Work Text:
“It’s pollen season.”
For days, or perhaps weeks now, Ayato has been giving the same excuse to everyone who asks. His work has never particularly allowed him an excess of patience, but the occasional flares of his temper are at the very least reserved for shady officials, usually. He hates to think of how curt he’s been, how undiplomatic, towards blameless folks who desperately and rightfully turn to him for guidance. He’s been taking care of his obligations with the utmost speed he can manage — which is saying something considering his notorious standard for efficiency — hoping to get back into the comfort of his own home as quickly as possible. Even then, at least a quarter of the time, he comes home to find his sister present, and must in turn try very hard not to be curt and undiplomatic towards her.
“My allergies have been getting the better of me.”
It isn’t a total lie; nobody could possibly claim it to be: it really is pollen season, and Ayato really does feel under the weather. Although he has his doubts about his theory, there is some part of him that is genuinely suspicious of the timing. He can’t help but wonder if there is some invasive, newly-spreading species of flower, the pollen of which has not yet been thoroughly studied, that has been causing him to feel this way. He wonders if there are other people around Inazuma who have likewise been suffering, but are too ashamed to seek help, or to at least raise awareness enough to assure him that he isn’t alone. He’s definitely too old to blame puberty.
There really isn’t any graceful or delicate way of putting it: Kamisato Ayato has been feeling despairingly horny.
He supposes it began in his sleep some time ago — he can’t recall the exact day — he’d been having a vivid and lustful dream, the precise contents of which he forgot almost immediately upon waking up, but somehow it seeped into and infiltrated every thought that passed through his head thereafter. His mind seems to make inexplicable leaps in logic, every task and every conversation he encounters going through some bizarre translation and transmutation until it leads his thoughts someplace unbecoming. He frequently finds himself needing to seek out solitude to take care of himself whenever he can find the time, otherwise having to push his libido down with thoughts about corrupt old fogeys, the weather, his parents dying, anything. Since the start of his affliction, he’s been urgently hoping to catch Thoma at home for ‘assistance’ — a term which is, in this case, in reference to vigorous sex — but ever since the nullification of the Vision Hunt Decree, Thoma has been around less and less, and Ayato himself is swamped with work as always. In short, they are hardly ever in the same place at the same time, and Ayato has begun to feel that his grip on reality is loosening.
He finds himself standing now in the middle of his bedroom, like a ghost (an oddly aroused one), or like someone who’s just seen a ghost (and has become oddly aroused by the experience), in motionless and solemn contemplation; he’s home alone, and he feels particularly depraved, and fearfully creative, and it seems unquestionably certain that it could never be enough to simply touch himself. He’d entered the room with the intention of reclining on his bed and having at it as usual, but he’d only gotten halfway across the floor before stopping, realizing that whatever beast had taken up residence within him wouldn’t be satisfied with the same old routine. So he stares at the bed, hoping that the answers he’s looking for will somehow materialize in the threadwork of his blankets, and when they don’t, his gaze drifts just slightly, and his eyes land on one of the wooden bedposts protruding upward from the leg of the furnishing, a foot or so above the mattress. He stares it down, as though he’s staring down a cliff and mulling over the benefits of jumping, and he thinks about the bedpost’s shape. He thinks about its length, and its texture.
He thinks about how easily it would fit. And then, he finds that he’s not doing much thinking at all.
Approaching the bed, Ayato’s heart thrums with excitement. He’s never been particularly experimental before, sexually or otherwise, and he doesn’t consider himself to be adventurous when it comes to masturbation, generally satisfied with a tug and a tissue, approaching masturbation with the same efficient, businesslike attitude with which he tackles most things. So now, as he’s coating the post in a generous wash of saliva, then positioning himself — his back facing the bed; right arm twisted behind him and right hand gripping the bedpost; his left hand on the mattress, supporting his weight; his pants pulled down only far enough to free the essentials — he feels a tempestuous thrill course through him, and he lowers himself onto the bedpost, very sure this is the best idea he’s ever had.
There’s some resistance at first, which is no surprise; it’s a bit wider than what he’s used to, so he has to circle his hips a bit before the lustrous wood starts to inch its way inside, and once he’s gotten the post’s finial a bit more than halfway in, the rest of it slides in with ease. He pauses, taking a deep breath, his hand gripping the post tightly. Facing the way he is, he can see partially into the main area of the house, still hidden from the entryway but visible to anyone who might wander around a bit further. He’d left his bedroom door wide open, in heat-induced heedlessness, and he’s finding now that he likes it this way; likes to imagine himself on display.
