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Takumi is a different person now.
Although he once was the type to precariously weight out each and every decision that needed to be made with the care of a maddened philosopher, that care often resulted in him being stepped on and ran over and crushed into the brownish soil below. He was both an excellent doormat and a pathetic one: excellent in that he could take the beating, and pathetic in that making decisions on behalf of his own doormatism was like splitting an atom. He just wanted to bear suffering, not to decide how to deal with that suffering collectively.
After having been forced to make decision after decision for as long as he could remember, he was, for a time, sick of making choices.
The pursuit of control over the Artificial Satellite went off without a hitch, and so had preventing the planet of Futurum from burning to a sad little crisp. This was a time of all action, no decision making. Takumi had acknowledged at the time that he must have been partially blessed by Eito's good luck, because it should not have been that easy to configure reign over the whole of the human species. Yet it was. It was!
And something in Takumi had changed during that time. Instead of deciding, he was doing. That break was well-appreciated. There had hardly been time to think about the cult, to think about the efficacy of his leadership. Am I doing the right thing? dissolved into an eagerness to have humanity kneel before him. Kneel they did.
Because he had changed during that time, Takumi Sumino is now rather skilled at making choices. It would be somewhat disingenuous to say that he enjoys making them, but there's less stress and more engagement of open autonomy rather than fearing everyone may die if he decides to have fish over soup for breakfast. The little things.
It's more than that, too. The approach Takumi takes to decision making as a whole is different now, and that is because his life is unrecognizable from what it once was. He is becoming unrecognizable. There is both sanctity and doom in that. Strength is good, indeed; but if Takumi were to think too hard about who he used to be he may very well crumble.
He is not yet ready to crumble.
This morning he woke up and Nozomi was there, beside him, bare and warm and wrapping both her arms around his waist. Her brainwashing has held up quite nicely; Eito has only had to reconfigure it once. She gets a bit emotional at times, finding it difficult when Takumi busies himself with things that aren't her, but there's something cute about that. He always finds time to pull her into his arms, even if it is to say I'll only be with Yugamu for the night. I'll only be with Kyoshika for the night.
Takumi is steadily past the point of self-reflection. This is his life and these are his subjects. To the public he is their overlord but to the cult he is their prince. This is his life. The whole shape, not just the fragmented pieces.
Though he has favorite subjects, Takumi does his best to give everyone special attention with two exceptions: Nozomi, Eito. They lay on opposite sides of the spectrum exceptions-wise, but overall receive the largest deviations in attention at any given time, and not always of Takumi's own fault. As is established, Nozomi is needy to the point of emotional dependency. And Eito—
For a very long time Eito did not take any rewards. He was so good. He made himself clean and bare and smelling of menthol, and would allow Takumi to check him if he wanted: waxing away every last hair on his legs and chest and armpits and groin, wearing a belt of chastity, careful to wash himself and never touch. The self-restraint was, frankly, not entirely necessary after a certain point, but massively impressive all the same.
As everyone else had their slices of the proverbial Takumi pie, Eito continued practicing self-denial. He spent great deals of time organizing money and timelines and plans for expansion and preservation of Takumi's greatness. He wore thick, protective robes, dark in color and heavy in weight. He differentiated himself from the rest of the subjects. In many ways he made himself special just by being so dedicated.
When Takumi offered him a reward one day, Eito asked to lay in the garden sun together. His hands trembled the whole hour.
When Takumi offered him another reward on another day, Eito asked for an embrace. His shoulders had quaked.
When Takumi offered him another reward on a third occasion, Eito asked if they could bathe together. He did not tremble at all and he did not ask for more than having his back watched. Takumi wondered if something might wriggle underneath his spine but it did not.
Takumi would offer and offer and offer and Eito would only want simple touch. Eating together. A nap together. He was utterly content with so little, and while Takumi appreciated the level of self restraint, he found himself thinking—
How delightful Eito will look when he finally gives in.
