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“One, two, three!” Barth lets out a grunt as he hoists a leg over the wall.
Tanrak sucks in an unexpected breath at the sound. The warmth of Barth’s legs linger on his fingertips, eyes shifting nervously as he tries not to be aware of his own skin. He licks his lips, throat parched and words clogged. He mistakes a glance at Barth.
Bathed in the warm glow of the streetlight, Barth looks towards the horizon, a small smile dancing in the irises of his eyes. Tanrak’s gaze is transfixed. He lets out a soft, shaky exhale as Barth turns to him. Tanrak dips his gaze to the middle of Barth’s chest, avoiding direct eye contact.
“You really won’t come?” Barth offers him an inviting hand, the warm light sharpening the distinct grooves and ridges of the veins crisscrossing his arm. Tanrak doesn’t let his treacherous gaze linger longer than it needs to. He shakes his head.
Barth seems to have expected the response. “Wait for me, I’ll be back.”
And Tanrak waits, because his feet have nailed themselves on the mound of dried leaves he’s standing on, uncomfortable as he tries to will themselves to move. The slide of the leaves make him unsteady and yet he seems unable to control his feet enough to get them to move.
Not when he can sense the touch of Barth’s thighs alongside his cheek. Flexed muscles through the thin fabric, Tanrak’s fingertips feel the ghost of supple skin as if they were still digging into the flesh of Barth’s legs. Placing a palm against the cross painted on the wall behind him, he crunches the end of his t-shirt as a means to ground himself back to reality.
He needs to confess. He needs to absolve himself of these uncomfortable feelings. But how does one confess to a feeling he can’t name. Tanrak doesn’t know why his chest feels scratchy, why his hips feel heavy, why there’s a simmering dread pooling in his abdomen.
Yet he’s lying, isn’t he? He knows what this is, he has heard the boys whisper this in hushed murmurs when they think he’s out of earshot. The spark of discomfort that you just cannot stop fanning the flames to, that brings you pleasure you’ve never experienced before. But Tanrak doesn’t know what it is, never letting his stray thoughts wander enough to experience it himself.
He’s still lying.
Of course he has let his thoughts wander. Confess, his rational brain demands, Confess and you shall be forgiven. Tanrak feels his breath quicken. His t-shirt is a crumpled mess, much like his mind. He has let himself wonder before, tried to imagine what the others could mean when they talk of malleable chests, soft fingers and softer palms. Supple thighs, curved waists, girls. He’s tried to imagine. But it doesn’t bring forth the rush of tension the boys talk about, it just- exists. Tanrak revelled in his self control, in his commitment to the lord. He scored the best, in theory, and better yet in the practice of his faith.
But now, those fictional soft, smooth hands give way to thick, strong fingers. Thighs that flex as they chase the football triumphantly under the blaring sun, fists that can throw a punch. Arms strong enough to climb over the wall- Tanrak blinks the thoughts away.
He knows.
He knows the moment he crosses this boundary of the unknown, his own life will be in jeopardy. His ticket to heaven, his one and only way to meet his parents. He does not want to lose the only path to his happiness. He does not, he does not, he does not-
Don’t think about it. Tanrak gulps in a helpless breath, calming his mind. Don’t think about it. You cannot sin if you do not think. Think of the scriptures, think of your duty. Think-
Lust means letting desire control us.
The words he’s been mulling over comes forth in his mind, the image of lust superimposing with the shape of thighs, of scent, of heat. Narrowed eyes with a twinkle of amusement in them, playful and strong. Confident. The scent of soap that wafts forth in the communal baths, warm and inviting. Sultry. Sweat dripping down a back he finds himself watching more often than he’ll deign himself the time to dwell on, what would it taste like, oh-
Tears brimming at the ends of his eyes, with shame coursing through his veins, Tanrak turns to the sky, silently begging for forgiveness.
Barth is surprisingly energetic for the time of the night. He pulls Tanrak towards a gazebo, settling Tanrak first against a pillar before placing the rotis he bought between them. Gleefully, he unwraps the flimsy paper covering the roll, smiling as he takes in a waft of the steaming food as if it were a delicacy.
Tanrak plays with his thumbs, gluing his gaze to the margin between his t-shirt and trousers so as to not risk a glance at Barth.
“Oh!” Barth exclaims as he takes a bite, and Tanrak’s trance breaks. His eyes lift up to find the ends of Barth’s lips tugged up. At the same moment, Barth turns to face him, eyes sparkling as if he’s enjoying the best meal in the world.