He sinks down over another bulb in the bedpost. His erection is angry and red, begging for his touch, but he waits, piercing himself deeper until he’s reached the wider, non-ornamental segment of the post, a base for him now, stopping him from sinking any further. Left hand still supporting his weight, lest he hurt himself, he removes his right hand from the post, light and aquiver. His attention is now at last on the twitching length before him, and with his index finger, he draws a torturous line; beginning from his glistening urethra; dragging down over his glans; then his shaft, feeling veins protrude softly beneath his fingertip. He curls his fingers around the base, squeezing, and gently swings his penis back and forth a few times, entertaining that secret part of him that has long been quite satisfied with its length and shape. It’s on the longer side — not monstrously large, but considerably so; with an easily workable girth; poised and practical as the rest of him; standing upright as though it’s proud; curving marginally towards Ayato’s stomach; his balls modest and taut. A tiny bead of pre-ejaculate billows from his tip, and Ayato licks his lips. Finally, he lets out a trembling sigh, and watches his fist migrate back up his length, slowing and closing at the head, taking a pause before dragging its way down again. He wants to draw this out — he doesn’t want to stop feeling this good for as long as he can manage.
He begins to move his body, relying on his legs and left arm for balance, sliding up and down the bedpost, the bulbs and ridges in the wood massaging him from the inside in a way he’s never experienced. In the meantime, his hand works on his member, slowly. Every so often it drifts lower to grope his balls, fondling and soothing himself every time his pleasure threatens to turn into ecstasy, at which point he’s not sure he can trust himself to remain committed to elongating the experience. Lower still, his fingers find the rim of his hole, feeling the tender skin being moved and stretched where it merges with the wood of the post as he rides it, heightening his awareness that yes, it’s really inside him, this is really happening.
His hand returns to his length, corkscrewing on its way down. He feels incredible, he’s never made himself feel anything like this before, and absurd reveries of self-worship stir in his mind, as though all his suppressed notions of ego and vanity from the duration of his life have pooled in his erection, and are sending waves of blithe and warmth through his body. He’s beautiful, he’s alluring, he’s well-groomed and clean, he’s objectively desirable, and he lets himself feel it just this once.
When he hears the front door of the house open, however, and hears Thoma’s voice calling out a cheerful “I’m home”, suddenly his ego feels somewhat misplaced, and he freezes.
A panic rises within him, and he lifts himself off the bedpost, the rippling wet noise it makes as it exits his body ensuring that his arousal isn’t at all diminished in the process. He listens intently, hearing Thoma removing his shoes at the entryway, then his wandering footsteps, looking around to see if anyone’s home. Ayato should probably tuck himself away and greet him properly: his pollinic stupor, however, has provided him with an alternate path, and he takes it readily, and pulls his pants up most of the way, his heart pounding harder and harder with each step he takes towards the bedroom door. When he reaches the doorway, and sees Thoma, Ayato stays there, leaning against the frame, masturbating at a prudently controlled pace. He watches Thoma’s back: he’s turned away, while he peers obliviously down another corner of the house, scanning for inhabitants. When Thoma finally turns, and Ayato observes the exact moment that his eyes catch him, and then catch what he’s doing, he thinks his heart might just burst.
Thoma gasps, quietly. His face is awash with colour in an instant, and his mouth opens and closes as he processes the scene.
“M…my lord,” he sputters, unsurprisingly not equipped to respond to this specific situation, “are you quite alright?” As he speaks, he’s making direct eye contact with the head of Ayato’s penis, as it appears and disappears from Ayato’s fist.
“Quite alright indeed,” Ayato responds coolly, not exactly sounding out of breath, but sounding like he had just been out of breath and had not entirely recovered yet. “I am merely… ah, somewhat afflicted at present.”
Thoma swallows hard. He looks away for a moment, looking like he’s reflecting on his original plans for when he’d arrived, leaning on one foot and then the other. Then, he looks back again, appearing as though he’s decided that whatever those plans had been, they are no longer important. His surprise and misgivings aside, he thinks that he really, really likes where this is going.
“As always, my lord, you’re welcome to my assistance,” he offers, dependable as ever, taking a step forward. “What do you need?”
“Anything you can think to give me,” is Ayato’s honest reply, an undercurrent of pleading to his tone, still touching himself.
