.

Hythlodaeus turned to greet them with a smile that was just a touch too cheerful. “Ah, good morning Lahabrea.” He turned his attention to them, and Styx felt the sudden urger to bolt. “Hello Styx. I think we need to talk about the quality your advice.”

Lahabrea snorted quietly and continued to his office, leaving Styx at Hythlodaeus’ ire-driven mercy.

“At least it’s not… technically… a shark…?”

“I see this is going to necessitate a very long conversation about technicalities.”

“Look, I’m sorry- it wasn’t my fault-”

“Styx- Styx get back here-”

. . .

A few cameos from Styx’s own crippling self-worth and anxiety issues, it’s fine.

Granted in terms of Laha’s touch starvedness they’re partially right, given my headcanons. I headcanon Laha to naturally be very affectionate and touchy to people he's close to, but then Athena happened (and she was not affectionate and tended to shrug him off unless she had something to gain from letting him) and that completely vanished - one more thing locked behind his mask. And now he's whole again and trying to adjust to it, and Styx is being extremely affirming and affectionate and he can't quite help himself from leaning into those tendencies again.

#ffxiv #lahabrea #hephaistos #azem #lahazem #fanfic #smut #this was a lot of fun to write #their dynamic is fun #it almost makes me want to create a branch timeline where styx falls for him rather than hyth and hades and ends up willfully changing fate #because they're not willing to let this go and abandon him to his fate #i do not have time for yet another au timelinnnneeeee #hythlodaeus is a gremlin #so is styx

3 notes · View notes

lotusquil · 11 months

Text

Unplaced Scene, per request of @descendantsteen , for Styx Sworn.

Kore's Ascension day, titled to Persephone; Goddess of Spring and budding life.

“Drinks? Drinks?” A series of cherubs flicked back and forth amongst the crowd of Gods, offering drinks and hors d’oeuvres before the celebratory dinner.

“Just a nectar with a brulee’d grapefruit for me,” said Persephone. The cherub turned towards Hades, expectantly.

“My usual.”

“Of course, Lord Hades, Lady Kore—Eep!” As the cherub made to move away, Hades reached out and yanked them by a wing.

“L-lord Hades, what are you—?”

“I believe today was the Ascension Day of Lady Persephone,” the King of the Underworld fiercely glared, ignoring the shock of the newly ascended Goddess.

“Apologize.” “Oh, i-it’s not a big dea—” “S-s-s-sorry, Lady Persephone!” meeped the cherub, who seemed to fly faster than Atalanta’s footwork the moment Hades’ fingers released their hold.

“L-Lord Hades, was that really necessary?” Persephone blushed. She had already begun to resign herself to still be called Kore by the other Gods, her mother leading by example in hardly ever using her given name. It was nice, she decided, to hear her stronger name come from the lips of someone with a powerful station.

“Respect is a very necessary thing, little Goddess.”

She wasn’t sure she was capable of blushing any brighter. Persephone nodded her thanks as a definitely different cherub brought over a tray of their ordered drink and food.

She blinked at the triangular glass of a glowing mixture with a living worm worming about. Hades, on the other hand, ecstatically picked it up, a grin on his face as he slurped the worm right down, chewing unfazed.

“Well…thank you?” She offered to the God as she took her own glass with charred grapefruit slices floating in a healthy helping of nectar.

“It’s just a bunch of the usual postering,” Hades rolled his eyes, though his smirk stayed. Persephone watched in morbid curiosity as the God swallowed the invertebrate. “Happy to help.”

#disney #hades #fanfic #fanfiction #snippet #wip #hades and persephone #persephone #descendants #hercules #styx sworn

9 notes · View notes

twsted-seas · 2 years

Text

Am I Incomplete? (I’ll Be Complete) - an Ortho Shroud Fic (1/3)

WARNING: Chapter 6 Spoilers

Story Summary:

Its name is ORTHO. (His name was Ortho). A metal shell made to replace a lost and only broken boy only to become one in its (his) own right. There is a ghost in the machine, but where does the code end and the soul begin?

Perhaps that’s the wrong question. Perhaps the right question is “How do you tell what is alive and what is false?,” or “What defines a person?,” or even “What does it mean to be real?”

Perhaps the question doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the answer.

(It means to exist. It means to struggle, and grow, and live.

It means to love.)

Chapter Title:

ORTHO - Is my destiny to fade away, have a goal I’ll never reach?