His smile widens. Tanrak’s eyes latch onto Barth’s lips. Barth places his roti down to unwrap the other one, offering it to Tanrak. “Here, I bought this for you.”
Tanrak wills his head to refuse the offer. “Hurry up, I want to sleep.”
He lies. Again.
Barth leans over, tongue catching the taste of the roti before his lips wrap around it, cheeks puffing as he takes a bite and chews it in delight. Tanrak’s body seems to follow Barth’s every move, buzzing and sparking at every action. Barth peeks a glance at Tanrak, sending a jolt down Tanrak’s spine as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. He gulps as he tries to smother the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Barth’s gaze drops from Tanrak to the roti in his hand, and with an inexplicable knowing smile, he offers his half eaten roti to Tanrak.
“Help me.”
Tanrak’s hands reach for the paper wrapped bottom before his mind has the time to halt his actions, making Barth raise an eyebrow in a cocky triumph. The roti has a distinct bite mark around the edge, ends flattening in the shape of Barth’s teeth. Tanrak feels saliva trailing down his tongue. He gulps it down.
A movement from Barth drags his attention back at the boy. His thumb is collecting the stray roti flakes from the edge of his lips, tongue lashing out to lick it clean. Tanrak feels his chest constrict at that. Barth’s thumb continues along its pilgrimage, dragging across plump, pink lips. The oil of the roti glistens even as his thumb tries to smother it clean, and Tanrak’s voyeuristic eyes latch onto it like a moth drawn to light.
Barth’s eyes narrow as he catches Tanrak’s gaze. He dusts the flakes off his fingers and scratches the back of his neck, seeming sheepish. “Eat, eat.”
And like a command he cannot ignore, Tanrak’s gaze dips down to the shape of the bite on the roti, edges glistening with a sheen he’s almost confident are his eyes playing tricks on him. He dips his head as he takes the tip of the roti inside his mouth, tongue resting on the chewy, flakey dough. His teeth sink into the soft skin, his mouth rough and parched all of a sudden. The flavour bursts on his tongue regardless of the dryness he feels as he chews the bite, coughing slightly as he swallows the mush.
Barth smiles at him throughout.
With clumsy hands Tanrak unfastens the knot on his trousers, pushing his underwear down along with it as he grabs himself to pee.
The weight of Barth’s stare is palpable even as his back is turned to him, and Tanrak’s body squirms under it. He closes his eyes as he counts to ten, trying to calm his nerves. It’s okay, he’s going to be okay.
Grass and soil crunch under Barth’s feet as he makes his way to Tanrak, situating himself right beside him as he pushes his own trousers down.
“Nice aim.”
Tanrak scrunches his brows tighter as he begs the Heavens to finish this ordeal already. The sound of their actions is deafeningly loud as Tanrak constricts every muscle in his body to stop himself from looking down at their pants. Or particularly, Barth’s.
Barth shifts his weight from one leg to another, slanting his head to peek at Tanrak’s visage. “I know the answer.”
Goosebumps crawl up from the base of Tanrak’s neck to the ends of his toes, the trajectory of Barth’s gaze scanning every inch of his body. He can see me. Tanrak tries to shut his thoughts, but the more he tries to avoid it, the more he feels his nerves flaying in the wind, every miniscule rift of the wind making him shudder.
Barth doesn’t wait for Tanrak to acknowledge his mysterious statement. “The lost one always speaks the truth.” There is a depth to his gaze that tries to communicate a point to Tanrak, but Tanrak is nothing but a foolish mortal who cannot look at the truth in the eye. He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead, glancing only an immeasurably small peek before turning his eyes to the sky.
Give me the strength, lord. He begs, but the gods do not listen to him.
The familiar fabric of his bedding feels coarse as every weave and every lint sends his skin into overdrive. The visage of Barth’s waist blooms in the back of his eyelids, making Tanrak face his reality even when he tries to shut the lights from the world out. The skin beyond Barth’s hips he refuses to address. His heart rate has crossed an amount Tanrak is too gone out of his mind to be concerned about, pulsing adrenaline coursing through his already sensitive veins.
He wonders how severe the punishment for this is. He wonders if he can get away with it. If he can just- press himself better, take the edge off with a palm to his crotch. He doesn’t want to sin now, he doesn’t want to go all the way. But the heat underneath his blanket makes him insomniac, makes his nerves buzz with a sense of urgency he’s never really felt before.