Feeling hopelessly swept along by Ayato’s sudden crazed libido, Thoma marches purposefully to where he stands, grabbing his face and kissing him fervently. Ayato hums delightedly into his lips, his hand finally stopping, both his arms snaking around Thoma’s waist and pulling him as close as humanly possible. Ayato’s throbbing erection is lodged between them now, and Thoma can feel the form and heat of it through his shirt, can feel it pulsating against his stomach, and he shivers, his own body promising to follow suit soon enough. He’s swelling quickly, and, entranced, he kisses Ayato hard, fingers tugging at orderly blue hair, and he feels as though he’s watching himself in a dream, guiding Ayato back into the bedroom and bending him over the dressing-table.
The table’s dark surface is broad and clean, all of Ayato’s cosmetic supplies sorted out neatly in and around a matching wooden organizer box set to one side of the table. There’s just enough room for Ayato’s upper body to rest on it entirely with his feet still on the floor, on his stomach with his arms folded beneath him, palms pressing flat into the wood, erection halfway mounted onto the edge of the furnishing. Thoma whips the long tails of Ayato’s jacket out of the way, pushing up the back of Ayato’s impossibly layered shirt (as much as he can) while he’s at it, and lets his eyes wander down the smooth curve of Ayato’s lower back to his hips. Only a hint of his seat is exposed, which won’t do at all, and Thoma peels the pristine white pants down as though he’s unwrapping a present. He pulls the fabric to just the place where Ayato’s seat ends and his thighs begin, the tension of the garment now plumping the soft flesh at the base of Ayato’s rear. A present indeed. Thoma sighs happily, sinking his palms into both fair cheeks, and squeezes. Ayato groans, relishing the sensation of Thoma’s work-calloused fingers pressing against him, thumbs spreading him to admire the fine piece of work.
Ayato is a deeply meticulous fellow, down to each and every delicate extremity. He’s cut, for one thing; an elective decision on his part, to optimize hygienic maintenance and infection resistance. His pubic hair is finely trimmed, groomed, and treated, a means to reduce itching, and to render sexual activity more pleasant. Lastly, and presently most notable to Thoma, Ayato’s hole is immaculately clean and pink; he cleans, flushes, and bleaches regularly — the former two for hygiene, the latter leaning cosmetic. No part of his body is the victim of neglect, to a degree which Thoma often thinks is ridiculous, wondering if Ayato is so concerned with his demeanor of fairness and perfection that he’s even planned for a scenario where he accidentally tears all his clothes off and exposes himself in public. Right now, though, Thoma finds an appreciation for it, and bites his lip, wanting very much to just slide a conveniently close thumb right inside. But, before he can, he’s distracted by Ayato grunting, and watches him prop himself up on his elbows, freeing his arms, and reach across the dressing-table to the organizer box, appearing to look for something.
Ayato’s hand cards through an assortment of ornate combs — each perfectly clean, without a single blue hair to evidence their frequent use — and finds a hairbrush, its bristle-end in the shape of an oval, exquisitely crafted from dark otogi wood. Its long handle is finely finished, glossy and smooth, widening slightly at its base in a bulbous shape, the Kamisato family crest carved intricately into it and painted with gold. Ayato pulls the brush towards him and leaves it close by, then reaches for the organizer box again, this time retrieving a small glass bottle of camellia oil, deftly removing the lid with his thumb while his remaining fingers grip the bottle. He tips it over above his other hand, lightly, allowing the silky floral oil to trickle into his palm. He puts the bottle back where he found it, and rubs his hands together. He then returns to the hairbrush, sliding its handle through one of his oily fists, slickening it.
Thoma only has a few moments to put together what Ayato’s doing, and then Ayato is doing it — proficiently, he grips the hairbrush by its bristle-end, brings it behind him, and plunges the handle all the way into his hole with one swift motion.
There have been a few times, in the past, that Thoma has found himself slack-jawed at the words or actions of the Yashiro Commissioner. Most of these instances came early on, as Thoma was still getting to know him on a personal level, when he would witness Ayato’s anger or impatience firsthand, realizing that there was a lot more to this prestigious blueblood than mere image: he was a man of compassion, dedication, and justice: a real and true picture of nobility.
At no point in the entirety of their acquaintanceship had Thoma ever considered that he might see Kamisato Ayato fucking himself with a hairbrush.
