Prifma doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that Instrumenta is wearing undergarments, or their garish newspaper-print pattern.
Most fathers would worry at the sight of their sons passed out next to a sack on the floor. But, if you fall asleep on the floor of Prifma’s atelier, you are subjecting yourself to fashion critique.
Instrumenta knows this.
Prifma crouches down and stares at his crotch, picking at the waistband of his briefs. They’re a fad—Prifma is starting to reach that age where he eyes new things with skepticism—but they’re well constructed. Whoever made them made sure to keep the hems clean and the fraying minimal.
For a second, Prifma regrets not getting involved in this new business.
Instrumenta’s eyes flicker open. Prifma pulls his hand away. The demon sits up and glances around the atelier, like he’s never seen it before.
“Care to explain?”
Prifma gestures to his new underpants. Instrumenta looks down at them.
“I wanted a pattern that was ‘red’ all over, but I know you don’t like red.”
Prifma blinks.
“I meant ‘why do you have these?’”
“Oh. Everyone said that ‘having my cock and balls out’ was distracting the god-eaters, but you haven’t made any clothes for me yet.”
Right. Prifma has been putting that off.
“I need some soonish. They’ve having a ceremony for the opening of Death Street, but there’s no God of Death except me, I guess?”
This is very short notice, but Prifma does have a design he could work with. He stands up and grabs the appropriate sketchbook from the shelf by his worktable.
“I feel like Triticum would be a better candidate for that,” he says, flipping to the appropriate page.
“I thought the same, but Triticum has his hands full with farming.”
Prifma finds the sketch he wants and lays his sketchbook flat on the worktable. He shucks off his favorite white coat and hangs it on a wall hook, ties the front of his hair back into a bun, and puts on the monocle he has hidden in one of the cups of his gown.
The only design he ever made for Instrumenta was very red, but he could keep it together long enough to finish it.
“You don’t have to use red,” Instrumenta says from behind him.
Prifma clears his throat, stifling a scream, and takes a calming breath.
“This is the second time you’ve insisted that I have some aversion to the color red. Is there a basis for that?”
“Well,” Instrumenta starts, “Triticum told me about when you met the god-eaters, and there’s that time I leveled Domum, and that time I hit Divitiae on the head with a sofa—“
“It was a divan.”
“—and you wince every time I draw blood while sparring in the courtyard, and…a lot of these are my fault, aren’t they?”
Prifma sighs. He wasn’t fond of red like he used to be, that was true, but—
Instrumenta brightens up before Prifma can respond and walks back to the sack he left on the floor.
“I brought a gift! It’s antlers—” Instrumenta’s smile turns plastic. “—from…something I…hunted. I’m sorry.”
Prifma sighs. “Nevermind all that. Let me see what you’ve brought.”
The antlers are huge, yet Instrument manages to hold them like they weigh nothing at all. All its branches are woven together in the shape of a fan, typical of the multi-deer that roam the western forests. Prifma has always admired those creatures, and, despite the problematic origins of this particular set of antlers, Prifma has to use them for something.
Maybe he could make…a hair piece?
“A dark forest look,” he muses aloud. “You’re the only one with dark hair, so we can wrap it around the antlers…and then your seals can hang down for a…hint of red, I suppose…”
Prifma finally looks back at Instrumenta. “But a permanent headpiece like this will keep you from sleeping, won’t it?”
“Oh, I only sleep standing up,” Instrumenta says. “Like, I can’t sleep lying down?”
Prifma’s eye flicks down to Instrumenta’s new briefs, then away. His face feels warm.
“I…see.”
“Knock-knock! How’s it coming along—ugh!”
Instrumenta’s new antlers nearly slam against the wall above the door, but he manages to course-correct just in time and crab-walk into the atelier unharmed.
Prifma sets down his charcoal pen. “Are they too unwieldy?”
“No, no. I already bump into things, I just keep forgetting that I’m even taller now. How’s my outfit coming?”