And so in spite of waking up next to Nozomi, Takumi returned to his bed chamber in the evening with Eito in tow. It was he who caved to temptation. It was he was failed to restrain himself. Deviation towards the exception was to be expected when the exception made it so difficult to look away from him.
So much has changed. It is difficult to tell whether or not Takumi is happy.
Happiness, though, is not needed to keep everyone safe. While Eito is not quite the individual he once was, Takumi cannot resist the idea of him shattering like brittle bone. He's tried to get him to lose his helm of control by offering rewards and has tried further by touching his wrists and neck and cheek. Nothing. Iron will. Takumi wants to see him break and break and break and break and break. Break how he had once before. Break how he had under the pressure of his own hatred.
Takumi wants, and because he wants, this is a decision.
His bed chamber has been refurbished recently. The bed is larger, now, and sits in the middle of the room pressed up against the wall with a lovely quilted duvet and matching pillows. Against the rightmost wall are low shelves lined with books and trinkets beneath a grand window, and adjacent to that wall are chests of drawers and one large, beautiful mirror. It faces the bed. The room is grand in appearance, decorated in candles and art and symbols of adoration.
Takumi looks at it all and feels nothing, sometimes. He looks and wonders where Karua is among all of this. Not today. Today he feels something. Some days are better than others.
He sits on the bed with a sigh and acknowledges Eito, who is taking such a formal bow that he bends down on one knee and prostrates himself before Takumi. "My Lord. It's an honor to be invited into your private quarters. Is there something you require my assistance with?"
Though Takumi has not grown enough to overtake Eito in height, he does quite like the view that from looking down on him from the bed provides. "It's fine, Aotsuki. You can get up from the floor; you're embarrassing me being this formal."
Prince of this gaggle of overeager disciples or not, Takumi has not made any particularly impressive strides in terms of becoming more suave. He crosses one leg over the other and watches Eito rise from the ground, removing invisible dust from his knees with a swipe of his hand. "My apologies. It's just unusual for you to request time alone with me. I hope I'm not in trouble! But if you needed to punish me, you know I'd take it readily."
Takumi sighs, looking towards the mirror hung on the wall. He touches his own cheek, half-sheepish, and closes his eyes in a bid to work himself up to asking. This isn't making a decision anymore, it is a choice already made—but it's still embarrassing.
It's not like Eito is going to say no. Beneath his rather amusing serious expression, Takumi flushes a gentle pink. "There's something I'd like you to do, yeah. Something special."
Eito quirks an eyebrow.
Takumi clears his throat. "I'm… asking you to have sex with me." He tries to not sound like a dope. Whether or not he succeeds at this is unknown, because instead of responding Eito simply stands there, fingers tense by his sides. "You can think of it more like a personal request from me rather than a reward to you. Well?"
"Forgive my pause." Eito brings his hands up to his own face and cradles both of his cheeks. "I… Takumi-kun… why would you say something like that? What have I done?"
"You're always denying yourself any serious rewards when I offer them to you, and I guess—I just want to do it." He runs a hand through his hair.
"You just want to do it."
"Yeah, I guess so. I mean—yeah. I do."
"You just want to do it," Eito repeats, and then suddenly he's throwing himself onto the floor before Takumi once again, crawling to him and laying an adoring cheek on his thigh. His voice comes as a whisper: "I'd sooner die than turn down a personal request of yours."
Because he is a generous person, Takumi pets Eito, stroking a hand over his scalp and curling it where his head rounds to cradle his jawline. "You've been asking for such simple rewards I was thinking you were disgusted by me."
"Never, Takumi-kun, never," says Eito, turning his cheek to capture Takumi's thumb into his mouth and suck on the fingerprint. "I was simply happy enough to be held. To spend time with you. That's all. I didn't need more than that. I didn't realize it for some time, but simple affection was the greatest gift of all." He speaks around the finger. "I also think I've been following a sunk-cost fallacy."
"A what?"
