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Aoyama doesn't know how it starts.
Wrong.
Because he does. Because he understands the physiology behind it, the theory, but he doesn't. Not really. He doesn't know how it's suddenly applied itself to him. It doesn't make any sense, how this roaring fire grew, billowing up from some secret recess in his soul...but that's human nature he supposed, obnoxious and inconvenient at the best of times, dehabilitating and destructive at the worst. A fact he knows all to well.
Aoyama stares at his lap. Stares with clenched jaw and curled fist. Stares like his glare can somehow change what he's seeing, what he's feeling. Stares at where that...thing...his penis is rearing its head, standing angrily at attention, lifting the plaid fabric of his briefs like a proud flag waving in the wind. He states and all he can think is:
I just cleaned these boxers.
He thought he was better than this, thought he'd successfully kept his distance--from their diseases and their germs... Apparently not. Apparently he's not so immune to their vices after all. Apparently he's a little more human than he thought.
Aoyama keeps staring, minutes ticking by in strained silence as he tries to will the erection away, to stand the fuck down so he can focus on his homework, but it doesn't. It persists. Taunting him with its virility, aching in its confinement. Begging to be touched.
How do the others deal with this? He thinks to himself, hands curling and uncurling on the top of his desk. It's annoying.
Part of him wants to give in. He knows how the others would deal with this, for them it would be easy, hardly anything to think about, just grab n' go, but for him...that doesn't seem possible. It feels like giving in if he does. If he's not master of his own body then what does he own?
Aoyama sighs, letting out a harsh breath and digging the palms of his hands against his eyes. This is torture. Screw waterboarding, strap him to a chair and keep him aroused and he'd confess to anything. Anything to just make it stop.
Suddenly his phone buzzes, vibrating on the side of his desk and Aoyama blindly grabs it, glancing his middle finger over the home button.
From Zaizen: My place @10?
What? Aoyama frowns at his screen, about to type in a response when a second message comes in. This one a picture. Of Zaizen.
Aoyama's mouth goes dry.
He's shirtless in it, hair still damp and hanging low over his face. A smirk's plastered to his lips, edges curved into something undeniably cocky. And that skin. Miles and miles of smooth tanned skin that leaves Aoyama reeling. Zaizen is hot. He can admit that. Objectively speaking.
And it does things to Aoyama. Things he'd rather not look too closely at. Things that have his flagging erection coming back full force, beating in time with his stacatto heartbeat.
Aoyama groans, hands trembling so much that he has to set the phone down, but it does nothing to erase that image from his mind. It's seared in his brain. The image of Zaizen, warm and inviting, towel wrapped around his waist like the dirtiest sort of promise...
Aoyama bites his lip, digging an incisor into the flesh as if the pain would make his dirty thoughts disappear. It doesn't. In fact his erection twitches in his briefs like some sort of contradiction and he finds himself gripping his stomach, head tossed back as he tried to resist...
I am the master of my body. He thinks, fingers trailing down unconsciously, I am the master of my body. I am the master of my body--
Zaizen.
A gasp. A moan. He's arching out of his chair, mouth gaping, chest heaving, hand wrapped around the fabric covering his penis, rubbing frantically. He groans. God did it feel good. It feels more than good. It feels amazing. He doesn't even know how to describe it. The sensations running through his body. The fire burning in his belly. The electricity singing through his spine.
Another moan escapes his lips and his face turns to the side, enough so that he could bite at the tender flesh of his shoulder. Bite and hold on as the spike of sensation echoes back down his body to his core. To the erection in his hand. God it's dirty. So dirty. The hand rubbing himself begins to feel slimy, getting wet through the fabric, but he doesn't stop, he needs more. More of the sensation. More of the contradiction. He knows when this is all over he'll hate himself, but for now...
He thinks about Zaizen. Thinks about how fresh and clean he was in that picture. He thinks about how he'd smell, that woodsy pine smell that always clings to him right after a shower, a combination of deodorant and cologne. A scent Aoyama has tried and failed to ignore in the club room.
He thinks of Zaizen in the field. Thinks if that deep, gruff voice yelling. He thinks about all that fire aimed at him. How much bigger Zaizen is than himself. Bulkier. Able to pick him up if Aoyama ever let him. Aoyama imagines touching him and--
Zaizen!
He comes. He comes for the first time by his own hand. He comes and shudders through it, a long whine, higher than he thought he could make leaving his lips as he bends, breaks, shatters at the seams, spunk soaking through the fabric of his briefs like the worst sort of brand.
Aoyama whimpers through the aftershocks, body jerking with it, eyes a little watery and he slowly lets go of his shoulder, the spot he bit positively aching as he opens his eyes. On his desk rests his phone, screen flashing with incoming messages, probably from Zaizen realizing his mistake. He thinks about deleting the message, deleting the picture but--
His penis gives a little half-hearted twitch in his briefs.
He doesn't. It's dirty. And perverse and wrong and he's worse than even his team for stealing whiffs of his towels but... Aoyama gulps. Eyes the mess in his pants. He kind of likes it.
The thought of being dirty.
Aoyama slides his phone unlocked.
To Zaizen: go to sleep. I deleted the picture.
To Zaizen: btw you call that clean?