D. Gray-man Fic: "The Spermatic Economy of Sound"
Title: The Spermatic Economy of Sound (or, Allen Walker and the Voice of Cross Marian in “What Timcampy Saw”)
Fandom: D. Gray-man
Genre: PWP, One-shot
Pairing: Allen Walker/Timcanpy (and maybe Cross/Tim and hints of Cross/Allen if you squint at it juuuuust right).
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Voyeurism and exhibitionism (sort of), discussions of the masturbatory habits of a young teenage boy.
Word Count: 3160
Summary: Sometimes it’s hard to know what your best friend wants. Especially when your best friend is a winged golden golem with an over-eager playback function and dubious sentience.
Disclaimer: Me no own. You no sue.
Notes: Written for dgm_fuh_q, round 1. Wow, it's been a hell of a long time since I wrote fic. “Spermatic Economy” is not a phrase of my making-the term comes from a 19th Century theory of sex (particularly of men’s reproductive capacity) that’s not too far from Brigadier General Jack D. Ripper’s obsession with preserving his “precious bodily fluids” in the movie Dr. Strangelove. Also, for all those HP fans on my flist, for Timcanpy read: "the golden snitch."
There were certain inescapable falsities in Allen Walker's life. Truth be told, there had probably always been. A person didn't get abandoned by their parents as a child and then witness the death of their adoptive father, and not end up saddled with at least one or two issues to do with denial. But the majority of the falsities that Allen lived by were things that had come to him during his time with Cross Marian.
His master was a hard man to live around-would have been hard for anyone, but especially so for a boy on the cusp of puberty: there were only so many sights that Allen could “not see,” only so many times he could deliver a requisite bottle of wine and turn a blind eye to his master’s naked backside pumping fluidly into a body hidden save for its writhing legs and ankles clenched around his back.
Allen was surprisingly adept at not letting his eyes stray to where it would be inappropriate for them to stray. But hearing was another matter.
He’d always told himself that it didn’t bother him, promised himself that he didn’t need to be affected by it-that he wasn’t affected by it. Of course it wasn’t his fault that the walls always seemed so thin. It wasn’t his fault that there was no place in a whorehouse for a little boy to go that was sufficiently insulated from the sounds of the labor that went on behind closed doors. He didn’t listen on purpose. He didn’t tell his body to react like that. It wasn’t his fault that he could only manage to ignore the sounds for so long before he had to do something about what they did to him, before he had to touch himself and make the hardness go away.
By the time Allen came to the Order’s HQ, his masturbatory routine was already well established. Of course as far as he was concerned, he didn’t have a masturbatory routine. No healthy young man would. Everyone knew what happened to you if you did that! And Allen couldn’t afford to have his life’s energy sapped by wasting his seed on something so unproductive. He had made a commitment to become an exorcist, after all. He had made a promise to fight, to save the souls of the akuma.
….Then again, Cross fornicated all the time without any apparent loss of vigor or vitality, and certainly without any detriment on his skills as an exorcist. So Allen figured that so long as he kept it in moderation, the wellspring of his life wouldn’t actually dry up anytime soon, and if Cross hadn’t been smote down by the hand of God or medical science, then Allen was likely on pretty safe ground. (But then Cross was spending his seed with women while Allen was spilling his alone-he wasn’t quite up enough on the current medical findings to know if that put him at some increased risk).
At any rate, Cross was a deviant of the kind that Allen did not want to become. He just wasn’t able to know how much of a deviant until after the man had hit him over the head in India and left him on his own to find his way to the Black Order Headquarters.
Well, mostly on his own.
As far as companions went, Timcanpy was hardly a bad one. He didn’t wrack up debts, demand absurdly expensive bottles of rare-vintage wines, or assign Allen ridiculous tasks to complete of the sort that one only undertook if continued possession of all their limbs was not a part of their long-term plans. He didn’t yell, or hit Allen, or call him an idiot. Of course it was sometimes hard for Allen to tell just how much of what Timcanpy did was sentience and how much of it was programming-the golem was a thing that seemed to act, if not like a person, then at least like an especially clever pet. But Allen still thought of Tim as his friend.
Really he thought of him as the oldest friend he had.
