Work Text:
The first feast down in Hades has been pretty interesting. Dionysus has stopped trying not to be impressed; with the food, the smoothness of the clever lie Persephone used to patch things up, the frankly lush state of her garden. It's been just as interesting, too, watching the things that aren't going quite as well: the awkward, jagged edges of Hades' social graces, and the conspicuously civil but clearly strained relationship Hades has with Dio's own father. All useful, all bits of knowledge he might be able to twist to his advantage against someone, later.
As far as he's concerned, though, the most interesting thing has been the way the underworld's young prince holds his liquor. Or doesn't, more to the point.
It's Dio's whole deal, drunkenness, how it works its magic. He knows intimately the warm buzz wine and ambrosia send coursing through the blood, how intoxication turns mortals and gods alike fuzzy and uninhibited and tractable. He's seen just about every different manifestation of drunkenness, from belligerence to foolishness to lustful transgression.
So he can pick exactly how it takes Zagreus. Dionysus watches him for it, from the moment he first clocks him at the feast, sitting straight-backed and proud at the end of the table near his parents; takes note of the slow droop of his posture and the obvious pink flush on his pale, pale skin as he sinks further into his cups. The little grin which blooms on his face. The heavy, sensual set of his eyes.
Dionysus is well-behaved, for him, though he has no doubt his uncle will complain about him after he leaves; he drinks too much and jokes too loud and winks too obviously, but none of it is egregious enough to make him any worse than a cheerful troublemaker. It wouldn't do to show his hand this early.
They move past the part of the event structured for feasting. It's here where, at home, Dionysus would ordinarily retire to his own feast in his own rooms and let the night spiral into all his favourite kinds of excess. There's no room for that, down here, so instead he makes an excuse about going for a turn around the gardens of the House.
No-one looks at him twice; being the god of abundance gives him plenty of reason.
As he's leaving the feast he makes a point to drop past Zagreus, like he's just noticed he's there. The prince is deep in conversation with Hermes (at least as far as it's possible for a slightly drunk, relatively young god to keep up with a conversation with Hermes, which isn't that far), and he doesn't do anything so crude as interrupt; just claps Zagreus on the shoulder, says "great party, man, one for the records."
It's only the briefest contact, but it's enough; he uses it to push his senses out, coast careful and clever into the golden glow of the ambrosia inside the prince's blood.
Oh, oh, oh. It's so easy - he's open-hearted in a way that none of the Olympians have been for an age, maybe ever. It's not as though he hasn't been ill-treated, of course, but from what Dionysus has seen and otherwise managed to gather, Hades' cruelty has a refreshing directness to it rather than the disingenuous, intermittent, weaponised affections of Zeus. Zagreus doesn't sense him; doesn't even know how, has never experienced the ruthlessness of manipulative Olympian politicking. It's so simple that he risks more than he usually would.
He'd been intending to plant a seed of the idea in Zagreus' gut in the hopes it would bloom and turn to his favour. As it is, Dionysus doesn't bother trying to be subtle; plants the idea whole, trusts Zagreus' own inexperience and the soak of alcohol in him to hide the strange edges of it, the foreign origins of the thought that he might be able to sense, sober. He gives the drunkenness a push, too, taking Zagreus just a few steps further away from his own judgment.
And then Dionysus leaves. He takes himself off for a tour of the gardens, ostensibly a precursor to going home. He'll admit to curiosity about this grim underground realm, and to a genuine interest in what his cousin might have managed to coax into growing this far away from the sun of her youth.
It is lush, in an alien way; there are a series of unfamiliar flowering plants creating their own eerie blue light, waving gently in a subterranean breeze as he walks among them. He finds a darker part of the garden; the bioluminescence isn't as strong, here, and there's a thick weave of vines punctuating the trees, making it harder to keep the cheerful yellow light of the feasting table within sight. The earth is damp, and the scent of the Styx permeates the air; brackish, too much like blood. It's unsettling, but that suits his mood.