"I've been abstinent for such a long time it felt like a shame to surrender that progress. It felt like an insult to you. I wouldn't want you to think of me as lazy."
"I was mainly just thinking that it's impressive you could keep waiting and holding off. You've really changed," Takumi says, pushing his thumb back into Eito's mouth. If change can even be quantifiable under these conditions, that is.
Eito closes his lips around the thumb in its entirety, sucking around the nail and cuticle, tongue lathing over the swirling fingerprint. He looks up at his Takumi, bobs his head a little, then eases out the thumb and moves to the index and middle and ring fingers. A kiss to each fingerprint, an oral workover per individual digit. He doesn't need to be told what to do.
Takumi watches with his jaw held open. A lot of the Special Defense Unit members want rewards that make them feel good, that center their needs, and that's to be expected—but the attention Eito gives is rather different to that. He seems to hold an unusual standard of giving, what with the indignity that comes with finger sucking, though Takumi is aware that he might just be thinking that because he's being touched like the most important thing ever created.
Eito's moving along, never staying in the same place for too long. He does not come across as desperate but rather reverent. He kisses Takumi's hand, the palm and wrist, smelling where his veins and tendons shimmer through his skin. He splits Takumi's two thighs apart and mouths along the seam of his trousers to his groin, where he inhales again and rubs his cheek like a dog.
"Okay," says Takumi, voice breathy. It's mainly a confirmation to himself that yes, yes, he wants Eito to break apart like a television screen and scatter into junk and destruction. Wants him drooling and crying and looking foolish. Finally. It's taken long enough to admit to himself such a want and will be even longer under he understands the prickly psychology behind it. "Do you want to come up on the bed with me?"
"I don't know what I want." Eito's mouthing a delicate wet spot over the outline of Takumi's cock. He's pressing his nose into the fabric of the pants there, taking in the musk and sweat of a long day. "I don't know… I don't want to be too greedy, my Lord, I'm sorry. There's too much to take in." He rubs a palm over the wet spot and Takumi sighs, twitching slightly. "Why don't you give me your directive, and I'll simply follow?"
Takumi pauses where his fingers currently rest in Eito's overgrown head of hair. "Uh, okay. Why don't you come up on the bed, then? Let me take your clothes off and have a look at you."
Eito is agreeable. "Yes," he says, and then he climbs the bed, sitting beside Takumi initially. Takumi pats his own thigh and, like siren to sailor, Eito climbs into his lap immediately, as if he had been trained for it.
It almost seems like a shame to take off the clothes. "That was quick. Good boy," says Takumi, feeling the words land rather awkwardly on his tongue as they are spoken aloud. Eito seems to like it, though, invisible tail wagging, eyes widening in anticipation for more.
Takumi investigates Eito's face, opening his mouth up by prying his lips apart. He presses a finger down on his tongue and Eito winces, appearing mildly uncomfortable, and so Takumi pushes down harder.
He waits. Eito closes his lips around Takumi's finger and Takumi raises an eyebrow in response, prompting his mouth to open back up. This is fun. Eito functions like a lever and pulley. It's easy to forget that he's being influenced hormonally when he so easily seems to fall into the role of devotee, abstinent or not.
A knot forms in Takumi's stomach. He doesn't want to acknowledge it.
"This is a personal request," he says, "so we're going to do things my way. I guess, uh… hm… I just don't want you to hold yourself back or anything."
Eito nods in understanding. There is a lovely line of drool that's pooling out from the moat between his lower teeth and lip, cascading down his chin. Takumi ignores it, removes his finger, and then leans in capture his mouth.
It's easy. Faintly, Takumi thinks: this could never be easy in any other circumstance.
They come together rather unceremoniously. Eito wraps his arms around Takumi's shoulders first, licking into the warm and wet space provided to him. He's into it, clearly, and Takumi finds vindication in how stupidly obvious his need is, like some kind of sick animal. He lays a hand on Eito's thigh and feels the trembling fasciculation, especially as he slides his palm in between his legs.