And Tanrak is still hiding the truth.
He wants to know what it feels like. The way the boys describe it. Waves and waves of pleasure as you run your hand through your shaft. It can’t feel good, now, can it? With the discomfort Tanrak is feeling over just the thought of Barth’s skin in his head, how could jerking off to this thought make it feel good?
But the mirage of Barth’s alluring lips haven’t left his mind, and the touch of his fingers over Barth’s own are a tangible memory Tanrak can never really shake off. Just a touch, Tanrak’s palm has a mind of its own as it treads south through the folds of his t-shirt, hands shaking and fingers tangling through the fabric.
He doesn’t dare slip his hand through his underwear. Letting his fingers pass through his thin trouser elastic, Tanrak feels the heat from his palm course through his groin. His hips buck almost instinctually, and the cold, hard reality of his sin washes over him.
He snatches his hand out from the warmth of his crotch, nervous as he sits up, unsure of what to do about this. He needs to stop. He needs to wash his hand, his face, and douse himself in clean water and cleanse his mind. He needs to snap back into reality.
This is stupid. It is temptation and it is a test of his faith. He knows this. He shuffles his slippers on as he treads softly through the rows of sleeping boys. He just needs the cold water to fix himself. Fix this problem.
“Tanrak?” Barth’s whisper is soft and sleepy, his eyes still not open. Tanrak’s heart squeezes in response.
“It’s nothing.” He replies, even though Barth has already turned to the other side and is almost asleep.
Every step takes him a laboured breath as he treads towards the communal bath. The warm yellow lighting of the corridor provides him little comfort, which too is taken away from him as he crosses the threshold of the bathroom. Cold, blue light presses down on him condescendingly, making him bear the weight of his sinful thoughts.
Repent. They say, as Tanrak’s feet drag him closer to the wide sink. Repent for your sinful actions.
But he hasn’t even done anything. Yet he feels the lust cling to his fingers, hot, blazing sparks which burn him as much as they make him want to bring them back to where he wants it.
Needs it-
The cold metal of the tap brings his focus back on the unfeeling, blue room. With effort he twists the knob, the midnight water colder than usual. He lets the water trickle down his fingers, fingers that pressed against the heat of his desires.
Desires. Tanrak names it finally, lust. One of the seven deadly sins, the one he never expected to have to fight against. Tanrak was good at it, at fighting against carnal sins. Tanrak could fight it. Right?
Girls had never interested him anyways, never having been close to anyone to know. Tanrak knew how to keep himself pure. Boys? He never felt this before, did he? How could he not know before? They bathed together, every day. There was no way he’d ever not know?
But a small voice in his head reminds him he lies to himself. Thighs covered in a layer of sheen as the boys pour water on themselves, haughty laughter and chatter filling the room making cold lighting not feel that oppressive.
Tanrak never considered liking men. One because he shouldn’t be liking anyone, and second because he was scared.
Kongkit and his lackeys terrorizing the juniors, the silent snickering by others whenever any news of homosexuals ever reached their ears. Tanrak is scared, so scared. It’s wrong, both spiritually and socially.
He cups water in his weak, haggard palms, and cleanses his face with a cold splash. It makes his ears ring, stilling his torturous thoughts even if it is for just a second. He pushes his hair back, raking his wet fingers through his hair. The throbbing headache plaguing him relents.
He wipes the droplets from his eyes, drawing his palm downwards from his cheeks to his nose, wiping the moisture away till he lands on his lips. His eyes make the mistake of glancing at himself in the mirror, forcing him to address his own flushed face, eyes droopy and hooded as he looks every bit pitiful as he does a sinner. His thumb traces the outline of his lips, his misty gaze overlapping another pair on his reflection, one he wishes he could scratch away from his memory.
The burning pit of desire reignites in his abdomen, his throat dry and scratchy. Tanrak wants to cry.
“Are you okay?” A cool voice echoes through the wide bath, and Tanrak feels a chill down his spine.
“What are you doing here?” He asks, voice hoarse.
Barth jogs towards him, crossing through the now dry floor of the bathroom swiftly. “I saw you leaving, and then I didn’t see you come back. I was worried.”
Tanrak’s heart skips a beat.
Barth steps into Tanrak’s space, trapping him in a sleep ladled heat so warm and inviting that Tanrak almost gives in. He takes a step back to steady himself.
