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The rising sun falls through the colorful blinds of the hotel room much in the way it would through the stained glass window of the Orphanage's chapel during the morning prayers. Atsushi rolls to the side, not sure if more to escape the memory of it or the outline of Akutagawa in the bed on the opposite side of the room.
For a brief moment, he despises Dazai for only booking one room, for forcing them into this situation together. He can even feel a slight hint of surprise that Akutagawa hadn't suffocated him with a pillow in his sleep. Instead, the Port Mafia's Hellhound sleeps soundly and Atsushi is afraid that if he looks at his still form for too long, he'll start to seem nearly too human.
And, what's even worse, he can feel the familiar tension making his pajama shorts feel tight. It's just another reason to turn away. Face to the wall, almost as if he didn't want to let the reality of the rest of the room in.
Mornings like that are shameful, embarrassing. Remind him of all the sinful desires his flesh holds, of the touch that he doesn't deserve, of all the ways in which he's broken.
He looks down at the tenting in his crotch with bitter disgust rising to the back of his throat. It feels violating to allow himself to even exist in such an indecent state. He'd rather Akutagawa wake up and pierce his body with Rashoumon until his internal organs are so damaged that even the tiger's regenerative abilities are not of any help than to see him like that.
There's not much he knows about Akutagawa. Sure, he knows that he is Dazai's former student and that he's violent and spiteful in his wicked ways, but other than that the mafioso remains a mystery, hovering somewhere between a real human being and a nightmarish ghoul. And maybe, just maybe, Atsushi would rather he'd stay closer to the latter. It makes things easier.
Still, being caught like that — hard in the morning and nearly aching from the desire for friction —- is out of the question. Touching himself is indecent and wrong, so he decides to settle for something that can bring at least a shadow of relief.
His face burns with shame as he tries to hump the mattress. Guilt settles heavy in his stomach in the first reaction to the pleasure that shoots through his crotch. It's wrong. He's only doing this because he's too weak. If the Headmaster could see him like this he'd surely dump a bucket of cold water over him and drag him off to the cell.
He whimpers a little at the memory, but still grinds his crotch against the mattress. The movements of his body make it creak slightly but in his mind the sound echoes through the room and through his bones and through his mind. Another tiny sound slips out of his mouth as he desperately chases relief that refuses to come.
Tears prickle at his eyes and cling to his eyelashes.
It'd be so embarassing to be seen like that. Like a sinner, a x, a whore. He nearly cries out. But all he can do is hope that Akutagawa doesn't wake up. Because he's weak and he's pathetic and he's tainted by the desires he can't control.
Another whimper crawls up his throat. He can't hold it back, but he can press his face into the pillow to muffle it, to ensure that he's alone with his sin.
The guilt over what he's doing is so overwhelming that the pleasure makes him feel like he's dirty and yet his hips continue to press against the mattress in a slow, humiliating rhythm. His stomach is heavy with disdain. The disdain towards his body and disdain towards his mind for not being strong enough to swallow down his vices.
He drowns out all the noises other than the echoes of the prayers the orphanage had taught him. Strangled verses begging for forgiveness, when he's hot sure he deserves any, when he's sure that he's too flawed and broken to deserve anything but a kick to the ribs.
He can feel something wet on his cheeks. Is he crying? It takes him a while to realize that he is.
How much more pathetic can he get? Humping the mattress of a hotel bed and crying like a child when he should already know better for a long time.
Then the cough fills the room, tears through Atsushi's brain like a roaring thunder. He freezes with his tearstained face pressed into the pillow that made such a good job trying to drown out all his pitiful noises and with his hips raised up ready to roll into the mattress again.
He slowly turns his head around, his heart pounding and throat twisting with the overwhelming sense of dread.
Another cough shakes the room, or maybe it just seems louder because Atsushi is on the edge. His face is tear-stricken and he's sure that he can't hold back crying for much longer.
And Akutagawa is awake, sitting at the edge of the bed with the bottom half of his face covered with his hand and his inky black eyes glaring holes into Atsushi's soul with an emotion that he can't decipher.
"I— Akutagawa—- Why," he tries to speak, but his words come out strangled.
The mafioso furrows his thin eyebrows, nose wrinkling at the sight in front of him. Of course he's disgusted. Who wouldn't be?
But suddenly his body is frozen, brain locked down in a fear response. His knees shaking, pressed firmly against the mattress, eyes teary.
And yet, Akutagawa speaks calmly, coldly.