If Tim had been with him almost constantly before Cross had bequeathed the generously sized goose egg on the back of Allen’s skull, he was seldom out of Allen’s sight now. He even perched on the lip of the tub when Allen took his baths, which had quite surprised him the first time, but then, he supposed, where else was the golem meant to go? And where, after all, was Tim meant to be when Allen lay in bed at night waiting for sleep to claim him (and doing, as it happened, what he’d become so accustomed to doing as he lay there).
After all, it wasn’t Allen’s fault if, almost inexplicably, each time he lay down in bed there would come the faint sounds of bodies writhing and gasping, the low pleasured moans from some couple in a room next door. It was just chance, after all. No fault of his, and surely it couldn’t do any harm if Tim just happened to be perched on a ledge by that wall or sitting atop the dresser or a desk nearby. (Once the golem even rested at the foot of the bed, Allen accidentally nudging it with his foot as his toes curled and his hand flew over his member, fisting himself beneath the sheet. But surely there was no harm in it.)
After the first few nights even Tim’s presence had become part of the routine that Allen maintained vehemently to himself he did not have.
He never thought anything of it-why should he?-until he arrived at HQ, and even then (he would think in retrospect) it took longer than it should have.
The first night Allen was so exhausted that he was asleep the moment that his head his the pillow. The second he fell face-down in a book while he was sitting up reading about the Order’s rules and procedures. By the third he was so pent up that his hand was already inside his pants from the second he’d managed to get his door closed, and he came across his fingers spilling his seed on the floor with his back pressed up against the door and his teeth closed on his wrist to keep himself silent.
So it was the better part of a week before Allen lay in his bed at the Order, his eyes staring up at the darkened ceiling, and his fingers lying half-idle on his belly waiting to be inspired and wondering if maybe now, in his new home, he wouldn’t need to do this wasteful unhealthy thing anymore.
He almost laughed when he heard the sound. It was just so ironic: even here it was happening, and what would all those Vatican officials that Komui had spoken of think if they knew that-
Allen’s hand stopped dead over the material of his pajama bottoms, his semi-hardness gone almost instantly as his eyes shot wide in the dark. Who would be doing that here, and that loudly, and he knew the walls here weren’t that thin!
Cold fingers of dread already constricting in his gut, Allen pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down the bed with the same sort of certainty about what he’d see there as a soldier has of a wounded limb before they look down to see it.
Tim was there. Perched on the foot of the bedstead, his wings whirring softly in the air as though he might as well hover in place. Allen could see him by the glint off the moonlight through the window frosting over the golem’s burnished exterior. And he could hear him: the recording that Tim was playing, the deliberately soft and muffled recording of his master and the higher pitched-more desperate sounding voice of a woman (Allen could never know which) moaning beneath him.
Tim was watching him in the dark: Allen could feel it, and Tim knew exactly what he was doing.
Grabbing his robe from where he’d flung it over a chair, Allen jumped from bed and fled, barefoot, from the room.
Allen didn’t sleep at all that night. He hid out first in the men’s bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and trying not to look in the mirror, then in the cafeteria (he could at least console himself with a bite to eat, he thought, but his bare feet were garnering too many odd looks for him to stay past his third roasted chicken), and then finally in the back corner of the library, sitting on the floor in the stacks with his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin resting on his hands. He would have thought that it would be easier to face a golem than a person, but every time he considered returning to his room he remembered that he’d closed the door behind him with Tim still inside, and he simply didn’t think he could bear facing the golem again.
He just kept remembering all the times-him lying there in the dark, thinking himself unobserved. He kept remembering how often, wondering how long it had been going on, when it had started, and dreading that he might already know the answer to that, fearing that maybe some part of him had known for a long time and that he was sick and dirty for not having done something to stop it before.
He was so embarrassed, so ashamed. He didn’t know how he could ever face Tim again.
But what was worse was the fact that before morning came he knew he had to go back to his room. He might get away with hiding in the library all night while most of the Order was asleep, but he would certainly be discovered there during the day, and how would he explain himself then?
When he slipped back into his room before dawn, he resolved simply not to look at Tim at all. The golem, unfortunately, seemed to have a plan of its own. It hovered to life as soon as Allen turned on the lights, and though he kept his back turned as he stripped off his nightclothes, he could feel the slight tickling breeze of the air moved by Tim’s wings as the golem fluttered just behind him.