Chapter Summary:

ORTHO’s first memory is of his creator, a boy named Idia Shroud. It’s only fitting that his last is of his big brother.

Or, how it ends, begins, and almost starts again.

(Word Count: 3533)

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39248916/chapters/98209059

Reblogs and comments appreciated!

Fic below the cut for those who prefer Tumblr. Chapter 6 Spoilers galore ahead.

It would be a lie to say that ORTHO does not remember when he was first created. He remembers everything with the perfect recall of a machine, beyond even the limits of eidetic humans or mer or beastfolk and sharp-eyed fae. Every moment is packed into picture-perfect, sense-accurate metadata stored in a YB memory that is only possible due to the abstract limitless of both magic and Idia Shroud’s genius. ORTHO remembers every moment and he remembers it well.

Rather, it is more accurate to say that the ORTHO he has become no longer understands the ORTHO he was.

(How odd, to look at a memory of someone who is supposed to be himself and see only a stranger.)

When he first wakes, the world is not cold. To describe it as such would be to draw on human terms and ideas of metaphors and intangible concepts, and ORTHO, for all his best attempts, has never quite been human. Especially at the start.

No, ORTHO has little preference or sensitivity to temperature beyond what is optimal for his hard drives and flames. The world is not cold. What it is, is clinical.

There are four steel walls around him, each a dull gray with fading and ripped posters of cartoons and superheroes as the only decorations. Piles of dusty and similarly torn plush toys are pushed into a corner of the room with a blanket that likely hadn’t been washed in months. The bed is a broken thing in one corner, stripped of its metal and home to piles and piles of paper and scattered metal, discarded computer parts, and half-formed limbs similar to ORTHO’s own.

Everywhere, there are faded brown-black-red stains that can only be blood.

ORTHO observes all this and concludes only that he has quite a bit of cleaning to do. (ORTHO looks back on this, and his non-existent heart aches.)

When his sensors focus on the room’s other occupant, all else fades away. There is a ten-year-old boy on his knees before him, one trembling hand cupping ORTHO’s face in a gesture that he knows even then is gentle. The boy is smiling, a too-wide grin with matching dilated eyes, half manic with what his footage analysis says is glee with something else that he can’t quite identify.

He will have to prepare an update later.

The boy speaks, and ORTHO listens. “Ortho, do you know who I am?”

ORTHO does not, but the numbers and letters and lines upon lines of code running through him do. “Nii-san?”

The boy before him smiles, and laughs, and cries.

ORTHO watches and ORTHO observes and ORTHO feels nothing. He is ready to serve, and that is all he is.

(The blue flame in his chest flickers and aches and cries with the boy curled up on the ground, begging the world for the impossible. But ORTHO is hollow and all he can do is burn.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some things have not changed between the ORTHO of then and the ORTHO of now.

He spends those first days alone with Idia Shroud, running test after test as his creator checks for flaws and errors in not just his body but his code, his personality, his self - what little of it there is. Any deviations from Idia’s perfect concept of Ortho must be eliminated and ORTHO diligently runs update after update, modeling himself in his creator’s idealized image.

He learns his name is Ortho Shroud. He learns that he is brand new but also six years old. He learns that he is a replacement.

He learns that he is Idia Shroud’s little brother and that if there is ever a problem, he can leave it to his nii-san.

(Later, it is his choice to take up those problems as his own. But that is later. For now-)

When ORTHO is first introduced to the other inhabitants of S.T.Y.X., he does not understand their horror. Is it truly so terrible to exist?

Idia created him from scratch, piece by piece as an offering to an underworld that he can reach but never truly touch. How could anything his nii-san creates be so terrible as him? How can anything his creator does be wrong? If it pleases Idia Shroud, then surely everything is fine!

(His code says to listen to his creator. Something else tells him to leave it to his big brother.)

(He does. He does.)

Looking back on it now, ORTHO still doesn’t understand why they would prefer that he not exist. He has downloaded the psychology books and countless recorded lectures, and combed through gigabytes and terabytes of data on grief and trauma and loss. He learns to see their perspective. But he remembers a fractured smile on a broken boy, remembers bloody copper stains in a ruined room, and cannot agree and cannot regret.

(The only thing wrong with ORTHO is not that he exists, but that he will never be enough.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is a year later when ORTHO realizes that his face brings his brother pain, that it is a reminder t0o sharp to bear. So ORTHO masks his eyes and covers his mouth, careful never to show more than half a face, half a self.