Prifma points to the far wall where the completed sketch and accompanying concept board are hanging. Instrumenta eagerly bounds over, pressing his face against it like he’ll be able to absorb more information if it’s physically touching his skin. A moment later, he gasps.
“I’m getting pants?!”
Prifma grunts and makes a few corrections to the design in front of him.
“All apocalypse demons and demons of a similar caliber are given pants. You’re all too active for kalasiris.”
He smiles, satisfied with the design as it is, then sets down his charcoal and joins Instrumenta in front of the wall.
“I’m still missing a few material samples, but I wanted the design to highlight the progress we’ve made as a community. Can you guess—“
“Wool and leather, right?”
Instrumenta’s eyes are beaming. Prifma chuckles.
“Exactly. Deliciae’s knowledge of animal husbandry is surprisingly deep for someone who was just born, and how could I possibly forget your precious contributions?”
Instrumenta glances off. Prifma assumes he’s just being shy, until—
“What do you say about adding shoes?” he ventured.
Prifma raises an eyebrow.
“Shoes?”
“Yeah!”
“Absolutely not.” Prifma turns back to his work table. “Forest gods do not wear shoes. Now, do you happen to have any leather—“
Something disturbs the air behind him. Prifma’s hand darts back, catching Instrumenta’s wrist in his. His fingers are only a few millimeters away from the zipper of his gown.
“Tell me, my sweet firstborn, what color is that zipper?”
“…Green.”
“With?”
“…a distinct purple-gold color-shift.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s for Divitiae only.”
“Exactly.”
Prifma releases Instrumenta’s hand and turns to face him.
“I don’t recall you being so handsy.”
“Oh. Well, the waist on the sketch seemed kind of small, and then I glanced at you, and it looked kinda similar so…“
“You thought you’d undress me in the middle of my own atelier?”
Instrumenta shrinks into himself. Prifma smiles and folds his arms over his chest.
“The sketch is a bit of an exaggeration. However—”
Prifma takes Instrumenta’s hand and runs it over his abdomen. The demon’s face wrinkles up in confusion.
“Is that boning?”
“It’s a corset. Artem and Iustitia wear them as well, but I started the trend.”
Instrumenta puts his hands around Prifma’s waist. He had been wearing corsets for quite a while, but he never realized how small it was, how big Instrumenta’s hands were, until this moment.
His face feels hot.
“Why?”
“Hmm?”
Prifma’s face blazes even hotter, like Instrumenta just caught him doing something he shouldn’t.
“Why wear a corset?” Instrumenta says again.
“If I recall correctly, Artem likes the way it looks, Iustitia finds the pressure calming, and I use mine for my scoliosis.”
“You have scoliosis?”
Prifma shrugs. He knew this topic would come up eventually.
“I was made to feel insecure about it when I was younger, but, you’re right, you can barely tell even when I’m not wearing it. The old gods were always so…”
Prifma gestures vaguely as he searches for the right word, pausing when he sees the horrified expression on Instrumenta’s face. He didn’t think the demon would connect the dots so quickly.
“They exiled you for that?”
“They tried. Obviously, it didn’t hold up, so they had to make another flaw.”
Prifma winks, but he only has one eye. Instrumenta, who had always been soft for a demon, looks like he’s about to cry. Prifma pulls him into a hug.
“There’s no need to shed tears for me now. I have a loving family, devoted patrons, and a whole pantheon to myself. See, even if you don’t have shoes like the apocalypse demons you admire so much, you can still overcome them.”
Instrumenta steps away, breaking their embrace. “How did you know?”
“If your antlers had hit the wall when you came in, then something would have fallen out, right?” Prifma reaches up and pulls out the stick of charcoal Instrumenta had hidden in his antlers. “Normally, you don’t care about running into walls. You ran into five yesterday.”
Instrumenta laughs nervously.
“That one eye of yours is very sharp.”