Ayato sinks into the dressing-table, his supporting arm melting back beneath him and his hand becoming a pillow for his sweaty face, while the other arm is hard at work, lunging the hairbrush into himself, his fist clapping against his seat each time the brush bottoms out. He appears to have no patience for appetizers, he knows what he wants and he’s cutting straight to the main course. He whimpers, closing his eyes happily, feeling a little bit like he’s dreaming, because ‘this is a dream’ is a much more logical explanation than accepting anything he’s done today as reality.
“The… bedpost,” Ayato groans, like the words have been tortured out of him.
“Huh?” Thoma says, processing language slowly through the fog of his mind.
“I— the… I was… when you came home— doing this… with the bedpost.”
Thoma’s throat feels like it’s gone dry, and his erection is threatening to spear a hole in the front of his pants, so he unbuckles his belt, allowing his waistcloth to fall to the floor, and unbuttons his pants, freeing the poor thing. He grabs the nearby camellia oil and coats his penis thoroughly, then gives it a couple of slow strokes, as though comforting it. His other hand runs up Ayato’s waist tenderly, running beneath his shirt, leaving an oily trail.
“May I, my lord?” He asks with sincere practicality.
Ayato turns his head just enough to see Thoma standing straight, his modest and oil-sleek length proud in his hand, face red but otherwise dauntless.
“Fuck me,” Ayato answers succinctly, not ceasing the brush for a moment.
Thoma, more than satisfied with this permission, grabs Ayato’s moving hand, steadying it as Ayato squirms against him. Thoma thinks for a second, then pulls Ayato’s wrist to the side, not removing the brush from his hole — only making room for one more. He guides his penis to the beckoning entrance and begins pushing it in, alongside the brush’s handle, surprised at how readily it yields. Ayato makes a noise of surprise, not of an unpleasant sort, and Thoma lets out a shuddering breath when the head of his erection is submerged, moving around aimlessly for a few moments without pushing further or exiting entirely, pleasing himself. He continues his advance, slowly, until Ayato’s hole is sucking him in, and he’s buried to the hilt. Thoma moans breathily, his head sinking forward for a moment, reveling in the sensation; in Ayato’s wet and spongy walls hugging him, pulling him, accented by the hard brush handle, oily and slick, putting pressure on one side. Raising his head again, he grips Ayato’s hip with his left hand, and uses his right to hold the brush, keeping it in place. As he begins to move, Ayato’s whimpers are becoming less and less restrained, and all of Thoma’s senses are engulfed with scorching flame.
He cannot thrust forth with much fervor, thanks to the tight squeeze, so he moves considerably slowly. He twists the brush around on occasion, rubbing it against Ayato’s walls and his own shaft. His head rolls to the side, then back, his jaw clenching and unclenching, pleasure washing over him from his groin through his stomach, rippling through the rest of him like pond-water disturbed by the toss of a stone. Sweat is beginning to prickle on the back of his neck, on his chest and under his arms, and he shrugs off his jacket. The sound of it heaping onto the floor on top of his waistcloth is completely lost on his ears, he’s too immersed in sensation, too overcome by heat. Whatever remains of his rationality, however, does point his gaze to a few glass vials of cosmetic products, previously laid carefully in a row, now inching away from their positions with the movement of the dressing-table and approaching the precipice of the furnishing. The shrinking, sunken voice of reason in Thoma’s ever-dutiful mind assures him that, should they fall and spill, or break, he will not find it particularly sexy when he has to clean it up later.
Slowing, then stopping, Thoma catches his breath for a few moments, and Ayato lets out a quiet, indignant noise, as though a present had been taken away from him before he’d finished unwrapping it. Hand still on the brush handle, Thoma gently pulls it out, pauses, then brings the tip of the handle to Ayato’s face, tapping gently on the plush bottom lip, only recently freed from Ayato’s teeth.
“Might I request a demonstration from you, my lord?” Thoma asks politely, aware that he hasn’t been much of a conversationalist since he’s arrived home, and reassuring himself that Ayato doesn’t seem to be too vexed over it.
Indeed quite unvexed, saying nothing himself, Ayato complies. His head inches forward, lips crowning around the end of the brush, then his cheeks hollow just slightly, and his mouth travels down the handle, sucking it in without flinching until he reaches the bristle-end. Delicately, he pulls back, blinking slowly, his eyelashes moving like the wings of a resting butterfly. His eyes drift to the side to look at Thoma for a few moments, daring him, before they close again and he resumes his work, weaving his head through the air elegantly, seductively. Thoma’s brain is on vacation and his engulfed member is making all the calls. He reaches back down, yanks the brush out of Ayato’s mouth, and kisses him with zeal; kisses him not quite like any other time he has done so. Looking inward, he feels that he’s not entirely gone, but rather like he is being slowly replaced by a newer, very similar, but notably stupider person.