It takes less time than Dionysus expects. He hears Zagreus before the prince makes it to his hidden alcove, and as Dio swings out to greet him Zagreus stumbles, landing full-bodily against him. Dio catches him, says, "Hey, there, Zag, be careful of yourself!" at the same time as he runs a flat palm down Zagreus' back, skates it over his ass.
Here is where, Dionysus knows, any of his nobler siblings might experience a hint of a guilty conscience. He just feels anticipation, coiling tight in his gut. He lets the hand hovering above Zagreus' ass make contact again, draws it firmly upward towards the base of his neck. It's still plausibly deniable, probably; he's not willing to risk a second, full incursion in case the prince wises up but he lets his awareness brush gently up against Zag's and feels only the smooth honeyed pleasure of intoxication, and a fascination for Dio himself. He sees himself briefly through Zag's eyes; he's so much bigger, relaxed and powerful and confident, his voice vibrating, heady, along Zag's bones.
Well, isn't that something.
Dionysus lets his voice sink low, thick. "What are you doing out here, man?"
Zag blinks at him, owlish. "I wanted to come say hi," he says, open. "I didn't get to talk to you yet."
It's unbelievable, really, how sweet he is. The heat in Dio's blood curls higher. "Oh yeah? Wanted to reminisce? You know I'm a bad influence." He winks and lets a bottle manifest in his hand. It's not strong, this. He doesn't want to tip things too far, and unless he's wrong - which he doesn't think he is - Zagreus is just about at the perfect point; not so far gone he'll be sloppy or unresponsive but drunk enough to do anything Dio suggests. The thought makes his cock stir with interest.
Zagreus is chuckling, a little rueful. "I'm afraid I don't need any more," he admits, with enough self-awareness to make Dio reassess his approach, just slightly. He's going to have to make Zagreus come to him.
"Suit yourself," he says, and pours himself two fingers into a cup which is just - there, then waves the rest away. He sips at it and gazes at Zag over the edge of it. "Shall we take a stroll?"
Zagreus obediently falls into step when Dionysus begins to make his way further from the noise of the feast, the gardens muffling the sound. Dio starts up a patter, the social niceties, meaningless but comforting. He feels Zagreus relaxing into the mood, and then he relaxes even more into Dio's side - just briefly, before he rights himself.
Dio's mouth waters; he knows he has him. "Cute," he says out loud, and slings an arm around Zag's shoulders. The best social lies are the ones which are mostly true. "You really are feeling it, hey man?"
Zagreus makes a wordless noise of assent, and then laughs, just a little. "My father… this isn't a House of feasting."
"Wasn't," Dio corrects. "Plenty of opportunity now you're not cut off from civilisation. And hey, you've always got a return favour from us." He pauses, and then winks. "Me, in particular."
Zagreus laughs again, rubbing the back of his neck, self-conscious. "I don't know if… yours, in particular, I'm ready for."
Oh, how delicious; he's offering himself up on a gilt platter, and Dio has never been someone to refuse a treat presented with such guileless charm. Dionysus briefly considers playing dumb, but while Zagreus is clearly naive when it comes to Olympian games, he's never given the impression of stupidity, and Dio's not prepared to risk him slipping the line this late in the piece.
"Drinking's all right but other forms of indulgence are out, is it?" He laughs, lets it sink syrup-thick in the air. "You'll come around, man, don't worry about that."
Zagreus hesitates, and bites his lip. With a suddenness that surges up his throat, choking, Dio wants to tear him to pieces; thinks about digging his hands inside that narrow, fragile ribcage; how the veins and arteries would look, filigree unfurling; imagines the taste, the throb of his blood, how he'd writhe if Dionysus licked a sluggish line up an exposed carotid, and the thin sound of his breathing going sharp and short and wild if he came with Dio's teeth on his throat.
He'll get there in time. They always do.
"You okay, there, Zag?" he asks; doesn't bother camouflaging the amusement he feels.
"I, uh." Zagreus licks his lips, hesitates, and a brief flash of impatience grips Dionysus; before he can think better of it he reaches out again, nudges Zag's mind in the right direction.
