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It’s late enough that Thoma could be confident they were the only two people still awake in the estate. He didn’t mind, of course; with a schedule as busy as Ayato’s, any time with him, no matter the hour, was precious.
Alone at the low table, Thoma sits on his knees and waits for his Lord, just as he was instructed to do. The table wasn’t made, but he was told not to worry about that.
He knew what to expect tonight. Ayato had ordered him to have a light dinner, undoubtedly due to the activities he had planned for them. It was a game Ayato liked to play often. In fact, his act of feeding Thoma all sorts of peculiar foods has become quite infamous. Other residents of the estate even liked to tease him about it.
Thoma can’t stop himself from flinching from the loud clack as a dish drops down onto the table between them with a light thud. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in,” Thoma laughs. “It’s good to see you, my Lord.”
He hums in response. “Likewise.”
Thoma smiles up at him, warm and bright, and then looks down at the food he had prepared for him.
Cold, spoiled noodles dusted with the sporadic white webbing of decay sits within a familiar bowl. Thoma recognizes it as the yakisoba he threw together about a week or so ago; it hardly looks presentable at all anymore, the chaotic growth of mold a harsh contrast to the simple and elegant design of the ceramic dish.
While it wasn’t unusual for Ayato to present him with questionable dishes, surely, Ayato wouldn’t try to feed him this. Thoma waits, with his hands pressed against his thighs, for Ayato to laugh and slide the dish away to instead present him with something a bit more stomachable.
And yet…
Time creeps along steadily, the seconds giving way to minutes and still, Ayato doesn’t utter a word. A nervous layer of sweat gathers along Thoma’s skin, palms wet against his pants. When Thoma drags his gaze up from the spoiled yakisoba, Ayato’s expression remains the same as it always does; pleasant, with a lazy, friendly smile that never seems out of place. Still, there’s an… expectant glint to his eye.
One that Thoma is far too familiar with.
He can’t stop the trembling of his fingers as he pushes the food towards Ayato, the scrape of the bowl against the tabletop ringing louder in his ears than any scream. “M-my Lord, I can’t… um… I can't eat this.”
“But you made it for me, didn’t you?” Ayato’s kind smile drips sweetly through every word he says, “I can’t imagine it would be dangerous to eat…”
“You… you left it out for a week!” Thoma cries, his voice high with desperation. He blushes at his own boldness, hesitates for a moment, and continues in a hushed whisper,“I-I… I’ll get sick. Please, my Lord, I have… um… I’m- I have a lot of work to do this week. Please.”
The only indication Ayato even heard Thoma’s outburst was the slow blink of his eyes. “You shouldn’t let food go to waste, Thoma. Here, let me help you,” Ayato says, his tone of voice reminiscent of a parent disciplining their child.
While Thoma watches Ayato reach across the table, the warm caress of his glove against the side of his face is a bit of a shock. He nearly leans into the touch, but the delicate brush of his Lord’s fingers against his cheek does not remain gentle for long; his jaw is seized, in a grip hard enough to bruise, and he’s yanked forward to lean over the table.
Ayato plucks a pair of chopsticks up from the rest, gathering a good helping of the yakisoba between them. Tangled within the soiled noodles, as though it were a fly within the web of a spider, is a muddy red vegetable coated in a fine layer of moldy fuzz.
“Open up, Thoma.”
As the chopsticks drew near, he could smell the musty scent of decay, and despite his desire to do as his Lord says, Thoma can’t find it within him to open his mouth.
If this was merely a game, as terrible as it was, the punishment for disobedience would undoubtedly be even worse. And well, if he behaved, there would be a reward. Ayato wasn’t needlessly cruel, after all.
Reluctantly, Thoma parts his lips.
It’s more than a proper mouthful, enough to stuff his cheeks full. Despite his best effort to push his tongue to the side and avoid the taste, it invades his mouth nonetheless; the sludge of flavor is that of muddy water, left to fester in the sun, and it lays sticky and thick across every inch of his mouth.
It’s beyond rancid. Thoma couldn’t even bite down, his mouth left hanging open as tears ran down his face in two neat little lines.
“Go on, Thoma- chew,” Ayato says, moving his own jaw up and down in a demonstration, nodding his head all the while. “See? Just like that, now.”
He tries to do as Ayato instructs, but the slimy gumminess of the noodles and the brush of the fuzzy soiled vegetable against his tongue proved to be too much; his throat spasms, almost painfully, and despite his best efforts, the bite of yakisoba spills from his lips and falls down against the table.