“You are,” he mumbles between kisses, “the most beautiful man I have ever met.” He’s been thinking so for a while, and had felt it too cliché and superficial to say out loud, but his decorum seems to be seeping out of him alongside his sweat.
A broken moan funnels out of Ayato and into Thoma’s mouth in response, and Thoma can feel Ayato, beneath him, bucking his hips towards the surface of the dressing-table, and it’s only just now occurring to him that Ayato’s erection isn’t quite comfortably accessible to either of them in this position, and he decides it to be unfair. He unlatches his face from Ayato’s, feeling like he’s pulling out a leech, Ayato making a noise not unlike he’s just had a leech pulled out of him.
Thoma withdraws himself from Ayato’s hole, and pulls him upright, kissing his neck aimlessly. After a few moments, he turns Ayato around so that the two of them are facing the bed at the center of the room, only a few feet away.
“Which one did you use?” He asks, kissing below Ayato’s ear before descending to pull Ayato’s pants the rest of the way down. Ayato, short-winded as he steps out of the legs of his pants dazedly, points out the one.
“Show me,” Thoma requests, rising, mouth returning to Ayato’s neck. “Give yourself another taste.”
And with that, he’s entering and thrusting into Ayato again, this time uninhibited by any hair-care instruments, hands descending to Ayato’s hips to pull on them, harmonizing them with his movements. That sound of skin that he’d been sorely missing before is ringing around the chambers of his ears now, and he watches Ayato struggling to maintain his balance, leaning forward and gripping at the bed, doing what he’s told. For the second time today, Ayato’s right hand grips the bedpost, caressing it while he runs his mouth up the side of it from the bottom, sucking, kissing. It tastes like a bedpost, for the most part, but there’s that whisper of salt and musk, and he savors the grounding filth of it, going down on the bedpost assiduously. He switches his hands so that his left is now gripping the bedpost, around its base, keeping his balance, and his right is finally around his erection, jerking off fast in an unspeakably desperate pursuit of deliverance.
Thoma’s mind is starting to go blank, halfway through a reflection about how Ayato has become so wild that he nearly expects the man to turn into a werewolf at any moment, when suddenly the man in question gasps, sobs, and releases the bedpost. Ayato’s knees buckle, and he clings to the edge of the bed for dear mercy, and there’s cum running down his legs, shooting over the bed and dripping from his right hand. Thoma pulls the upper half of Ayato’s trembling body onto the bed, the man still whimpering like he’s shivering with cold. He lifts up Ayato’s left leg, twisting his limpening body from the waist; Ayato’s face, shoulders and chest still facing down, but his abdomen is now bent on its side, hips curving outward, his leg hoisted over Thoma’s shoulder. Thoma rolls his hips into Ayato with increasing speed, hugging Ayato’s leg tightly to himself as though he’s clinging to a streetlamp in a gale-force wind, the sound of their bodies slapping together searing into his memory — then suddenly stops at the sound of the house’s front door opening.
Both of them halt, Ayato cursing this trend that seems to be arising today. The bedroom door is still wide open. The first voice they hear is Paimon’s, calling for Thoma, then the traveler’s voice, calling out a more mannerly greeting and an apology for the intrusion, before joining Paimon’s inquiries.
Thoma, feeling the fog in his mind beginning to dissipate, starts to pull out, but Ayato’s mounted leg is suddenly descending and curling around him, the rest of Ayato’s body uncoiling so he’s entirely on his back, his other leg following suit, securing Thoma’s hips snugly to the cushions of his seat, member trapped deep inside. Thoma stares at him in horror, and Ayato seems nothing but satisfied with himself, glazed and half-lidded eyes staring right back at him, while he uses his legs and abdominal strength to effectively mobilize Thoma’s hips against his will. Ayato’s head then motions to the doorway, authoritatively, appearing to mean it as an order. Take care of it , he seems to say, as he continues to move for the two of them, and Thoma is feeling like the vials on the dressing-table; teetering on a ledge.
“H-hey, you two!” He calls back to the pair in the entry hall, his voice metered laboriously. He opens and closes his mouth twice before continuing. “I’m changing clothes, so I’m afraid I’m not presentable right now — but, if there’s any help I can offer you from this distance, I’d be happy to oblige!”
