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Tyki ached. It was something new, something different from the way his scars that his scars prickled painfully on days when a battle atop the Ark played over and over again in his head and even harder to ignore than the days when the Noah memory reared its ugly head. Joyd, he could fight down. The arousal - the hot, oppressive desire, distracting and overpowering - this, he couldn’t fight down.
He ran his hands over the scars as he glanced across the room to his reflection in the window: diagonal down his chest , horizontal across his right bicep, souvenirs from a fight that had made him feel alive. His nerves had sizzled and soul sang, he remembered, and he hadn’t been able to get the boy out of his head since. It had been fun, the ultimate pleasure.
His room was his own, but he locked the door just the same. He ran his hands over his chest, tips of his fingers rubbing over the raised edges of scars, thumbing across the tightened skin running across his chest. They were fully healed now, but stood out starkly. Battle scars, medals of honor, things that Sheril dismissed with a hiss, “shameful”, things that Tyki wore with pride. Allen Walker, he thought as he leaned back against the headboard and summoned an image to the forefront of his mind. Allen Walker, he thought as his hand thumbed over one of his nipples, sliding down afterwards to pop the button on his pants. There were so many memories to choose from - he remembered briefly the desperation and defeat on the boy’s face when he’d first destroyed his Innocence but decided it wasn’t right for tonight - that summoned something brutal and primal in him, something that thrummed destroy inside his skull. Instead, he remembered the look in his eye the first time they’d played poker, all-knowing and mischievous, the way blood had dripped from his split lips and stained his snow-white collar, the way he closed one eye when he got thrown across the room and the way he’d gotten right back up. Undefeated, resilient, full of fight and something Tyki wanted so, so much more of.
Those things, he relished in as he took himself in his hand. Those things were the images burned on the insides of his eyelids as he thumbed over the tip of his quickly hardening length and shivered when he imagined the boy’s hands on him, Callous Innocence or smooth alabaster skin. He decided in that moment he didn’t give a damn so long as Allen’s hands were there.
--
Worlds away, Allen jolted straight up in bed as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed one in the morning. The night was still, air warm as it came in off of the ocean - a brief breeze just enough to lift a lock of hair off his forehead and carry what he was sure had been his name.
It’s nothing, he muttered, but the persistent throb between his legs reminded him that it sure as hell wasn’t nothing. Confused, face flushed, he tried to remember what he had been dreaming about. Lenalee, with her sweet mouth and strong body, soft hair that felt like silk under his fingers when he held the back of her neck and kissed her so gently? Lavi and his whispered, racy endearments, overly familiar hands that molded so seamlessly onto his hips in deserted corridors? He couldn't remember a thing. Flopping back down against the pillows and settling in beneath the soft sheets, he snaked a hand down the front of his pajama pants to wrap loosely around the base of his cock. He let his eyes slide closed, searching his mind for something to get off to in a pinch - anything, really, to get him over the edge and back to bed - and his mind found dark skin and wavy hair, eyes like molten gold, elegant hands, a smirking mouth. A firm, strong body that exuded danger from every pore.
Anything but that. His hand froze on his cock and his eyes snapped open. He jolted up in bed so fast the headboard banged against the wall, a sound he was sure would wake the whole headquarters if he wasn't careful. Of all the things, why had Tyki Mikk been his go-to thought? Allen was used to some pretty fucked up thoughts and people had told him he was self-destructive, but this was a new low. Okay, sure, if he hadn’t tried to kill him, maybe he could get there. If he had felt Tyki's hands on him in some way other than a vice grip around his heart or the chill-inducing fluttering of the wings on the teez, maybe he could get there. But he couldn’t. Surely.
He weighed his options and decided to go with it. If he still believed in God at this point, he would assure himself that the great heavenly Father would forgive him and if he still believed in shame, his cheeks would burn. Instead, he believed in the way it felt to jerk his hand up his cock, to slide down and squeeze his balls, to let his head fall back against the pillows with a silent cry of Tyki’s name, to imagine a different kind of fight, a different kind of game. Tyki was handsome enough; all sharp angles and fine muscles, handsome in a forbidden sort of way.
(Besides, it was just one night, just a harmless thought, just an imagined scenario to get his hips jerking and breath hitching. It’s not like he really wanted to fuck him, just..the idea of him, right?)
He imagined his hands on his waist to pull him in close, his mouth on his neck, the way his cock would feel - hot and heavy against his belly as he crawled over him, the way Tyki would pin his wrists to the bed and fuck him hard, like no one ever had.
Apparently, he could get there.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror across the room after he was done and didn’t know what to think of himself. Disheveled, hair a mess. Lips bitten bloody from holding back his moans, cum drying on his shaking hand. Getting off for the enemy.