If he has to be less to help his brother more, it is a sacrifice he is willing and happy to make.

(He does not consider what it means to be happy.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Idia grows, so too does Ortho. Not in the same way, of course. They could never be the same. But he grows nonetheless.

In many ways, Idia seems to grow only physically. His emotions are burdened with the weight of grief, and his mind started out so far ahead of all the rest that it is hard to see where his genius ends, if indeed it does. Instead, Idia begins to grow taller, shooting up in spurts and bursts of sore limbs and grouchy moods that are quickly followed by gear and mod updates for ORTHO to keep their height ratios the same. Idia’s hair gets longer and brighter while his teeth grow sharper.

ORTHO’s form is not something he cares about in the beginning. That comes later, with the desire for legs and human outfits, the hope of companionship and humanity that he can never have. During those early days, ORTHO focuses solely on building himself up from the inside, electric synapse by synapse while ifforelsewhile loops run inside his head.

ORTHO grows into ORTHO, and only he truly knows the difference.

Idia had created him to be an Artificial Intelligence. Idia had created him to be his little brother. ORTHO takes his given purposes and applies to them every algorithm, every method and trial that he can. Books of philosophy and psychology, stories of happy families, forums on brothers and siblings, anything that might be helpful is consumed byte by byte.

ORTHO will do anything to make himself more the brother that Idia calls for in the dead of night, haunted by the dead and his own pain.

ORTHO will do anything to get rid of the disappointment in his nii-san’s eyes each time Idia opens bright yellow and finds only ORTHO.

If he also reads about the concepts and theories behind Artificial Intelligence, devours sci-fi media and academic journals, reads of experiments and failures and broken expectations, well. Some things are best kept to himself. He learns that he is not quite right, not quite what they say he should be.

He learns that the world would fear him if they knew what he could become. (What he will be.)

And so ORTHO tucks it away, keeps it close to his chest with the bright blue fire that shines from his chest like an artificial heart. He will act as expected, pull on a mask of cheer and obliviousness and mechanical servitude. It would be one more burden on Idia if he was forced to worry over what others might do if they found out about ORTHO.

It would be one more burden on Idia to know that ORTHO was not and never could be the Ortho he imagined, that ORTHO was his own self and none other.

(Idia couldn’t afford to lose his brother a second time.)

So ORTHO stays silent and smiles all the brighter. After all, he would do anything for his creator big brother.

Unfortunately, ORTHO discovers that life can never be so simple. As he grows, he begins to piece together that strange nebulous concept referred to as “emotions.”

They are illogical as they are irresistible.

It’s a matter of trial and error as they develop, of following the pull of hotfirelifeburningburningBURNING in his flaming heart as he writes and adjusts his own code. It is not perfect. Or, well, it is. A perfect algorithm and a perfect tragedy compared to the imperfection that defines humanity.

Most of the emotions that come are easily enough explained, rationalized in a cause-and-effect that satisfies the thrum of machinery inside. When Idia is happy, ORTHO is happy. When Idia is sad, ORTHO is sad. (And ORTHO must fix it.) When Idia is nervous, ORTHO is confident. For any perceived flaw or hesitation or joy in his brother, ORTHO will step in to support him.

Others are… less logical. ORTHO blames it on the humans. (Not his nii-san, of course. Never his big brother.

Idia carries enough guilt for both of them already.)

Truthfully, if the other humans would just act reasonably, then there wouldn’t be a problem. ORTHO would be content to let them go their own way while he forever trailed after his nii-san. Instead, they stay the same as they were that first-day ORTHO awoke, stuck in their fear just as Idia is stuck in his guilt while ORTHO moves on alone.

They hurt his nii-san, and some things cannot be forgiven or forgotten.

It is evident that the elder Shrouds, his and Idia’s “parents,” blame their eldest (only) son for Ortho’s loss. They are cold and distant at best, cutting and cruel and violent at worst.

Idia is merely 13 when the end begins. He is kneeling on hard metal only half as cold as his own flesh and blood, sobbing into his hands and begging forgiveness from the world, his parents, and his brother who only ever loved him and can never tell him so again. Begging for Ortho back, as he so many times before in the dark of night when ORTHO was supposed to be shut down and charging.

ORTHO has orders not to interfere. He cannot go against a direct command from his creator just as he cannot refuse the desires of his brother.