After he manages his response, he begins to thrust into Ayato again, slowly, careful not to cause so much as a telling creak in the bed. He feels a twinge of guilt — the traveler is a beloved friend, one for whom Thoma has the utmost respect and admiration, and to commit a lewd act in the presence of such a figure is a most shameful thing. Arousal, however, as noted by many throughout the long history of Teyvat, is quite often more powerful than shame. Ayato is feeling a renewed stirring, watching Thoma, his gaze replete with something resembling pride.
“Ah-ha! I knew you snuck off in here!” Paimon’s jovial and accusatory voice is chiming through the house again. “You disappeared so quickly after your class wrapped up, we didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye! And to think I was even going to share some of the yummy food you helped us make…”
“What Paimon means to say,” the traveler adds with censure, “is that we wanted to make sure you weren’t unwell, since you ran off in such a hurry.”
“Haha, thank you for your concern,” Thoma says, sincere despite his indecency, “I promise I’m alright. I… stumbled and spilled some sauce on my clothes, I just wanted to make sure it didn’t stain, is all. Anyhow, I’m just happy I got to share my knowledge and my… work! I can’t thank you two enough for accompanying me.”
“I’m glad to hear it, and glad for any time we get to spend with you,” the traveler says with relief and warmth. “I hope you’ll hold further classes in the future — we’ll be in Inazuma City again next month, so let us know if you have any free time. We’re on our way out right now, we just wanted to check in with you first.”
“Yeah! You better see us again next time after abandoning us like that!” Paimon’s indignant stomp, though soundless in midair, can practically be heard by the hidden two. Thoma has some trouble beginning his subsequent reply; Ayato has pulled him down and is kissing his neck with ardor, and he can sense himself slipping fast.
“Thank you, I can’t… tell you how much I appreciate it,” he manages to say inconspicuously, hoping he can put an end to the conversation. “I’m sorry to have our time end so abruptly. I-I’ll make it up to you next month, then…!”
“We’ll be holding you to that! Ha, goodbye Thoma, until we meet again.”
“See you soon!”
Thoma is thrusting uncontrollably into Ayato now, so close to release he wants to scream. He feels tension growing, spreading, his face boiling with lust, his thumbs digging hard enough into Ayato’s hips to leave bruises. In the moment that he hears the sound of the front door’s latch closing, his breathing is rapid, vocal, and at once he’s overpowered by orgasm; crying out wantonly and burying his face into the side of Ayato’s head; the muscles of his back, abdomen, seat and legs contracting; he buries himself to the hilt inside Ayato, gyrating, pulsing, erupting.
He lays there, tense and panting as though he’s just escaped a ferocious predator. His grip on Ayato’s hips loosens a bit, and he kisses the side of Ayato’s head, lost in fever.
The sound of the front door’s latch comes again.
“Are you really okay?” It’s only the traveler this time. “I thought I heard you shout.”
Thoma lets out a shaky sigh, then raises his head and laughs, his voice mild and contented.
“Really really,” Thoma calls back. “I lost my balance and stubbed my toe trying to undress, nothing for you to be worried about.” He hears the traveler laugh.
“Alright then, goodbye for real this time!” And there’s the sound of the latch again. Thoma collapses over Ayato, heart and breath finally calming. His mind replays scenes from the last however-long-since-he-arrived at random, filing them away for long term safekeeping, still not quite believing the encounter.
The sensation of Ayato showering his ear and jawline with kisses reels him out of his stupor and back to the present, wherein he’s still submerged in Ayato’s depths and can also definitely feel Ayato hardening again beneath him. He thinks to himself that there really must be something in the air, and begins to push himself up, trying to pull out against the force of Ayato’s legs behind him.
“Respectfully, my lord, I do really need to use the restroom,” Thoma insists. He finds himself locked in again, however, as Ayato’s legs tighten around him as they had before. Thoma glances down at him, in disbelief at his petulance, taking in Ayato’s sweaty face, lids low and brow knotted, commissioner’s jacket disheveled around him. Thoma shakes his head.
“I’m shocked at you,” Thoma says, not so much of a reprimand as a casual observation. “You ought to see the way you look right now.”
“Show me,” Ayato instructs, “how I look right now.”