“You’re red.” Barth observes, pressing a hand to Tanrak’s neck. “Did you fall sick? Do I get you some medicine-”
Tanrak swats Barth’s hand away before the heat from it travels downwards.
Barth doesn’t get angry, brows drooping worried. “Hey, you can tell me if there’s something wrong, you know.”
Tanrak shakes his head, Barth’s voice making him acutely aware of the straining tent in his trousers. He hunches over, hoping that hides it away from view.
But it is this movement which grabs Barth’s attention, his gaze travelling downwards till he sees the bulge. Tanrak’s pulse roars in his ear, face flush and burning as Barth lets out a chuckle.
“Ah!” He says, teasing. “So you just had a little problem to deal with, huh?”
Shame courses through Tanrak’s veins as Barth’s undivided attention does the exact opposite of helping his ‘little problem’.
“Leave, Barth.” He whispers, his voice devoid of any strength.
“Where are you gonna do it?” Barth asks with sparkling eyes, running his gaze towards potential private spaces Tanrak could relieve himself in. “Hm, Tanrak?” His voice carries mirth along with curiosity, and Tanrak doesn’t know if he’s making fun of him or if he genuinely wants to know.
He turns his head away, ears flaming hot. “I’ll come back after I calm down, go back to sleep.”
Barth raises an eyebrow, “Calm down? Are you not going to…take care of it?” He resorts to a euphemism watching Tanrak’s tortured expression.
Tanrak shakes his head, the weight in his abdomen growing heavy with arousal, Barth’s presence amplifying the pressure on him.
Barth takes a minute before asking, voice light as if he’d never considered a negative response to this an option, “Have you ever jerked off before?”
It makes Tanrak turn his head towards him in alarm, eyes wide in shock. The realization dawns on Barth without Tanrak having to voice it out. “You haven’t.” He concludes.
Tanrak closes his eyes and hangs his head low, taking deep breaths to quell the sudden thirst. “Leave, Barth.” He pleads again.
But Barth does not leave. He stands firm, unmoving as his fingers clench the edge of his trouser pockets. “Do you…” Barth trails his question off, voice softer and lower than usual.
Tanrak glances up at him. Barth’s ears are tinged red, neck marred with a faint flush. The only instance of warm colours in the otherwise cold room.
“What?” Tanrak asks, suddenly curious of what might make Barth so sheepish.
“Do you want me to help?” Barth’s voice is raspy.
The words rush straight to Tanrak’s crotch. “What?” He parrots.
Barth’s eyes latch onto the bulge on his pants. “Can I…help?”
Tanrak scoffs, trying to stop his chest from shuddering in excitement at the proposal. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to.”
Tanrak blinks at him, focus hazy. He is weak. He’s weak and he’s tired. The painting of the devotee climbing the stairs to heaven is far far from this measly, mortal communal bathhouse, and Barth is so warm. So inviting.
“We shouldn’t.” Is all he manages.
Barth takes a step closer to him, his breath almost landing on Tanrak’s lips. “But do you want to?”
And for the first time in a while, Tanrak wants to speak the truth. The words clog in his throat, begging to be let out but fall so unfamiliar on his lips that they just refuse to roll off his tongue.
The believer doesn’t speak the truth, the believer doesn’t trust his own words. So he resorts to grabbing Barth’s sleeve and nods his head, hoping the other will understand his intentions anyways.
And Barth always does.
“Here?” Barth asks with a smirk as Tanrak pushes him into a toilet stall. It’s dry and mostly clean, which Tanrak is immensely thankful about.
“Barth you don’t have to-” Tanrak starts, making one last attempt at fighting the lust clouding his rationality.
“I want to.” Barth interrupts, halting Tanrak’s thoughts to a void. He palms the door till he finds the latch, eyes never leaving Tanrak as he pushes the lock close with a snap. Tanrak finds himself taking a step back before his back hits the wall, caging him in Barth’s mercy.
Barth’s other hand is placed on Tanrak’s hip, waiting as he searches Tanrak’s face for any trace of remaining doubt. Tanrak nods, and Barth shifts his palm over his groin. It elicits a gasp out of Tanrak. He lets his head roll onto the wall as he closes his eyes, the warmth in Barth’s hand branding. He rolls his hips against the friction before he can help himself.
Barth laughs at that, “You really haven’t done this before?" His voice is low and so close to his ear that Tanrak shudders under it. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see the smirk lacing Barth’s lips.
“Open your eyes, Tanrak.” Barth whispers like a plea, “Look at me.”