Allen grit his teeth. It wasn’t Tim’s fault. How was the golem to know how private something like that was supposed to be. It was Cross’s golem, after all-it was probably just emulating the kinds of things it saw Cross do, just like it watched Allen eat and wanted to eat along with him. It’s not like Tim was deliberately trying to get closer to him at the exact moment that Allen was removing his pants and….
Pajamas around his ankles, the boy froze. There were the noises again, the recording that Tim was playing. It was so purposeful, the timing so knowing. And Tim was so close that Allen could almost feel the tip of a wing brushing against his bare shoulder. Very slowly, he turned his head, caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye, threw on his clothes as quickly as he could, and immediately fled the room.
Allen stayed away from his room that day for as long as he could, trying to think of what he should do. Unfortunately, the best idea he’d had was simply locking the golem out of his room, but the idea of sending Tim away made him feel like such a traitor he couldn’t bear to entertain it for long.
And it wasn’t like he could very well talk to anyone about what was happening either. What kind of a sick pervert would admit that he couldn’t enter to his own bedroom for fear of losing control of himself in the face of his master’s pre-recorded sexual exploits.
What made it worse was what had sped Allen’s flight from the room that morning: the glimpse the boy had caught over his shoulder was not just that of a golden tail or wing. This time, what had accompanied the audio was the pictorial recording of Cross, his bare chest slick with sweat above the back of a dark-haired woman, her face hidden by the pillow in which she muffled her moans. And Cross had looked right into the camera-right at Tim, and now right at Allen-and grinned.
Tim had recorded his master, and Cross had known and liked it. Allen couldn’t understand why he felt so betrayed.
Finally though, he had no choice but to go back-it was becoming obvious that something was troubling him, and Lenalee had already asked him once what was wrong. (Allen was sure he must have flushed crimson with embarrassment all the way to the tips of his ears as he stammered that he’d just slept poorly the night before.)
It was just that the more he thought about it, the more inescapable one conclusion seemed to become: Tim did know what he was doing, and he was doing it intentionally. After all, if Allen had been unable and talk and yet wanted to convey a message, what would he have done? In its way, the playback of the recordings was quite unambiguous.
Allen had always figured he was pretty good at reading Tim, but he was mistrustful of that conclusion nonetheless-what if he was imagining and fabricating Tim’s reasoning because it was what Allen himself wanted to be true? What if these were really his desires and Tim wasn’t trying to communicate them at all? What if this was just some twisted program that Cross had implanted in the golem and Tim was just carrying out now on the only subject available to him? (And what might that mean the golem would do if Allen did indeed throw him out-who would he play his recordings to then?)
No. He would just have to go back and resist the temptation-he would have to stop doing what he knew he shouldn’t have been doing all along anyway.
Allen managed to hold onto that resolve all the way up until he got into his room with the door closed behind him.
There was Allen, and there was Tim, and there was the bed on which Tim was resting looking strangely forlorn as he flapped his wings almost apologetically up at Allen. The boy rubbed his neck. The golem fluttered over to him. Allen held out a hand for Tim to rest on.
For a moment the room was quiet, and then Allen became aware of a sound. It was one that Tim was projecting, certainly, but it was not the same as before. The noises now were softer-low gasping breaths and barely audible moans, the quick gentle fwhap whap whap of a hand over skin. Solitary noises that Allen wished he didn’t recognize.
His jaw dropping, the boy backed up a step, turning to leave only to find that Tim was somehow hovering between him and the door. The golem dodged away from his hand when he tried to swat at it, and stubbornly held its ground, ignoring the face that Allen pulled.
“Tim!” he objected, and the golem whirred its video feed into life.
There was Allen, the projected image of him hovering before his own nose, his shirt yanked up under his chin and his pajama bottoms pulled down around his thighs exposing the nest of pale curls and the straining lines of his erection as his fist slid rhythmically up and down his shaft.
The lights must have been off when Tim made the recording because the colors were all washed out, a pale greenish cast tingeing the whole picture. But there was no mistaking who it was. No mistaking the act that he was being caught in.
For a long moment, Allen just stared, and then more softly he murmured, “…Tim.”