For a moment Thoma thinks Ayato wants him to do an impression, which Thoma isn’t sure he’s capable of, then he catches on that Ayato is referring to the full-length mirror in the room, mounted on the wall on the other side of the doorway. Thoma glances at it, its reflection not visible from where they are. Although he’s a little tired, he’s a fool for Ayato’s lascivious demands. He guides and repositions Ayato so that he’s on his stomach again, not pulling out in the process, hissing at the overstimulation. He carefully lifts Ayato by his legs, Ayato helpfully pushing himself up from the bed and resting his back against Thoma’s chest. Ayato is up in the air now, his legs apart like he’s a public exhibition, enjoying the sense of being on display again. Thoma steadies him, shuffling over to the mirror — the movement is a little awkward, but the ruling of “this is hot” overrides any such objection for the two of them.
They reach the mirror, Ayato finally able to admire his debauched reflection. His eyes travel from his own face, borderline unrecognizable to him; to Thoma’s dark eyes peering over his shoulder; down to his fanned legs, hips still red; to his erection, smugly presented and pointing right back at him; and finally at the shadowy form of Thoma’s balls, suspended beneath him, penis still captive within him. Ayato’s own twitches in the air.
Unable to keep holding Ayato up in this position for very long, Thoma moves cautiously down, one knee at a time, still holding Ayato’s legs up and apart. Once he’s seated, legs stationed on each side around Ayato, he releases one of the man’s legs, using the now-free hand to reach around to his own crotch, finally pulling himself out without any interruptions. After a short moment, a flood of semen spills out of Ayato’s hole, pooling on the floor. A steamy exhale escapes Ayato, and he shudders, running a hand up his own shirt, fingers circling around a nipple, while his other hand strokes his length tenderly, bliss plain on his face. He rocks gently against Thoma, and Thoma decides that it won’t be so bad to allow himself to be swept up in this one more time.
“Put your hands back away, if you please, my lord,” Thoma requests. Ayato complies readily, and Thoma thinks dangerously that Ayato might really do anything he says in this moment. With his free hand, he replaces Ayato’s previous hold on his penis, stroking lazily. His other arm curls around Ayato’s captive thigh, holding him close to stop him from moving around too much. He thinks absently about how much pressure this position is putting on his bladder, but his mind is more occupied with his rapidly returning erection, and he forgets in another instant. Ayato sighs, melting against Thoma with his eyes closed. Thoma peppers his temple with kisses, all his touches delicate, placid, edging.
Ayato has other plans, though, when his eyes open again, and he watches Thoma’s moving hand intently; then glances back at the mirror, where that little plashet of white remains beneath him; and further up, he makes eye contact with Thoma’s cloudy gaze.
“Up,” Ayato commands. “In my mouth.”
Thoma raises his eyebrows, then smiles.
“Yes, my lord.”
Thoma releases his hold on Ayato and stands, leaving Ayato on his knees, and backs against the mirror. He looks down, seeing his most beloved aristocrat looking up at him, pantsless and painfully hard, wind-torn hair falling over one of his eyes. Thoma doesn’t have more than a second to wax philosophical on the sight, before Ayato is upon him, stuffing Thoma in his mouth like a starved man presented with a feast. Thoma cries out, startled and elated, nearly losing his balance for a moment but regaining it, hands coming forward to grip Ayato’s hair — not needing to pull him in any direction, Ayato’s head is really pulling his hands, bobbing vigorously. Ayato sucks loud and hard, one of his hands assisting by pumping the base of Thoma’s shaft, moving as though he’s possessed. His tongue lashes randomly along the bottom of Thoma’s penis, and a careless trail of drool is beginning to emerge below his mouth. Thoma leans his head back, resting against the mirror, breathing hard. Both of them are getting the impression that they may not last so long this time around.
Ayato, not slowing the arrhythmic lurching of his head for a moment, fumbles with his free hand, eyes closed, navigating his crotch, then Thoma’s clothed knees, looking for anything to make contact with to assuage the twitching swell of his arousal. He wedges his penis, with stuttering thrusts, between Thoma’s shins, his hand now vainly attempting to push Thoma’s legs closer together to increase the sensation. Ayato bleats around his mouthful, rucking his hips forward and upward, erratically, his tip desperately weeping with pre-ejaculate, leaving slick and darkening spots in the fabric of Thoma’s pants. Above him, Thoma groans like he’s lifting something heavy, and he can see images flashing behind his eyelids, just for a moment, of the day he met Ayato, remembering how cordial and noble he’d been.