“Thank you. You’re still getting punished.”
Instrumenta’s posture slumps.
The outfit is done, and it is perfect. It’s simple yet elegant. It does so little but it speaks volumes. The antlers are grand and imposing, and the thin red talismans hang down just so. Instrumenta’s silhouette looks just like Prifma wants it to. And that includes the garments themselves. The sweater is perfectly soft and plush, and Instrumenta had forgone the corset, so Prifma cropped it to show a hint of his toned midriff. The pants are fitted, smooth, and slick, and Instrumenta’s legs look like they’re miles long. Even his ass looks better than it already did.
Prifma isn’t sure he can improve upon perfection, and he’s beyond satisfied watching Instrumenta twist and turn in front of the standing mirror.
Instrumenta’s nose crinkles.
“It feels like it’s missing something.”
Prifma would feel less hurt if Instrumenta just shot him with one of his guns.
“Is it now?”
Instrumenta wheels around, hands raised in a placating gesture.
“It’s not bad, it’s just…I know you don’t like red, but it’s a lot of black, isn’t it? And I already have dark skin, so I kind of want something that pops.”
Prifma looks down at himself, at his own dark skin and his own black gown.
“Uh, I mean—“
Prifma raises a hand. This is a commission after all, and the client’s preferences must always be taken into account.
Plus, Instrumenta has a point. He had changed. He’s no longer the force of nature that came to raze Domum. In fact, he’s one of the most beloved members of the pantheon after Iustitia and Deliciae. This design is simple and elegant, but it doesn’t effectively communicate how cheerful the demon is.
The pants are impeccable, but maybe the sweater could be tweaked?
Getting the wool to be just right had been an ordeal. But Prifma needs to show off the textile industry somehow. If he combines the wool with a complex patter, that could still be impressive, and it would add a pop of color. He could even make it a plaid pattern, or Fair Isle to communicate that outdoorsy theme, but then the issue is keeping the sweater from being too bulky in the heat…Maybe he should opt for processing the wool, actually making it into a new material like f…flannel?
“What’s ‘flannel’?” Instrumenta asks.
“I don’t know. All the more reason for us to find out.”
Prifma grabs his nearby sketchbook and starts jotting down his thoughts, his mind running a mile a minute. Instrumenta creeps over and watches over his shoulder for a bit.
“Can I add something?”
“Of course, dear.”
Prifma is completely focused until he hears the familiar sound of antlers knocking together.
“I scavenged these, I promise,” Instrumenta says, laying them out on the work table.
They’re all very small and very clean, but Prifma has no interest in adding anything else to that gorgeous headpiece.
“What if we made one of these into a neck plate?”
Instrumenta grabs one and holds it up to himself with bright eyes. Prifma sighs.
“That seems dangerous.”
“We can put it on a chain so it hangs lower.”
“Yes, dear, but all the pointy bits don’t scream ‘approachable’, do they?”
Prifma gently pries the little antler out of the demon’s hands and sets it back on the table.
“I think a nice flannel—er—garment is your best option.”
Instrumenta pouts. “Why can’t I have both?”
“Because both would look tacky and cluttered.”
Instrumenta pouts even harder, looking like someone just kicked his birthday cake over.
“But both look cool, and I wanna look cool for the ceremony. Please can I have both?”
Prifma should say no. He has his own principles of design to abide by. He shouldn’t let his son leave the atelier looking like a fool.
Instrumenta steps forward, gently placing his big hands on Prifma’s little waist and looking deep into his eye.
Prifma turns away, face hot. He still remembers the innocent demon who traveled halfway around the world with him. The young Adonis who didn’t know what he was doing every time he smiled. The demon had grown up fast and knew full well what a little proximity could get him.
“Please, Prifma?”
This is how Prifma spends all night painting the perfect gold antler necklace, and all week making the perfect plaid flannel shirt.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the ceremony?”