The feed flickered. The soundtrack grew louder, and Allen shifted, a familiar tightness blossoming at the base of his cock.
God, he thought, This is so wrong. And he squeezed his eyes closed, grit his teeth, threw open the door, and ran.
Allen couldn’t have said exactly how he ended up back in his room again-the logic that led him to return was too convoluted for him to follow which was saying something since it was, after all, his own. All he knew for sure was that by the next time he opened his door his cock was so hard he could barely walk and the image of Tim recording him in the dark-watching him like that--was stuck on endless replay in his mind. He wanted Tim to watch him; he wanted Tim there when he came.
Allen didn’t turn the lights off this time.
In tugging his shirt and waistcoat off his shoulders and discarding them in a pile on the floor while he kicked off his shoes, he seemed to have already given Tim all the cue he needed. The golem hovered boldly close, nudging at Allen’s hands as he reached for his belt, and the boy couldn’t suppress a low guttural groan as he finally opened his pants and got his fingers around his arousal: he was every bit as impatient now as Tim was.
Somehow Tim had settled himself on Allen’s chest as the boy lay back on his bed, the golem’s tail tickling his throat and its flapping wings teasing against his bared nipples on the downbeat in a way that Allen knew was only more arousing for being so obviously accidental.
He wanted to go slow, to take his time and hold himself back, but his nerve endings all seemed hypersensitive, and his heart was pounding so fast. His hand flew furiously over his erection, pausing just once so that he could lick his fingers, sucking them into his mouth, his tongue trailing over his palm to slick it, and then he was thrusting up into his grip, his hips bucking and tensing as he came with a low desperate “Nnnngh.”
On his chest he felt Tim vibrate, the golem shaking itself off like a drenched bird, and he brought his hand up, sticky and wet, to rest on its head as he panted, shuddering, his eyes wide in the bright-lit room.
But it wasn’t until days later, as Tim projected the recording back to him, that Allen could fully appreciate the sight of the golem opening its mouth to catch the first thick spurt of his seed, creamy and white between sharp little teeth. And then the next string of cum splattering across the camera lens, dripping over the golem’s body as it tried to shake itself clean in a little whir of wings.
And Allen watched, and cried out, and came over Tim all over again.
Fandom: D. Gray-man
Genre: PWP, One-shot
Pairing: Allen Walker/Timcanpy (and maybe Cross/Tim and hints of Cross/Allen if you squint at it juuuuust right).
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Voyeurism and exhibitionism (sort of), discussions of the masturbatory habits of a young teenage boy.
Word Count: 3160
Summary: Sometimes it’s hard to know what your best friend wants. Especially when your best friend is a winged golden golem with an over-eager playback function and dubious sentience.
Disclaimer: Me no own. You no sue.
Notes: Written for dgm_fuh_q, round 1. Wow, it's been a hell of a long time since I wrote fic. “Spermatic Economy” is not a phrase of my making-the term comes from a 19th Century theory of sex (particularly of men’s reproductive capacity) that’s not too far from Brigadier General Jack D. Ripper’s obsession with preserving his “precious bodily fluids” in the movie Dr. Strangelove. Also, for all those HP fans on my flist, for Timcanpy read: "the golden snitch."
There were certain inescapable falsities in Allen Walker's life. Truth be told, there had probably always been. A person didn't get abandoned by their parents as a child and then witness the death of their adoptive father, and not end up saddled with at least one or two issues to do with denial. But the majority of the falsities that Allen lived by were things that had come to him during his time with Cross Marian.
His master was a hard man to live around-would have been hard for anyone, but especially so for a boy on the cusp of puberty: there were only so many sights that Allen could “not see,” only so many times he could deliver a requisite bottle of wine and turn a blind eye to his master’s naked backside pumping fluidly into a body hidden save for its writhing legs and ankles clenched around his back.
Allen was surprisingly adept at not letting his eyes stray to where it would be inappropriate for them to stray. But hearing was another matter.
He’d always told himself that it didn’t bother him, promised himself that he didn’t need to be affected by it-that he wasn’t affected by it. Of course it wasn’t his fault that the walls always seemed so thin. It wasn’t his fault that there was no place in a whorehouse for a little boy to go that was sufficiently insulated from the sounds of the labor that went on behind closed doors. He didn’t listen on purpose. He didn’t tell his body to react like that. It wasn’t his fault that he could only manage to ignore the sounds for so long before he had to do something about what they did to him, before he had to touch himself and make the hardness go away.
