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“Hades?”
“Not in—“
“Not in public, yes. This hardly counts as public, now does it?” Emet-Selch’s mutinous glare spoke volumes. “No-one is here,” Hythlodaeus continued, spreading his arms wide to frame the currently-empty main hall of the Bureau of the Architect. “No-one but ourselves, my dear Emet-Selch. My dear—“ golden eyes narrowed ever further. “Hades.”
“Cease,” Hades hissed, and yet still he did not jerk away when Hythlodaeus reached out and set two fingers atop his lips: he merely bared his teeth and went to his knees with the grace and ease of a man made for it, parting the front of his friend’s robes.
“Cease this, cease that—will you never stifle your complaining? You know, sometimes I fain begin to think you like the way I treat you.” Hytholdaeus’s hand wrapped around the length of his cock, half-hard, as he watched the venerable Emet-Selch through lidded eyes. Watched his high, pale cheekbones flush, his lips part, his pupils go dark and wide. “Poor Hades, so put-upon by the Architect. Always having to rush hither and yon at his fickle whims. Come, Emet-Selch, be kind enough to transform for me.”
“No,” Hades spat, and Hythlodaeus sneered, slapping him across the face hard enough that his mask went sideways, off-kilter over the bridge of his nose. His sharp inhale of breath was loud. “I shan’t, not here—“
“Oh, are you afraid, oh great sorcerer Emet-Selch?” Hythlodaeus’s hand upon his length had grown faster, his breath shorter in his lungs. He was slick now with anticipation, the dawning desire that firmed in him whenever his friend was obedient. “Afraid someone might see you in the empty lobby? Afraid someone might see you debasing yourself?”
“I have standards, unlike some—“
“No,” Hythlodaeus interrupted him. “You don’t have standards.” He simpered down at Hades, pretty Hades, on his knees, each word punctuated by another harsh tug on his erection, a few droplets of pre striking his friend in the face. “You have shame, and rules, and pretty little beliefs that mean nothing at all for if I tell you—“ his voice changed tone as he let all that he was seep through, his eyes that saw straight through Emet-Selch to Hades to nothing but the wisps of soul that someday would return to Eitherys, swallowed and unmade and made anew, that thing which he for now called mine and lover and Hades, “Beg for me to debase you, you will.” Hythlodaeus stroked himself harder, the sound of his hand slapping against his aching flesh and his sharp breathing loud and obscene in the empty Bureau halls.
Hythlodaeus chuckled, low and hot, and hooked the venerable Emet-Selch’s mouth open with his thumb behind his sharp teeth. “Beg, Hades. Beg me. Show me what your clever tongue knows how to do.”
It was silent but for flesh upon flesh. “Debase me,” Emet-Selch whispered, voice breaking, tongue wet and slick on the pad of his thumb. “Mark me, spend on me.” Hades lifted his face, his misaligned mask, his open mouth, his heaving breast beneath the black cloth of his robe—his plea was heartfelt and so very, very pitiful. Pretty, pretty Hades. “Own me.”
“I already do,” Hythlodaeus sighed, coming all over his red mask in thick stripes, semen spilling in cacophonous, indelicate puddles that disrupted the white arcs that crossed the forehead of Emet-Selch’s title of office, marring the perfect finish of the porcelain. “Who owns you, Emet-Selch? Who owns you, Hades?”
Hades prayed his name like the skies themselves rung with it, and prostrated himself, obedient in his worship, for shame.