And how is Tanrak supposed to deny him? He opens his eyes to find Barth’s lips close to his ear, soft breaths grazing the fuzzy hair on his neck. His eyes dark as he watches Tanrak’s face with rapt attention.
And then he starts massaging Tanrak with his palm, soft, circular motion with just enough pressure that Tanrak is fully aware of his palm on him.
“You’re so warm.” Barth notes, staring at Tanrak’s lips. “Oh Tanrak.”
Tanrak’s breath hitches at that, and he finds himself softly rocking his hips along the length of Barth’s palm. With every shift of his hips along Barth’s palm his confidence rises, and with Barth’s enthusiastic compliments egging him on, Tanrak finds himself letting out soft exhales and needy whines.
Barth treads his palm upwards till he finds the elastic of Tanrak’s trousers. Hooking a finger around the rim, he pushes his hands past his boxers and directly onto him.
Tanrak lets out a groan as Barth’s fingers wrap around his length, scalding and hard after what felt like an eternity of grinding against his palm. Barth coos at him, mesmerised at Tanrak’s every sound. Languid and slow, Barth pumps him still inside his boxers, and Tanrak feels the world is moving in the opposite direction.
His breath is a stuttering mess, exhales tangible. “Barth!” The syllable drags on his tongue as Barth puts more pressure onto him.
“Why are you calling me so loud?” Barth’s voice holds mirth, “I’m right here.”
Tanrak feels his legs get unsteady as Barth pulls him out of his confines, hands grasping onto the cold wall behind him. The air outside the shelter of his clothes is chilly, especially with how sensitive he is. Barth’s relentless hand provides a scalding respite.
Heart racing and breath heavy, Tanrak tilts his head to face Barth, “Is this how you do it yourself?”
“No.” Barth laughs and at the same moment he quickens his pace on Tanrak, letting his thumb run over the slit. “This is how I do it myself.” The precum collects and trails down his fingers as he pumps Tanrak through, and Tanrak finds himself rutting into Barth’s fist under the constant ministration. A moan escapes Tanrak, guttural and wanton.
“Do you like it?” Barth asks, as if pleasing Tanrak is the most important ordeal in the world.
“I don’t know.” Tanrak answers truthfully, gulping in as much air as his lungs can manage. “It feels weird.”
Barth slows down, “Should I stop?”
Tanrak shakes his head vigorously, wrapping his hands around Barth’s shoulders and pulling him plush against himself. Barth feels the air get punched out of his lungs as Tanrak pulls him impossibly closer in his embrace, Barth’s hand stuck between their bodies.
“Tanrak.” Barth’s voice is muffled by Tanrak’s hair. His laugh is light and airy as he continues. “I can’t keep doing it if you crush my hands like this.”
Tanrak groans in response, rolling his hips against whatever friction he can manage between the tight space. Barth lets out a grunt himself. “Tanrak…”
Tanrak places his hand at the base of Barth’s neck, turning his face to an angle he wants it to be in. He pushes his lips together with Barth, a dry press with more force than passion. It still sends a bolt of electricity down Tanrak’s nerves.
He pulls himself apart almost immediately, belatedly realizing his own actions. Barth’s hand on him stills, eyes blown wide as he comprehends what happened.
“I’m…” sorry gets stuck in Tanrak’s throat as he watches the sultry haze cloud Barth’s eyes, gaze dropping to Tanrak’s lips as he flicks his tongue out to wet his own. Tanrak finds himself mirroring the action.
Without a warning, Barth’s hands resume their earlier mission, with ferociousness Tanrak has never witnessed before. Barth leans in, capturing Tanrak’s lips in his own, open mouthed and panting. Tanrak responds in kind, even if his legs are shaking and unsteady, and his head is occupied with the coiling string tightening at every pulse of Barth’s fist.
Barth nips at Tanrak’s lower lip, pulling forth a gasp from him. He smiles as he detaches himself from Tanrak, only to latch onto the soft of Tanrak’s neck. It sends new shivers down Tanrak’s spine.
Tanrak’s wet enough that every drag of Barth’s fist makes an unsavoury squelch, and every rational thought in Tanrak tells him it’s disgusting. But every neuron in his body is currently on fire, reacting to the touch with record sensitivity. Barth tightens his hold on him at the tip, sending jolts down Tanrak each time, making him arch his back. Barth laps at his neck, nipping and biting and kissing.