By the time Allen came to the Order’s HQ, his masturbatory routine was already well established. Of course as far as he was concerned, he didn’t have a masturbatory routine. No healthy young man would. Everyone knew what happened to you if you did that! And Allen couldn’t afford to have his life’s energy sapped by wasting his seed on something so unproductive. He had made a commitment to become an exorcist, after all. He had made a promise to fight, to save the souls of the akuma.
….Then again, Cross fornicated all the time without any apparent loss of vigor or vitality, and certainly without any detriment on his skills as an exorcist. So Allen figured that so long as he kept it in moderation, the wellspring of his life wouldn’t actually dry up anytime soon, and if Cross hadn’t been smote down by the hand of God or medical science, then Allen was likely on pretty safe ground. (But then Cross was spending his seed with women while Allen was spilling his alone-he wasn’t quite up enough on the current medical findings to know if that put him at some increased risk).
At any rate, Cross was a deviant of the kind that Allen did not want to become. He just wasn’t able to know how much of a deviant until after the man had hit him over the head in India and left him on his own to find his way to the Black Order Headquarters.
Well, mostly on his own.
As far as companions went, Timcanpy was hardly a bad one. He didn’t wrack up debts, demand absurdly expensive bottles of rare-vintage wines, or assign Allen ridiculous tasks to complete of the sort that one only undertook if continued possession of all their limbs was not a part of their long-term plans. He didn’t yell, or hit Allen, or call him an idiot. Of course it was sometimes hard for Allen to tell just how much of what Timcanpy did was sentience and how much of it was programming-the golem was a thing that seemed to act, if not like a person, then at least like an especially clever pet. But Allen still thought of Tim as his friend.
Really he thought of him as the oldest friend he had.
If Tim had been with him almost constantly before Cross had bequeathed the generously sized goose egg on the back of Allen’s skull, he was seldom out of Allen’s sight now. He even perched on the lip of the tub when Allen took his baths, which had quite surprised him the first time, but then, he supposed, where else was the golem meant to go? And where, after all, was Tim meant to be when Allen lay in bed at night waiting for sleep to claim him (and doing, as it happened, what he’d become so accustomed to doing as he lay there).
After all, it wasn’t Allen’s fault if, almost inexplicably, each time he lay down in bed there would come the faint sounds of bodies writhing and gasping, the low pleasured moans from some couple in a room next door. It was just chance, after all. No fault of his, and surely it couldn’t do any harm if Tim just happened to be perched on a ledge by that wall or sitting atop the dresser or a desk nearby. (Once the golem even rested at the foot of the bed, Allen accidentally nudging it with his foot as his toes curled and his hand flew over his member, fisting himself beneath the sheet. But surely there was no harm in it.)
After the first few nights even Tim’s presence had become part of the routine that Allen maintained vehemently to himself he did not have.
He never thought anything of it-why should he?-until he arrived at HQ, and even then (he would think in retrospect) it took longer than it should have.
The first night Allen was so exhausted that he was asleep the moment that his head his the pillow. The second he fell face-down in a book while he was sitting up reading about the Order’s rules and procedures. By the third he was so pent up that his hand was already inside his pants from the second he’d managed to get his door closed, and he came across his fingers spilling his seed on the floor with his back pressed up against the door and his teeth closed on his wrist to keep himself silent.
So it was the better part of a week before Allen lay in his bed at the Order, his eyes staring up at the darkened ceiling, and his fingers lying half-idle on his belly waiting to be inspired and wondering if maybe now, in his new home, he wouldn’t need to do this wasteful unhealthy thing anymore.
He almost laughed when he heard the sound. It was just so ironic: even here it was happening, and what would all those Vatican officials that Komui had spoken of think if they knew that-
Allen’s hand stopped dead over the material of his pajama bottoms, his semi-hardness gone almost instantly as his eyes shot wide in the dark. Who would be doing that here, and that loudly, and he knew the walls here weren’t that thin!