"What do you think you were doing, Weretiger?" he asks. Every word drills deeper and deeper into Atsushi's brain, making him shiver.
Akutagawa gets up from the bed. The rabid dog, now scarily calm as he passes through the room with footsteps quiet as a ghost. He stops by Atsushi's bedside and looks down on him with a frown.
"I refuse to believe that Dazai has chosen someone who fails to even get himself off," he mutters, each word dripping with venom.
Atsushi's eyes flick between the obvious bulge in his crotch and Akutagawa standing over him. He feels so much more proper, even his clothes — a dark long-sleeved tee and loose pants marked with thin, dark blue stripes — contrast with a cheap combo of nearly translucent T-shirt and a little too form-fitting shorts that Atsushi is wearing.
"I— I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to—"
He doesn't get to finish. Akutagawa grabs him by the hair and forces their eyes to meet, his tug so violent it urges a gasp of pain from Atsushi's throat.
"I weren't supposed to do what?" he asks. The emphasis on the last word makes a shiver run down Atsushi's spine, makes something in his groin shift. How indecently.
He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times but it takes him a while to manage to get a sound out of his throat.
"See me like that. Look, I— I'm really sorry. You weren't supposed to see me like this," he says, but he can barely get his words to be louder than a whisper.
Akutagawa's frown deepens. He lifts Atsushi by the hair, making him let out an involuntary scream of pain before shoving him against the wall as a single tear that still kept holding on to one of his lashes drips down his cheek. The mafioso licks his pale, chapped lips. Something in his face shifts, but Atsushi can't recognize the emotion that blooms in the darkness of his eyes.
"Out of all the ways I've seen you, I must assure you that this one is one of the most enticing," he says as he climbs onto the bed.
"No!" Atsushi tries to protest, his voice cracking and wavering as his eyes take a glance at the way the shape of his length is outlined by the fabric of his pants, "It's indecent."
"Exactly, Weretiger," Akutagawa says, voice low and quiet like a rumble, slender fingers languidly outlining the shape, drawing another gasp from Atsushi's lips, "It's indecent. So wonderfully indecent, isn't it?"
His tongue laps at his face, at the tear hanging from his jawline, lapping at its salty taste. The gesture is quick, simple and even though Atsushi should find it wrong, it still makes his heart skip a beat.
Akutagawa's palm presses against his groin, nearly enough to hurt, and for a moment Atsushi can only wish that he pressed harder, because it's hard to rationalize how it manages to feel so good when it's so wrong, so improper, so sinful. Instead he lets out a tiny moan.
"Akutagawa— What are you doing?" he asks, voice fading into a whimper as Akutagawa rolls away from him and leans against the wall before manhandling Atsushi into his lap.
"Just how pent up are you?" he whispers, warmth of his breath dancing against the back of Atsushi's neck, fingertips sneaking beneath the waistband of his pants, pressing into the soft flesh so close to his most intimate parts.
There's nothing sacred about the ways in which he touches him, but at the same time there's not even a trace of fear that the orphanage has beaten into him. No lessons about sins of the flesh, and indecency, and the burning pits of Hell. About the gates of Heaven that he would never get to see.
"Answer me, Weretiger," he orders.
Atsushi feels his face heating up, eyes fixated on the hand so close to his crotch, threatening to sink deeper, to touch without the weight of guilt and the barrier of his pajamas.
"Akutagawa, we really shouldn't. It's inappropriate," he tries to keep his voice from cracking, but he's too weak for that too.
"Is it really more humiliating that being caught trying to satisfy yourself with a mattress? Have you not figured out how to take care of yourself?"
Atsushi vehemently shakes his head the very moment he realizes what Akutagawa is talking about. Masturbation is a sin. He's not allowed to do that. Not supposed to touch himself that way. It's wrong, inappropriate, sinful.
"I— It's wrong."
"And why is that?" Akutagawa's hand finally sinks in, shameless fingers wrap around Atsushi's tender length, lips hover so close to the back of his neck he can feel their warmth, "Because we're enemies? Because you hate me? We don't need to like each other."
Atsushi feels his body shiver, overloaded with pleasure that he always tried to distance himself from, the kind that's more perverse than what came to him in his dreams.
"Why would you even do that?"
Akutagawa's hand strokes him slowly, with a gentleness he wouldn't have expected from the man in a million years.
"Because I want to see you come undone. Isn't that enough? You may pray for forgiveness if it helps you, just know it doesn't change a thing."