“You smell so good, you know that?” Barth says as he flutters his eyes up at Tanrak, and Tanrak is about to lose it.
The heat in his abdomen is pulsating as it builds gradually, soft and simmering at first, but raging and desperate now. Tanrak feels his toes press at the pads of his slippers. Barth’s breath on his neck, Barth’s scent on him and the sounds of Barth’s hands pleasuring him, all superimpose into a heady, floaty sensation Tanrak can never really put into mortal words.
His voice is hoarse as he drawls out Barth’s name again, “Barth…I-”
Static buzzes in front of his eyes, dizzying bursts of pleasure pulsating through him. Ropes of white cling to his shirt and Barth’s, while Barth ignores the sticky mess to tide him over his high.
Tanrak’s ragged, laboured breathing eases into something slightly comfortable, his legs turning to jelly. Barth uses a hand to support his weight against the wall. For a second, Tanrak is unable to form any thoughts, every slight touch of Barth’s on his skin making him flinch with nerves.
“How was it?” Barth asks, attention divided as he smears the cum that landed on his hand between his fingers. “Your first time?”
Tanrak’s mouth is still agape, heaving. Instead of answering, he uses both his hands to pull Barth’s face towards him.
This time, he knows what to do. He plucks at Barth’s lips, wet and open mouthed. Slow and languid, still not fully down from his climax. Barth responds in kind, matching Tanrak’s pace as he flushes his face impossibly closer. Tanrak laps at Barth’s lips, sucking on as much as he can, leaving as little space between them as he can.
He’s intoxicated, he is addicted. He cannot get enough. Barth’s lips are the elixir to eternal life, and Tanrak needs to drink every drop out of them to cleanse himself of his sins.
Barth closes his arms around Tanrak’s waist, pulling Tanrak’s body towards him. Tanrak feels a jab at his thigh, hard and warm and that’s when he remembers somebody else hasn’t been taken care of.
“You too.” He says as he creates just enough distance between them to push his own hand in between them.
His body is growing tired by the minute, the exertion and exhaustion taking a toll on his physical capabilities. Yet the moment his hands wrap around Barth, Tanrak’s eyes flick back with a shine, alert and attentive to every movement of Barth’s.
And Barth is not one to shy away from his emotions.
“Fuck.” He says as Tanrak’s inexperienced hands clumsily try to pump him the way Barth did his. “Fuck Tanrak, you’re so good.”
Tanrak is sure it’s anything but, considering he’s experienced all of this in the span of twenty minutes. But the compliment still brings the rouge back in his cheeks, spurring on the action his hands are committing.
And Tanrak knows it’s a sin, knows he’s crossed the boundary of what he can get away with without confessing. He knows and at this moment he doesn’t care.
How could he, when Barth’s profound roster of curses spill out of his lips as Tanrak’s hands make him do that. The glee of control, of power over Barth’s moans, groans and pleasure is a drug Tanrak will never be able to absolve himself from.
“Tanrak!” Barth drags the last syllable, making Tanrak almost delusional enough to think he’s professing his love to him. Barth lets his head rest on Tanrak’s shoulder as he lets out a choked grunt. Tanrak acutely understands what Barth meant when he said Tanrak smelled nice.
Barth smells fresh like flowers, owing to his floral soap. As Tanrak nears his face to the crook of Barth’s neck, he realises that the boy in the mercy of his hands smells as bit floral as he smells like musk. Strong and confident in his opinions, but soft and sweet in his tenderness.
It’s fascinating, it’s alluring, it’s addicting. Tanrak presses his nose to Barth’s neck, taking in a deep breath to feel the scent of Barth inside his veins.
“Tanrak.” Barth pants, “Tanrak I am so close.” And everything that follows is a mixture of disjoint curses, punctuated with grunts and moans.
Tanrak lets himself see the entirety of Barth splayed over him, body and soul in hand, and sighs, “Barth, you’re so beautiful.”
Barth twitches, cum spluttering out of him as it joins the earlier mess made by Tanrak. Their clothes are stained with sticky white, but Barth’s groans fill the silent toilet, engulfing it in a bubble Tanrak is unable to connect to reality.
The streaks of their spent dries rapidly on their clothes, and Tanrak wonders how they’ll ever reach their rooms without being discovered. For the first time in his life, he feels like cursing.
“Fuck!” Barth exclaims helpfully.
Tanrak, even with the slack fatigue after an eventful day, manages to agree. “Yeah, indeed.”