Instrumenta ignores the question. The god-eaters celebrating outside had covered him in flower garlands, and taking them off is proving to be a rather difficult puzzle. Prifma sets down his charcoal and watches for a bit, then sighs and goes over to help him.
Instrumenta jumps like he didn’t realize Prifma was in his own atelier.
“Decided to take off early?” Prifma asks again, carefully un-stringing the garlands from Instrumenta’s antlers. “I thought you liked parties.”
“I also like when you’re at them.” Now that the garlands are loose enough, Instrumenta shakes himself free. “I know want us to take control and be the new gods, but people like seeing you too…I like seeing you.”
“How sweet.” Prifma herds Instrumenta over to the atelier’s little sitting area. “Is that meant to be a confession?”
Instrumenta narrows his eyes. Prifma can’t say he’s comfortable with the feeling of being watched, but he calmly pours them both a cup of tea and serves Instrumenta some savory tea snacks on a plate.
“You would’ve gone to the ceremony eventually,” he says.
Prifma removes his monocle and takes a seat. “Naturally. Some of us are swamped with work and don’t have enough adherents to lighten the load.”
Instrumenta glares.
“And then you would’ve gone behind the Sanctarium, wouldn’t you?”
Finally, it clicks.
“Is this an accusation?” Prifma asks with a smile.
Instrumenta pouts and glances off. Prifma laughs.
“Are you jealous?”
“I’m still a demon,” Instrumenta says, but it lacks any sort of bite.
Prifma stands up and places his hands on Instrumenta’s knees, confidently spreading his legs apart.
“Instrumenta, you are the strongest and most kind-hearted of my children, but you are not the fastest on the uptake.”
Prifma drops to his knees and pulls off his eye patch.
Instrumenta gasps, then gasps again a moment later as the head of his cock breaches Prifma’s empty eye socket.
Prifma shudders.
He knew Instrumenta was rather well-endowed—he had watched him prance around town naked up until he grew the nerve to buy those terrible shorts—but it’s another thing entirely to feel it.
Prifma makes a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a hungry moan and a chuckle as he takes more of Instrumenta’s cock.
Instrumenta squirms beneath him.
It must have felt good, having a nice tight channel squeezing around him, Prifma’s body adapting to accommodate the impossibilities of such an obscene act. Even the god-eaters who asked for it still couldn’t help but be put off, still squirming away even as they thrust their hips for more.
And that’s why Prifma loved it.
The initial flinch when the cock head grazed his lashes, the rush of shame and disgust and arousal that came with penetration, and the pressure of his socket being spread open and dug deeper.
The sensation goes straight to his cock and he shudders again, easily calling to mind the memory of his first time doing this. It was his own biggest sin as a god, though it occurred well before their collective fall from grace. He was still reeling from his exile, packing his things in a daze while blood ran down his cheek. There was a mortal in his room, an intrusive thought at the front of his mind, and—
Prifma moans softly, just barely hearing Instrumenta’s question.
“Why?”
“Why do I do this? Feels good—ah. The old gods will never get to experience it.”
“No, I mean—” Instrumenta holds back a grunt and tries to keep his hips still. “—just make a new eye?”
Prifma smiles and winks around Instrumenta’s cock.
Instrumenta gasps, his hips stuttering as he grips the chair with ashen knuckles.
Prifma pulls off a moment later, his grin big and friendly as he holds his socket open and lets Instrumenta see the damage. The channel is coated in cum, and what can’t fit in his socket runs down his cheek in thick, white globs.
Instrumenta stares resolutely at his cold tea and clumsily shoves a napkin into Prifma’s hands. Prifma wipes his face, then shuts his cum-filled eye socket and puts on his eye patch again. With a still blissful grin, he gets to his feet and dusts off his gown.
“Now, I heard my very special first-born had a new district opened in his honor. How about you show me around this evening?”
Prifma extends his hand.
Instrumenta takes it, of course, though he’s still too embarrassed to look Prifma in either of his eyes.