Atsushi whimpers. He's tender, he's touch-starved, he's giving into the sin. He tries to blame it on Akutagawa, on how nimble his fingers are when he pulls the layer of skin back and exposes the sensitive head, how his hand slides over the slit and the frenulum, knowing how to take advantage of the most tender spots.
He looks down in shame and squeezes his eyes shut to avoid looking at the sin he's participating in even when it makes his lips part with a moan.
Akutagawa's movements grow faster, but their steady rhythm reveals that it's not with impatience. His head rests against Atsushi's shoulder, snake mouth ready to whisper temptations into his ear.
"It feels good, doesn't it?" he says, voice low, warm against Atsushi's skin, "Good to be touched."
Atsushi nods with a strangled sob. The feeling is too much. The feeling is just right. The feeling is wrong and makes him want to throw up from the dirt on his skin. He wants to give in to the advice,
Akutagawa's free hand wraps around his chest and brings their bodies closer.
"God, you look so good when you cry," he whispers, blasphemous and soft in equal measures.
Two more strokes, each perfectly timed, almost as if their only goal is to bring Atsushi right to the edge. Then Akutagawa lets go, and Atsushi is manevuered like a rag doll, so now he's looking the Port Mafia's Rabid Dog in the eyes, drowning in their endless blackness.
"Go ahead. Shed tears for me."
His tongue follows Atsushi's jawline, waiting for the tears to fall, watching how they gather on his eyelashes. Watches him whimper and squirm, watches him freeze when he doesn't know whether he should move away or thrust into his hand. His body is not responding to his mind and his mind is stuck repeating the promises of Hell like a broken record.
"You must be so tender," Akutagawa coos, still stroking, still in the same pattern that shows that he knows exactly what he's doing.
And the most embarrassing part is that Atsushi's body wants it, muscles twitch as if begging him to thrust against Akutagawa's hand.
"Give in already," Akutagawa scoffs, hand carefully stroking, fingers against all the places that make Atsushi squirm with overwhelming sensations, "I will teach you things Dazai never would. Not you."
Thumb slides along his frenulum, pressure just enough to make Atsushi cry out, to make the tears finally fall just for Akutagawa to lap at them with his tongue.
"It feels good when I touch you there, doesn't it?" his finger presses against the same spot, "And it feels good when I do that," he strokes his length, almost too gentle, almost as if he knew that it'd be too much if he went any faster.
"It's—" wrong, he wants to say, but instead a phantom of his past finishes with his own voice, "Sinful."
"Mhm," Akutagawa nods, but doesn't stop, still so gentle, still minding all the tender parts, "Sinful. Once I'll take you to your God, you can tell him it was all me. For now relax."
Atsushi wants to say something, but his throat twists and doesn't allow him to make a single sound. Something about Akutagawa's words takes the invisible weight off his shoulders. He's allowed to feel good because it's not his fault. He's allowed to feel good.
"Please," he whimpers, but the only other sound that his throat allows him is a strangled moan.
"Now, so much better, relax," Akutagawa continues stroking him, hand warm, every touch deliberate, "Focus on how it feels, focus on how I move. Focus, Weretiger. I'm showing you how to pleasure yourself."
Atsushi whimpers, but still doesn't dare to look. Not until Akutagawa moves his hand to the back of his head, forcing him to look down, to see how hard he is, how Akutagawa's hand looks when it moves up and down his shaft, how darkened its head is, how a single pearly drop leaks down it.
"Good. Look at it."
He looks, feeling the skin of his face burn with every strangled whimper, with every stroke, with every time he twitched in Akutagawa's hand.
"It must be so humiliating to be taught that, isn't it? Must feel good to feel touch. Tell me. How is it?"
Atsushi arches his back when Akutagwa presses his thumb against his slit almost as if it was a threat.
"Tell me," he orders.
Atsushi feels his body shake.
"Good," is all that he manages to say, before the warmth shoots through his groin and Akutagawa pulls away his hand, now stained with sticky liquid.
He raises it to Atsushi's lips.
"Now that I've helped you out, you need to return the favor, don't you?"
Atsushi feels his face grow hotter as he watches his own cum, creamy against Akutagawa's skin. His tongue laps at it tenderly, much like Akutagawa's did at his tears, collects the liquid and swallows it down.
It tastes slightly salty, but not bad. At least it doesn't taste bad. He licks it all up. Akutagawa's right. He needs to return the favor, thank for being allowed a release.
"Good. You did good," Akutagawa whispers. Neither of them dares to look the other in the eye. Maybe that's for the better.