Making a muffled, lecherous sound, Ayato releases Thoma and pulls back, retracting his head and letting his jaw hang open, Thoma’s length sliding down his tongue, leaving a thread of saliva connecting the two of them. Thoma’s hands slip away from Ayato’s hair, and he brings his head forward, inspecting. Ayato breathes deeply for a few moments as though he’s restraining himself, one fist clutching the base of his own penis fiercely. He turns his head up, meeting Thoma’s vaporous gaze; he’s close, teetering on the edge but trying to anchor himself. Thoma is just starting to wonder what for, when in a swift and sure motion Ayato’s other hand rises to Thoma’s lower abdomen, locking onto his bladder, and pushes hard .
Thoma shouts in surprise, thinking of a thousand incredulous things to say all at once, but only managing a breathy “mm—haah?”
Ayato continues to push, repeatedly, like a stubborn child in a toy store, relentless until he gets what he wants, not breaking his gaze but letting his head lean forward just slightly, around Thoma’s unsatisfied erection, his cheek gently brushing against its side, moistening his face with his own saliva.
“Release yourself,” he orders in the most authoritative tone he can manage through his sweaty hair and darkening flush, every extremity on him reddened as though he’d just run in from a blizzard. His jacket still hangs pathetically around his shoulders, an insistent though disheveled reminder of his authority; never exerted unjustifiably, not usually, and not now either, Thoma finds himself believing. Thoma feels as though his blood has begun to simmer beneath his skin, his arousal spreading and fanning ardent flames through every vein in his body. He sinks further into the mirror behind him, persuaded without any further justification, and he obeys.
With some difficulty, Thoma releases himself.
It burns, somewhat, but the rest of him is so feverish that he hardly notices, an odd pleasurable sensation filling him from where Ayato’s pale, well-manicured fingers are pushing against his bladder — it empties, washing hot over one of Ayato’s ears and cascading down the back of his head, continuing down his neck and under his jacket to reach his back, his shirt soaking and sticking to his skin. Thoma can hear it splashing onto the tatami mats of the floor, his face flashing hot and cold at the same time, not entirely believing what he’s in the process of doing, and his heart hammers with the thrill of blatant crude misdeed, the obscenity of it sending a fatal shot of lust through him, his length twitching violently. Ayato leans back, bringing his soft backside down to the floor once again, bringing his hand away from Thoma’s abdomen. Thoma absentmindedly curls his fingers around his upper shaft, steadying his flow as best he can, his other hand now uselessly gripping at the flat surface of the mirror behind him.
It takes a mammoth effort not to begin stroking himself as he watches Ayato, wrecked beyond imagination, continuing to lean back, one arm supporting him from behind and the other still clutching the base of his beseeching member, guiding his body by the pelvis to meet Thoma’s hot stream. Ayato’s breath is heavy and faltering, and when the stream makes contact with his length, he lets out a vulgar cry, hips pulsing towards the stimulation, his supporting arm growing unsteady. Thoma falters for a moment, his currents sputtering and wetting random parts of Ayato’s shirt and jacket, the loss of pressure leaving Ayato briefly looking like he’s about to cry, then Thoma regains his aim with a force, and Ayato is coming hard, eyes screwed shut and mouth quivering, seeming to choke on his own breath, looking like he’s screaming but no sound escaping him. Pearly semen shoots aggressively over his stomach and chest, clinging to his shirt and dripping from his chin, his climax rocking him and departing from him in convulsions.
Thoma breaks, dropping to his knees, urine still spilling from him in sporadic intervals, and he grabs Ayato’s face, still hardly awake from the throes of ecstasy. Panting loud, he pulls Ayato’s head forward, and, after missing a couple of times in his mania, he plows his erection into Ayato’s mouth, only managing a few wretched thrusts before he comes, something between a roar and a sob emerging from his throat as Ayato’s is filled with his seed. Ayato swallows it all diligently, drinking down the ends of Thoma’s frenzied arousal before Thoma lets go of his face, collapsing away from him, his back meeting the mirror’s surface once more. The last of his bladder’s excess dribbles out of his softening penis, running through the hunched rolls of his shirt and joining the rest of the mess below.
Neither of them know how much time passes as they lay crumpled in their filth on the bedroom floor. Finally, rising and shedding the defiled jacket, Ayato is the first to speak, his voice regaining its usual composure.
“That,” he says matter-of-factly, “was disgusting.”
“Yeah,” Thoma says in a sigh, making no efforts at moving, feeling rhapsodically assured that there was not a living man happier than he was.