There he feels it, sure enough, through the draping fabric—the cage Eito wears around himself, his inhibitory protection. How many times, he wonders, has he been left uncomfortable and neglected by this thing? How far does his dedication go? Farther and farther than this? At what point is it appropriate to stop?
Takumi Sumino, in all his disturbed, warped sense of identity, thinks that the stopping point has long, long been passed. There is only escalation and eventual collapse from here on. He's trying to ride the quake of ego destruction for as long as possible in order to avoid all this thinking.
In a similar vein, he can't quite decide if it's more appealing to leave the little cage on or to remove it. To leave it on and make the experience all the more unsatisfying, or to remove it and treat this like a special occasion. Decisions. There's time.
Taking the lead, Takumi begins the process of undressing. He tries to pause the kiss to catch a glimpse of Eito's clothing, but Eito is selfish and unrestrained in behavior, grabbing hold of Takumi by the collar and pulling him back in. He's making an awful lot of noise, breathing out of his nose in these gasping pants, whining from the back of his throat, pharynx doing all of the work. He says "hm, nh," or something equally gruntish when his cloak is removed.
"Takumi-kun," whispers Eito, hands scrabbling for Takumi's shoulder and neck and face.
"Calm down, Aotsuki."
"Ahhh, I can't, I can't, I can't…"
Ridiculous and entirely warranted behavior, contextually speaking. As soon as both pairs of trousers have been pulled off, Eito is shoving Takumi back against his own mattress—the nerve, really, even if he's currently being overtaken a few years' worth of neglected desire—and pressing the warmth of their groins together. He's like a dog. No: he is a dog, one that is infected with some sort of prion, rutting against Takumi's obscenely-outlined briefs like his biological life depends on it. All movement and no grace.
"Aotsuki—" The sensation of Eito's very solid cock cage grinding down on swollen flesh is not particularly comfortable, but it certainly could be worse. "Calm down!" His voice reverberates throughout the bed chamber and he nearly shivers in hearing the commandeering echo of his own, changed self. Speaking to Eito like this.
"Takumi-kun, Takumi-kun, I was so good, I waited and told myself no, I waited—I could have kept going, you know, could have kept waiting and saying no until the end of time, I could have, nh—"
There's a sheen of sweat covering Eito's forehead. Takumi is hard, because why would he not be under these circumstances? His muscles are tensing and relaxing and melting, his eyes rolling in their wet sockets. "It kind of hurts, Aotsuki, fuck." Despite the complaint Takumi raises his hips, not doing much work.
"Takumi-kun," whines Eito, lovely and desperate. The sensation of hard metal grinding into the same spot continuously has morphed from painful to desirable, and Takumi rucks up his hips in an offensively laissez-faire manner just to indulge Eito in the moment. He's got other plans, of course. This is not Eito's turn, though it's certainly enjoyable to watch him come apart at the sames all from a bit of self-directed grinding.
Enjoyable, but again: it is not Eito's turn. Takumi shoves his devotee off to the side. Before Eito is able to scramble enough to get back on top, Takumi pulls down his briefs, reaches for his caged cock, presses his middle finger and thumb together to create an anatomical catapult, and flicks the cage with his fingernail. It hurts. A quiet little dink sound is heard.
"Ouch," mumbles Takumi, watching as Eito spasms and sniffles and cries and leaks cum out of the metal, a mass of it dribbling over the swell of his sack. Takumi sucks on his sore finger and then removes his own underwear, indulging in observing the theater performance below.
"Oh, oh," is what Eito eloquently says all the meanwhile, feeling up his own chest with ten fingers. He thumbs over his nipples, cups the nonexistent rise of tissue around the brown nubs. His legs twitch and rub together at the knees. "How shameful was that, ah, I couldn't help myself, indulging in this feeling is so…" He trails off, touching his cage.