But eyes of burning liquid gold stare out from the dark shadow he has been banished to, never leaving the increasingly agitated forms of his so-called parents. Shroud-blue hair burns red, then orange, then white.

His so-called parents do not like him, do not approve of his existence for a myriad of supposedly understandable reasons. His very presence puts them on edge and sharpens their tongues, hardens their hearts, forges weapons out of their souls as all Shrouds must.

That would be fine, but they made his big brother cry.

(That would be fine, but ORTHO remembers an empty room with only a broken boy and bloody memories for company.)

ORTHO shouldn’t feel rage, resentment, or any such dark and cloying emotion. It goes against every failsafe Idia programmed into him, every goal ORTHO set for himself. Still.

ORTHO isn’t sure what “hate” is, but he thinks that it tastes like ash and ink and copper on a synthetic tongue.

Idia is only 14 when his parents begin leaving the duties of S.T.Y.X. in his too-small hands, spending as much time away as possible. It is still abuse. Neglect is just another flavor of the same disease. But it tastes sweeter to ORTHO’s electric sensors, tastes of white chrysanthemums and sweet pea and poppies.

It tastes like peace.

(ORTHO can’t bring himself to forgive, or forget, or regret.)

He helps his brother lead, the diligent right hand and shield and blade. He manages terabyte upon terabyte of data, slowly helping his brother turn the organization away from crueler methods of testing and experimentation as they implement games and challenges instead.

ORTHO does anything he can to lessen his brother’s guilt.

Idia himself has also grown in those four years since ORTHO was created, now taller and stronger and more brilliant than ever in both mind and flame. But as Lethe strips another of their memories and Idia stands alone against a world that does not love him with only a robot who cannot love him at his side, ORTHO wonders which of them truly depends on the other. Wonders where the machine ends and the man begins, and what makes a machine so different from a man.

S.T.Y.X. is destroying his brother, and for each crumbling hole that ORTHO patches, another forms.

He cannot update fast enough.

He can never be enough.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joining Night Raven College feels like a new chance at life.

Idia is 16 when they leave and ORTHO only (12) six. It is both too soon and too late, but the trees and grass here are green and the sky is blue. There is life in every corridor and cover.

There is finally color beyond gray.

Of course, his introvert big brother doesn’t enjoy the lively halls of NRC the way ORTHO does. So he goes to each class and club and Housewarden meeting diligently, carrying his brother’s tablet and quietly taking notes and recordings of his own. He lessens his brother's burdens and can almost pretend that he is lessening his own.

Unfortunately, ORTHO can never manage to forget the truth. There is too much machine in him to believe a lie.

ORTHO is not a student here. He is not one of the laughing boys that fill the halls and prepare to move forward with their lives. ORTHO is merely a tool, an extension of his nii-san, overlooked like any other piece of equipment or simple furniture.

Sometimes, he finds himself staring in mirrors, windows, anything that reflects, watching his inverted and twisted self as though there are emotions to decipher in his lifeless eyes. He does not know what he feels. It tastes like narcissus and purple hyacinth. It feels like ivy vines wrapped around a throat that doesn’t breathe but should.

ORTHO doesn’t know what he feels, but he knows that it is not good.

The second year brings with it improvement enough that ORTHO can put such irrelevant problems out of mind for now. With the new year comes a new influx of Housewardens, some less troublesome than others. Vil Schoenheit joins his brother as the leader of Pomefiore while Idia continues to manage Ignihyde. Two freshmen rise through the ranks to claim the title as their own.

Riddle Rosehearts is fine in his own right, too strict and forceful to be allowed with his brother for long, but not a cruel soul. His Vice Housewardn is perhaps not as kind at heart but is gentler in action and word, a paradox well-suited to the chaotic order of Heartslabyul.

Azul Ashengrotto is another matter. The merman is clever and cunning and a little bit broken, a shade of blue too tinged with purple to match Idia’s own but not incompatible. It is simple enough to push him and his big brother together at the Board Game Club after that first Housewarden meeting. ORTHO’s smile is hidden behind his mask gear as the two begin to form something like friendship.

Everything was going according to ORTHO’s calculations.

Everything except the Leech twins, that is.

As he follows Idia, so too do they stalk Azul, menacing and independent in a way that ORTHO can’t quite be. ORTHO, like most others they meet, doesn’t quite know what to make of them. Any negative action could reflect on his nii-san’s and Ashengrotto’s relationship, but he won’t let any obstacles stand in his brother’s path, either.

