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After their earlier experimentation with ice, Deymos is curious about exactly what else Vexen might be surprisingly okay with, if it was merely sex-adjacent rather than involving his direct participation. Vexen’s reaction had been one of neutral curiosity. Normally Deymos would prefer more enthusiasm from a partner, but he recognizes that neutral curiosity is in fact the best he can expect from Vexen on this front—and is well aware that he’d have no hesitation to shoot down the suggestion at once if he was truly uninterested.
Vexen had agreed that, in principle, he was not necessarily opposed to observing certain activities that he didn’t want to personally take part in. That was science, after all. As to how closely he was willing to observe them, that was another question entirely. Still, he admits, it would be useful to learn the answer, even if only to better articulate his own boundaries.
Which is what led to their current situation: namely, the two of them making out on Deymos’s bed as he gradually removes his clothing piece by piece until he’s left in nothing but a pair of form-fitting boxer briefs.
They make the pleasant discovery along the way that Vexen has no objection to making out while Deymos is shirtless, though Vexen himself remains fully clothed. Deymos doesn’t mind that, either, because it only makes him feel more exposed in comparison, and he’s all for it.
Now, Vexen sits at the edge of the bed, one hand resting on Deymos’s bare knee, gaze sweeping over him as he lies there nearly naked, his obvious arousal tenting the material of his underwear. Vexen’s fingers inch slowly up his thigh just a bit further, not hesitant, but with a deliberate slowness.
Deymos’s breath comes fast and heavy. “Can I? Please?”
“Not yet.”
Deymos both loves and hates that this was his own idea, letting Vexen call the shots, deciding when—or if—he’s allowed to touch himself. He whimpers as, with effort, he tangles his hands into the silky material of his bedsheets, as Vexen’s slightly cool touch now moves up his calf, then back down, smoothing out the fair hair there—and then, unexpectedly, trails low over his stomach, not far above the waistband of his briefs.
“You may touch yourself,” Vexen tells him, “but only where your skin is already bare.”
Anywhere, that is, except where he most wants it.
Deymos gives a plaintive moan, but runs his nails up and down his thighs, caresses his chest, pinches his nipples, losing himself in the heat that spreads through him. His cheeks and throat are flushed, he can feel it, and knowing that Vexen is watching him, keenly observing his every movement—
“Please,” Deymos breathes.
Vexen nods. “You may touch yourself over your clothing.”
Deymos trails his fingers over the covered bulge of his hard cock. He tries to pace himself, giving his cock and balls a light squeeze before he moves his hand lower. He presses two fingertips in behind his balls through the thin material of his briefs, enough focused pressure to stimulate his prostate without penetration.
“F-fuck,” he exhales shakily.
Vexen takes in a sharp breath, so quick Deymos almost misses it.
Almost.
“Can I come?” asks Deymos. He’s not usually this fast, but with Vexen watching—this is new. Not to mention, he doesn’t expect Vexen to agree immediately, if at all. He’s actually not totally sure if he should ask—that might be pushing his boyfriend toward more involvement than he wants either way. On the other hand, Deymos is certain that Vexen won’t hesitate to tell him to fuck right off and figure it out himself if that’s the case.
Vexen watches him for a moment, then gives a chilly, sadistic smile. “Not yet.”
Deymos whines and again grips the bedsheets in an effort to keep his hands off himself, only to shudder as the back of Vexen’s knuckles brush very lightly over his hip.
“Please,” Deymos begs. “Oh, please, I can’t—”
Vexen pinches his thigh hard, the sting sending another spike of arousal through him, making him moan. Deymos palms himself through his underwear, unable to get a proper grip, but it’ll do for now, because it has to, no matter how maddening it is.
“Please—”
“Very well,” says Vexen. “Do what you must.”
Deymos had thought he’d be eager to get a hand down his pants now that he has permission, but now that he’s found a rhythm as he thrusts against his own grasping hand, he doesn’t want to stop. If he keeps going, he’s almost there—almost—
Vexen’s hand closes around his throat—not hard, and just for a second before it moves up to grip his jaw as he leans down to kiss him, and Deymos comes with a muffled cry.
When Deymos once again becomes aware of his surroundings, including Vexen still sitting at his size, gazing down at him with an expression that might look indifferent to anyone else but which Deymos recognizes as fondness, he can’t help but feel a vague sense of admiration at his boyfriend’s ability to remain entirely unaffected by the whole business.
“Well?” Deymos manages eventually. “What do you think?” He’d be delighted if Vexen enjoyed the show, but he’ll also live if he’d rather not do it again.
For a moment, Vexen’s face is unreadable. “I think,” he says slowly, “this particular research question may require further data.”