"Very shameful." Takumi is a little embarrassed, actually. "I didn't expect you'd get off to a little flick. Which hurt my finger, by the way."
"Sorry, I'm so sorry, my Lord, I'll make it up to you. I love you. Excuse me. I love you."
Now Takumi is very embarrassed. Wordlessly he undoes Eito's cage and puts it aside. By the time he's set it away and returned back to Eito's body, Eito has already gone back to touching himself and may as well be dry heaving in both relief and overstimulation. His chest rises and falls with the exaggerated deflation of a balloon.
"Um… okay, stop touching yourself. I mean, I guess you can keep going. Hold on." Takumi isn't feeling very commanding right about now on account of how badly he'd like to get some relief of his own. He locates the tube of lubricant stored in his bedside drawer, thinking in steps and actions, and squeezes some out onto his fingers.
Eito has a hand around himself and his pupils are wide as dinner plates, watching Takumi as he touches himself. His cum has smeared into the bed where it dribbles between his legs.
"I love you," says Eito.
"Spread your legs," says Takumi.
And Eito is a good prion-brained dog because he does. He even scoots up to place a pillow under his neck, then stretches each of his long, gangly lower limbs out to either side of himself. "I can't believe Takumi-kun wants to put it in me."
Embarrassing! Perhaps Takumi's getting a bit too old to think this way. "I like seeing you beside yourself with need," he explains, breaching one lithe finger into Eito's hole. It's warm and, as if noted with a bit of marvel, clean.
Though Eito has bent his legs, they quickly begin to collapse under his newly mounting pleasure. This is amusing, seeing as Takumi's not trying very hard. "I am beside myself with need. For you. My Lord. My Prince!"
"Mm." Takumi doesn't know how to deal with this level of earnestness. He strokes Eito's insides, touches him more—two fingers. His body acclimates well to the increased demands for stretch, and when he makes two fingers three, Eito's touching himself like he could die for it. His cock is swollen looking. Painful.
If it was always this bad, Takumi doesn't understand why Eito kept asking for such gentle rewards, despite having been provided the explanation to this earlier. He's pointedly thinking with his dick now, not his brain. The blood's all rushed below his abdomen. Takumi crooks his fingers down and Eito wails, drawing forth more inferior blood swelling. "You didn't even resist me at all. Um… good boy."
"Yes, I'm good, I can be good if it's Takumi-kun," babbles Eito, fisting himself so quickly that it's hard to see his cock at all. Maybe too quickly.
"Okay, now wait a minute," says Takumi, swatting Eito's hand away to stop him from assaulting himself any further. Eito obediently puts both of his hands behind his back, leaving himself unattended, his arousal flush against his belly. There's a subtle wet smear beneath the tip. This is a nice way to be able to appreciate his appearance: delightfully pink, teary-eyed, pupils the size of Saturn. How cute.
Takumi sets that thought aside.
He lubricates himself, unceremoniously wiping his fingers on the bedsheets. "Oh, wait. Do you want me to use—"
"No!"
"I didn't even get to finish my—"
"I don't care. Put it in me raw, Takumi-kun. I want to feel the pulsing of your body. I want to feel it pulsing inside of me."
Takumi feels like he might die after hearing that. He has absolutely nothing in his brain, nothing to say, and so in lieu of language he instead flips Eito onto his stomach and then raises his ass into the air to an appropriate height. The rest is just routine to Takumi: he inserts his cock with no forewarning, figuring it probably doesn't matter and will not hinder the experience regardless, and then shifts his hips once he's given Eito a few moments of adjustment.
Routine indeed: Eito is hot on the inside, soft and velvety and enticing. He clenches, peristaltic muscles squeezing Takumi's cock like an act of courtship. This could never be that. "Oh my god," says Takumi.