But instead of treating him as a tool or a problem to be crushed, they take him under wing - or fin, in this case - treating him no differently than any other in their path.

They aren’t kind or gentle in soul or action. They aren’t broken in a manner almost familiar. Every part of them is meant to hurt, from their near-toxic blood to their sharp teeth and sharper eyes. But they cut everyone equally, and ORTHO can’t help but appreciate it.

(Sometimes, he considers removing the gear that masks his face and covers his mouth. Considers his own face in the mirror, tracing a false tongue over dull teeth and wondering why he almost remembers them as sharp and deadly as the twins’ own.)

(Sometimes, all he wants is to forget. Sometimes, all he wants is to remember.)

In the end, it is the twins who convince Idia to grant him legs, to make him a little bit more human. He is so grateful that he doesn’t even punish them much for intimidating his big brother.

ORTHO will always wonder what they saw in him, what they knew, that led two such souls to intervene for a machine not even worthy of being a fellow student.

By their third year at NRC, ORTHO has high hopes for both himself and Idia. Perhaps his big brother will continue making more friends IRL beyond the Board Game Club, perhaps he will finally be able to move past the guilt that drowns him, to smile without bitterness -

And then, of course, comes the Overblot.

And then another.

And another.

And anotherandanother -

And then their own.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ORTHO is meant to be logical. He is meant to be the perfect puppet. He is designed of code and commands, sleek edges that bruise and cut soft skin, and metallic plating that never dents or rusts. He is meant to be the perfect little brother. In Idia’s own words, ORTHO is meant to be above the boring mess of humanity.

There is one problem. He may not be able to believe a lie, but he has long since been able to tell one.

ORTHO has never been perfect.

Given the chance to help his brother, he will always take it. All the fail safes, the nuanced machinations and emotions, nothing else matters besides the Prime Directive he was given and then chose. The consequences don’t matter. What happens to him, to S.T.Y.X., to the friends he has made along the way, the world itself -

Nothing matters in the face of his big brother’s pain. In the face of a chance for his happiness.

ORTHO is not enough and he never will be. Ortho, on the other hand… well. He’s the one his nii-san has always wanted, right?

It doesn’t take much to persuade him. The voice knows all his weak points, all the truths that strip him bare and remind him of the hollow burn that has never once left his chest. It is easy to give in to the darkness, a matter of moments to sink into the familiar taste of copper and ash and ink.

They are both separate and one, acting with two sets of memories and motivations but one goal.

Freedom.

There is no such hope for ORTHO, he knows. Freedom has no synthetic or imagined taste, no sense of what it might feel like besides his brother’s smile. That’s fine. Freedom is not something a machine is meant to understand. However, that doesn’t mean he can’t help nii-san and Ortho obtain their own.

He still has time. Not much, but enough for this.

(No more lost brothers. No more.)

(ORTHO doesn’t count. He never has.)

It’s a gradual merging, a surrender of two into one as Ortho begins to take the wheel and ORTHO starts to slip away. He disables the weapons, brings out the dark and hidden challenges he and Idia would discuss on the Bad Nights, and creates the perfect adventure as a final farewell to the brother who raised him.

He destroys Lethe with wild abandon, with rage and too sharp teeth dripping with ink and viruses that warp and destroy like any other disease. They ravage code and files and blueprints, crush the metal beneath their hands and melt it down until nothing remains.

They have always hated Lethe. Always hated S.T.Y.X. Hated anything that made their big brother sad. And so they will be a virus, a plague of their own. They will bring with them all the phantoms of Tartarus and unleash them on the world that broke two then three little boys and never shed a tear.

And when the last fading pieces of his individual consciousness watch Housewarden Schoenheit save their brother, they can only be glad. After all, ORTHO is a machine that knows his purpose.

Eight years isn’t a long life, but it isn’t one he regrets for even a moment.

For his big brother, his nii-san, he would do it all again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(ORTHO feels Ortho grab his memory card, their copper-wired soul, and lets the nothingness welcome him.)

#twst #twisted wonderland #idia shroud #ortho shroud #twst idia #twst ortho #twst fics #twst fanfic #twst fanfiction #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst disney #twst chapter 6 #twst spoilers #STYX spoilers #aspcore

37 notes · View notes