Wordlessly, Ayato gathers the regurgitated clump between his chopsticks once more to force the same bite into Thoma’s mouth.
Before he could even think to spit out the noodles once again, Ayato clasps his hand over Thoma’s mouth. The chopsticks are placed onto their rest with a distant click, and with his now free hand, Ayato pinches the blond’s nose as well.
“Swallow, Thoma. You don’t want to get my gloves dirty, do you?”
He tries to pull away, but Ayato holds on easily. Without any means to breathe, Thoma really had no choice but to force the spoiled food down his throat; he swears he can feel a sticky trail of mold line the back of his esophagus as it slides down, the roots digging deep within his muscles.
There’s a loud, audible gulp. Ayato pulls his hands away and laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, one that typically never fails to make Thoma smile.
With a hand resting against his stomach, and another clasped about his throat, Thoma closes his eyes. The urge to vomit seizes him, yet he manages to keep the festering mouthful down. Ayato’s laughter sounds distant, the light airiness of it almost makes it seem like a hallucination.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“Doesn’t that just taste wonderful?” Ayato coos, petting the top of Thoma’s head as the young man struggles to find his bearings. He picks up the chopsticks once more, preparing another bite; noodles and a sliver of cabbage, dotted with specks of rot like a splatter of ink across a page.
“P-please… my Lord… I- I’m full,” Thoma pleads, opening his eyes and turning his head to escape the insistent press of food against his lips.
Ayato’s smile falters, if only for a second. “Thoma… you wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”
He looks down at the yakisoba again. It wasn’t… that much, if he was being honest. Maybe just a few more big bites, and then it would be over. “I… I… N-no, my Lord… Of course not.”
With a stifled sob, Thoma opens his mouth once more; Ayato feeds him without hesitation, and the fuzzy collection of mold across the noodles brushes against the corner of his mouth. It’s a disturbing sensation, a teasing moment before the return of the muddy, foul taste of the yakisoba.
The festering bite weighs heavily within his stomach besides the first one. He presses a hand against his mouth as he gags.
Ayato gathers another bite. Once again, a large collection of noodles sit between his chopsticks. A lumpy, wet chunk of soured, green meat rests besides them. The pungent scent of ammonia is almost unbearable as his Lord thrusts the food within his mouth.
It’s the worst by far. He can’t swallow it, can’t even bite down on the offending piece of food; it’s simply torturous, and he clamps his own hand over his mouth once more as he desperately tries to keep himself from throwing up.
Saliva floods his mouth, besides the rancid meat and dusty noodles. It isn’t much of a surprise when his throat tightens, almost as though there were a hand clasped about it, and a fast, violent gag rocks his body forward. The edge of the table digs unpleasantly into his churning stomach, and he can’t stop himself, no matter how hard he tries.
Vomit tears through his throat, the poorly chewed noodles slither up alongside chunks of everything else he has eaten that day. He tries to pull away, to turn to the side to keep the table clean and escape the gaze of Ayato, yet it splashes down against the edge of the table. It’s painful, unpleasant and Thoma wants nothing more than to curl into a ball in the darkest corner of the estate and never look his Lord in the face again.
It seemingly doesn’t end. He coughs and hacks, throat sore and burning, and he continues to throw up until all that comes out is a thin, runny liquid. The vomit that lands on his lap and sticks to his lips and runs down his chin feels almost hot as it seeps through his clothes, leaving him a gross mess.
“I’m- I’m so… I’m so, so sorry… my Lord, please…” he sobs, when it all seemingly comes to end. The bitterness of the vomit is almost a relief compared to the taste of the moldy yakisoba, although it’s nothing pleasant. “I- I’ll clean… I’ll clean this up, my Lord. Please- please don’t be angry.”
Ayato chuckles, sharp and cruel. “You’re such a bad boy, Thoma. Wasting all this food? And you think I shouldn’t be angry? You should feel ashamed of yourself.”
Silently, he stands up. Thoma’s eyes are wide as he watches, his eyes sliding downwards from his face to focus on the bulge that presses against the front of his pants. His cock was clearly erect, and Thoma averts his eyes to instead stare at the slodgy mess of vomit that stains the tabletop as Ayato shamelessly palms himself.
“Clean this up, Thoma. And when you’re done, we’ll begin your punishment.”