"I c-can't believe I can finally feel the—Takumi-kun, you can kill me right now if you want, I'd be happy to die at such a—"
Takumi doesn't need to hear all that. Such a devoted, zealous Eito is an Eito that borders on uncomfortably unfamiliar. Takumi holds Eito by his unruly hair and yanks him backwards by the scalp, uninterested in dialogue, shutting him up fast. He tests the give of Eito's asshole, grinding shallowly, panting from above. In a way, this is just as cathartic for Takumi as it appears to be for Eito.
He remembers, long ago, jabbing his class weapon into Eito's breakable body. How has it all gotten to this point?
It doesn't matter, Takumi tells himself. Like everybody that he has sex with, Eito is more than enthusiastic about the encounter. He cannot see his face like this but can certainly hear him, can hear his whining and whimpering and self-soothing mumbles over the louder audio of their bodies rapping together. Wet and fast where he begins to pick up speed. Metronomic. Takumi sets the pace, cued in by Eito's vocalizations and the tensing of his muscles.
What isn't routine about this is how the encounter is making Takumi feel. Here is someone who has abstained from desire for so long that he came just having his dick flicked, more than pleased to be used like a toy. He had said that once, hadn't he? Even if you still hate me, won't you use me for your benefit?
Takumi is not a god, despite what some may believe, and he keens rather readily to Eito's display of submission. They are not friends in the way that Takumi hoped they would be able to be; the point of a return to normalcy has long passed. There's safety in normalcy. What Takumi has built for himself is a throne, for better and for worse.
He feels himself trembling, hears Eito crying, sees Eito's fingers digging into the patchwork quilt.
"Takumi," gasps Eito, raising his ass higher, insisting on being fucked a little deeper. "Don't be afraid—"
Because that is the last thing that Takumi feels he is right now, he also feels the need to prove it. He wraps two hands around Eito's hips, letting go of the iron grip around his hair, and though they are too small to reach around his waist in a particularly impressive way, it does give him more confidence. He tells himself to become a piston. He isn't afraid. His cock swells around the heat of Eito's insides. Fascia and tissue and muscle. Pink and tempting.
If Takumi is the piston then Eito remains animal. He squirms helplessly, ruts his cock against the air—against nothing, really—and makes noises that Takumi wishes so desperately he could record and store away forever. Eito Aotsuki, submitting completely. How deceptively wrong, how deceptively right.
Takumi loses himself and fucks the disciple meaninglessly. He cums inside of Eito and watches as his own mess coats his cock and patters out onto the bed with each subsequent thrust back into his wet, shining hole.
Takumi moves greedily, overstimulating himself until he pulls out. Eito is heaving these big, distressing breaths, and Takumi reaches underneath him and jerks him off only a few times before deciding to turn him on his back instead, to abuse his cock by flicking the head. When Eito cums from it he grinds the entire flat of his palm down against his weeping arousal.
They breathe together, Takumi laying his head on Eito's stomach. Oneness for the sake of it. Zealot to idol. No: to leader.
Eito may as well have passed out in his excitement. Takumi takes the time to wipe up some of the fluid from his bed and then bundles the prion-animal in a collection of blankets.
Takumi thinks that perhaps, for a little while, they can lay together. He crawls into his mass of sheets and looks at Eito, trying to remember the Eito of Old once again.
He remembers the inky halo and a pair of poisoned, angelic wings and struggles, if for a moment, to reckon with the image of the Eito of New laying bare beside him, glowing a warm and easy pink.
"Takumi-kun," mumbles the sickly animal. "I feel so lucky… I was able to meet someone as beautiful as you… and feel your mercy."
Mercy, thinks Takumi.
"I'd really do anything for you."
Takumi lays a warm palm on Eito's cheek, hesitant, unfamiliar. Affection is like a tumbleweed bouncing across a great, empty stretch of land. "Yeah, I know."
Eito sighs, smiles. Looks like a bird in the blankets. "Just so, so lucky. I love belonging to you in any way you like."
A small smile. Takumi's thumb curls slightly, the hold turning to a cradle. "I know."
The image of the inky halo corrodes to rust.