For a second he thinks he's overdone it; the young prince frowns, shakes his head like a dog, and Dio is wracking his brains for a quick excuse and a withdrawal; but then Zagreus' face softens and a little grin, silly with drink, spreads over his face. "Would you- show me?"
Dio revels in the sweetness of the moment, of the victory; no less enjoyable for the ease of it. "Well now," he says, grinning back, showing teeth. "I can do that."
He pulls Zagreus into another closely-grown copse of vines and trees and glowing flowers. The noise of the feast is the barest, distant hum by now. The cold blue light of the flowers makes the prince's skin even paler, luminous, and Dionysus leans in to kiss him.
Zagreus' mouth opens underneath his easily. He's not inexperienced - probably those two lovers of his - but Dio doesn't mind. Virginity has its own sweetness but that's not what he's about here. And the thought of laying claim to something - someone - like this? Honestly delectable.
He breaks the kiss; shoves a hand into Zagreus' hair, pushing his laurel askew. The soft, warm buzz of it is gentle against Dionysus' hand as he guides Zagreus down, onto his knees.
He goes quickly, if a little clumsily, with the sort of soft, shocked eagerness that Dionysus likes; his erection thickens, and he makes a split second decision not to simply banish his clothing, but shove it to the side, instead. There's something coarse about it like this which feels good, right.
He toys with the foreskin, tugging, as Zagreus looks up at him, mouth slightly open. Dionysus smirks at him, and ungently feeds his cock to the kneeling prince.
Again, Zagreus is practised enough for it to feel good but wine-clumsy enough for the thrill of transgression to send a frisson of pleasure across Dio's skull. "There you go, man," he murmurs, husky. "You're a natural."
The prince's eyelids flutter shut, a dark sweep against the blue-white pale of his cheek, and he makes a soft noise at the back of his throat at the praise. Fuck, he's precious. The callous appetite driving Dio flares hot and tight at the base of his spine; he tips his head back for a moment, gives a grunt of pleasure, and lets himself relax like that for a long few minutes, getting his dick enthusiastically sucked by the prince of the underworld.
When he looks back down Zag is returning his gaze, unmatched eyes shining wet with the effort of taking Dio's cock in his mouth, his own cock obviously hard in his clothing and leaking wet against it. Shit, he's going to have to remember this.
Dionysus fists his hand in Zag's hair and wrenches him backwards; a gasp and a small noise of protest, but Dio ignores it, thumbs his mouth instead.
"Doing great," he says, the kind of tone used on a skittish animal, and pulls Zag to his feet with his grip in his hair. Zag slaps ineffectually at the hand on him, gasping "hey- Dio, don't-" but then he's standing and Dio's released him and backed him up against the ragged bark of these strange underworld trees, which he hits with a thud, an exhalation.
"Too much?" Dio says, idly; rests his arm against the tree above Zag's head, and drags the blunt fingernails of his other hand over the front of Zag's chiton.
"Uh," Zagreus says, but the challenge in it fires him up, against his better judgement, or what's left of it in the wake of the alcohol. "No?"
Dio wants to fuck him into a stupor. "S'what we like to hear," he says.
He pushes Zagreus against the tree. Their mismatched height is a problem until Dio lifts him and Zagreus grabs a pair of well-placed branches, his lean, wiry fighter's limbs going tight with effort as he holds himself in place.
Dio pulls oil out of the air, tips it onto himself; it's one of his favourites, this one, a tiny bit intoxicating by itself. He doesn't really bother with preparation; just pushes Zag's own clothing up around his hips, noting with approval his legs are bare underneath. Guides himself close, nudges his cock up against Zagreus' ass, presses inside, and lets gravity do the work.
Zagreus writhes. A few little flashes of power to manifest oil and extra booze are fairly likely to go unnoticed, but if the prince makes any loud noise Dio's pretty sure there'll be some sort of repercussion, so he puts a broad, flat hand over Zagreus' mouth, panting shh, shh as his dick sinks, ruthless, inside.
When Dio feels himself bottom out he bites savagely into Zag's shoulder to stop his own cry, and feels the bright bloom of blood - real blood, red and hot - on his tongue.