Cold fingers of dread already constricting in his gut, Allen pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down the bed with the same sort of certainty about what he’d see there as a soldier has of a wounded limb before they look down to see it.
Tim was there. Perched on the foot of the bedstead, his wings whirring softly in the air as though he might as well hover in place. Allen could see him by the glint off the moonlight through the window frosting over the golem’s burnished exterior. And he could hear him: the recording that Tim was playing, the deliberately soft and muffled recording of his master and the higher pitched-more desperate sounding voice of a woman (Allen could never know which) moaning beneath him.
Tim was watching him in the dark: Allen could feel it, and Tim knew exactly what he was doing.
Grabbing his robe from where he’d flung it over a chair, Allen jumped from bed and fled, barefoot, from the room.
Allen didn’t sleep at all that night. He hid out first in the men’s bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and trying not to look in the mirror, then in the cafeteria (he could at least console himself with a bite to eat, he thought, but his bare feet were garnering too many odd looks for him to stay past his third roasted chicken), and then finally in the back corner of the library, sitting on the floor in the stacks with his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin resting on his hands. He would have thought that it would be easier to face a golem than a person, but every time he considered returning to his room he remembered that he’d closed the door behind him with Tim still inside, and he simply didn’t think he could bear facing the golem again.
He just kept remembering all the times-him lying there in the dark, thinking himself unobserved. He kept remembering how often, wondering how long it had been going on, when it had started, and dreading that he might already know the answer to that, fearing that maybe some part of him had known for a long time and that he was sick and dirty for not having done something to stop it before.
He was so embarrassed, so ashamed. He didn’t know how he could ever face Tim again.
But what was worse was the fact that before morning came he knew he had to go back to his room. He might get away with hiding in the library all night while most of the Order was asleep, but he would certainly be discovered there during the day, and how would he explain himself then?
When he slipped back into his room before dawn, he resolved simply not to look at Tim at all. The golem, unfortunately, seemed to have a plan of its own. It hovered to life as soon as Allen turned on the lights, and though he kept his back turned as he stripped off his nightclothes, he could feel the slight tickling breeze of the air moved by Tim’s wings as the golem fluttered just behind him.
Allen grit his teeth. It wasn’t Tim’s fault. How was the golem to know how private something like that was supposed to be. It was Cross’s golem, after all-it was probably just emulating the kinds of things it saw Cross do, just like it watched Allen eat and wanted to eat along with him. It’s not like Tim was deliberately trying to get closer to him at the exact moment that Allen was removing his pants and….
Pajamas around his ankles, the boy froze. There were the noises again, the recording that Tim was playing. It was so purposeful, the timing so knowing. And Tim was so close that Allen could almost feel the tip of a wing brushing against his bare shoulder. Very slowly, he turned his head, caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye, threw on his clothes as quickly as he could, and immediately fled the room.
Allen stayed away from his room that day for as long as he could, trying to think of what he should do. Unfortunately, the best idea he’d had was simply locking the golem out of his room, but the idea of sending Tim away made him feel like such a traitor he couldn’t bear to entertain it for long.
And it wasn’t like he could very well talk to anyone about what was happening either. What kind of a sick pervert would admit that he couldn’t enter to his own bedroom for fear of losing control of himself in the face of his master’s pre-recorded sexual exploits.
What made it worse was what had sped Allen’s flight from the room that morning: the glimpse the boy had caught over his shoulder was not just that of a golden tail or wing. This time, what had accompanied the audio was the pictorial recording of Cross, his bare chest slick with sweat above the back of a dark-haired woman, her face hidden by the pillow in which she muffled her moans. And Cross had looked right into the camera-right at Tim, and now right at Allen-and grinned.
Tim had recorded his master, and Cross had known and liked it. Allen couldn’t understand why he felt so betrayed.
Finally though, he had no choice but to go back-it was becoming obvious that something was troubling him, and Lenalee had already asked him once what was wrong. (Allen was sure he must have flushed crimson with embarrassment all the way to the tips of his ears as he stammered that he’d just slept poorly the night before.)
It was just that the more he thought about it, the more inescapable one conclusion seemed to become: Tim did know what he was doing, and he was doing it intentionally. After all, if Allen had been unable and talk and yet wanted to convey a message, what would he have done? In its way, the playback of the recordings was quite unambiguous.