There's no point to subtlety now; Dionysus turns all his focus to fucking, to the liquid roll of his hips and the hot, clinging drag of Zagreus' hole. The prince lets him, the oil doing its work; his head lolls against the tree and he breathes shallow and fast, teeth gritted. His cock had flagged briefly when Dio first thrust; it's starting to thicken again nicely as he's fucked, Dio's own cock dragging against the place he knows is sending shocky little sparks through Zagreus' nerves.
"Can't," Zagreus grits out, and Dio sees his arms, taut and trembling, hands slipping from their grip on the branches. He clicks his tongue, disapproving, and presses forward, pinning Zagreus to the tree, leaving him no choice but to wrap his legs around Dio's middle. Zagreus' cock is pressed up against his chest, and Dio can feel the slide of pre-come smearing against his chest. The prince is a drooler, how endearing.
Dio takes pity on him. There's still some oil left on his hand; he wraps it around Zagreus with casual possessiveness and strokes.
Zag cries out, a shattered-glass noise; Dio slaps his hand back over the prince's mouth, over the lips plush where he's bitten them, and presses the edge of his hand up against Zag's nostrils.
"C'mon, man," he croons, as Zagreus thrashes, eyes going wide. Dio wonders, briefly, what would happen if the prince of the underworld died here, in his mother's garden; whether, when he surfaced, gasping, from the Styx, his cause of death would read suffocation or fucked to death by Dionysus. "Keep it down, yeah? Be cool. Trust me; I'll take care of you."
Zagreus moans against his hand, but he nods, too; when Dio withdraws his hand from Zag's mouth and wraps it back around his cock he keeps his noise to an obedient minimum, little gasps and quiet whines he cuts off before they can ring out through the gardens. It's one of Dionysus' favourite sounds; a lover dragged to orgasm against their own sensible objections.
When he feels Zag's balls draw tight and the prince's warm heels dig into his back, Dionysus tightens his grip, just enough; watches Zagreus' eyes roll back in his head and his mouth tremble with suppressed noise, streaking his own chest with come.
"Nice," Dio pants, through the lewd slap of his own thrusting. He briefly entertains the thought that it'd be a perfect finale to finish with the prince at his feet, Dio's come on his face, but the idea is too sudden, too filthy. It hits him harder than he expects and before he can get a grip on himself or manoeuvre their positions he crests his own wave, pulsing, filling his little prize with come.
Dionysus lets himself come down, breathing hard, before pulling out in one swift movement. He feels the seed he's left behind start a slow slide down Zagreus' thighs, and lets the prince drop to his feet. He lands all right, but sways briefly when he does it, looking dazed.
Dionysus allows himself the indulgence of chucking his chin, gently, with ownership. "You okay there, man?"
Zagreus swallows, the long pale line of his throat moving in the dim blue light of the garden. "I… yeah," he says, uncertain. "That was… good?"
He looks at Dio like he wants to be reassured. It heats Dio's blood again, and honestly, if he wasn't certain at least one of his siblings would kill for an excuse to throw him to the wolves, he'd go all in on the prince for a second round. He'll just have to content himself with this, for now. "You're a real peach, Zag, for sure."
"What's a peach?"
There's no reason why that should be the thing that quietens the carnal pull to take but somehow it does. Dio laughs, genuine. "Man, you really need to come visit. It's a fruit. Sweet, downy, juicy." He raises an eyebrow. "Perfect metaphor."
Zag blushes. Dionysus is absolutely planning a feast of his own; a guest of honour and a main course all in one. "I… thanks."
Dio claps him heartily on the shoulder. "You don't know how delicious you are," he says, and means it. "Let's do this again sometime."
"…okay," Zagreus says, the slight tremble in his voice firming up as he convinces himself this was his idea. "Yeah, that'd be good."
You don't know the half of it, sweet thing, Dionysus thinks, watching the soft blue light limning the prince's cheeks as he fumbles to straighten his clothes. It won't just be good; it'll be the best fucking day you've ever had.