Allen had always figured he was pretty good at reading Tim, but he was mistrustful of that conclusion nonetheless-what if he was imagining and fabricating Tim’s reasoning because it was what Allen himself wanted to be true? What if these were really his desires and Tim wasn’t trying to communicate them at all? What if this was just some twisted program that Cross had implanted in the golem and Tim was just carrying out now on the only subject available to him? (And what might that mean the golem would do if Allen did indeed throw him out-who would he play his recordings to then?)
No. He would just have to go back and resist the temptation-he would have to stop doing what he knew he shouldn’t have been doing all along anyway.
Allen managed to hold onto that resolve all the way up until he got into his room with the door closed behind him.
There was Allen, and there was Tim, and there was the bed on which Tim was resting looking strangely forlorn as he flapped his wings almost apologetically up at Allen. The boy rubbed his neck. The golem fluttered over to him. Allen held out a hand for Tim to rest on.
For a moment the room was quiet, and then Allen became aware of a sound. It was one that Tim was projecting, certainly, but it was not the same as before. The noises now were softer-low gasping breaths and barely audible moans, the quick gentle fwhap whap whap of a hand over skin. Solitary noises that Allen wished he didn’t recognize.
His jaw dropping, the boy backed up a step, turning to leave only to find that Tim was somehow hovering between him and the door. The golem dodged away from his hand when he tried to swat at it, and stubbornly held its ground, ignoring the face that Allen pulled.
“Tim!” he objected, and the golem whirred its video feed into life.
There was Allen, the projected image of him hovering before his own nose, his shirt yanked up under his chin and his pajama bottoms pulled down around his thighs exposing the nest of pale curls and the straining lines of his erection as his fist slid rhythmically up and down his shaft.
The lights must have been off when Tim made the recording because the colors were all washed out, a pale greenish cast tingeing the whole picture. But there was no mistaking who it was. No mistaking the act that he was being caught in.
For a long moment, Allen just stared, and then more softly he murmured, “…Tim.”
The feed flickered. The soundtrack grew louder, and Allen shifted, a familiar tightness blossoming at the base of his cock.
God, he thought, This is so wrong. And he squeezed his eyes closed, grit his teeth, threw open the door, and ran.
Allen couldn’t have said exactly how he ended up back in his room again-the logic that led him to return was too convoluted for him to follow which was saying something since it was, after all, his own. All he knew for sure was that by the next time he opened his door his cock was so hard he could barely walk and the image of Tim recording him in the dark-watching him like that--was stuck on endless replay in his mind. He wanted Tim to watch him; he wanted Tim there when he came.
Allen didn’t turn the lights off this time.
In tugging his shirt and waistcoat off his shoulders and discarding them in a pile on the floor while he kicked off his shoes, he seemed to have already given Tim all the cue he needed. The golem hovered boldly close, nudging at Allen’s hands as he reached for his belt, and the boy couldn’t suppress a low guttural groan as he finally opened his pants and got his fingers around his arousal: he was every bit as impatient now as Tim was.
Somehow Tim had settled himself on Allen’s chest as the boy lay back on his bed, the golem’s tail tickling his throat and its flapping wings teasing against his bared nipples on the downbeat in a way that Allen knew was only more arousing for being so obviously accidental.
He wanted to go slow, to take his time and hold himself back, but his nerve endings all seemed hypersensitive, and his heart was pounding so fast. His hand flew furiously over his erection, pausing just once so that he could lick his fingers, sucking them into his mouth, his tongue trailing over his palm to slick it, and then he was thrusting up into his grip, his hips bucking and tensing as he came with a low desperate “Nnnngh.”
On his chest he felt Tim vibrate, the golem shaking itself off like a drenched bird, and he brought his hand up, sticky and wet, to rest on its head as he panted, shuddering, his eyes wide in the bright-lit room.
But it wasn’t until days later, as Tim projected the recording back to him, that Allen could fully appreciate the sight of the golem opening its mouth to catch the first thick spurt of his seed, creamy and white between sharp little teeth. And then the next string of cum splattering across the camera lens, dripping over the golem’s body as it tried to shake itself clean in a little whir of wings.
And Allen watched, and cried out, and came over Tim all over again.