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Atsushi’s late, which is just his luck.
Dazai’s an admirable man, really, but he doesn’t seem to operate on any normal human being’s schedule. As such, Atsushi finds himself hurrying down the street, cursing his mentor for distracting him with some inane problem for long enough that he’s probably sullied the ADA’s entire reputation by now —
He ducks into the restaurant embarrassedly, sweeping his gaze around the small interior before lighting on the figure that matches the photo he’d been given back at the office.
“Ah, Ota-san,” Atsushi greets him as he sits in the chair opposite the man. Judging by the empty mug that rests on the table, he’s been here awhile, and Atsushi winces. “I’m so sorry about being late.”
“It’s no trouble,” Ota assures him with a slight smile. “You already know who I am, but I’m afraid I find myself at a disadvantage…?”
“Nakajima Atsushi,” he yelps, because forgetting to introduce himself after being late is just the icing on the cake.
Ota takes a moment to look Atsushi up and down before saying, ”I’m sure you have your hands full, Atsushi-kun." It's an extremely forward thing to say, but he lets it slide. There are more concerning things to address.
And Atsushi does, but that’s no excuse. “Still, you should be a priority. Would you mind telling me your account of what happened last week?”
Ota launches into an explanation of the encounter he’d had the previous Wednesday. The ADA has been tracking an Ability user with some sort of mind-altering ability that she's used to completely immobilize and wipe the memories of several bank employees and clients while she robbed them blind. Atsushi takes notes as Ota recalls how he'd been walking down the street to his job — a nondescript accounting firm — when the user had burst out of a building, breaking its windows and causing shattered glass to rain down around Ota. He'd been uninvolved in the heist and she hadn't bothered to take him out, inadvertently giving Ota intel that the ADA requires to properly track her down. She'd been wearing a mask to hide her identity, but interviewing every witness that laid eyes on her is too important to ignore.
When their waitress approaches with a fresh cup of tea for Ota, he waves a hand and says, “Get whatever you’d like. My treat.”
“I couldn’t possibly—” Atsushi protests, even as his stomach growls loudly. He flushes, feeling mortified because this is one of the first times Kunikida has let him go solo on an investigation and so naturally everything seems to be falling apart, but Ota doesn’t seem off-put at all by the loud grumbling.
“I feel much safer knowing you’re on the case, Atsushi-kun,” Ota says, lips quirked in amusement. “Please, allow me to show you how much it matters to me that the ADA is willing to go to such great lengths to protect us normal humans.”
Well, if Ota’s insisting. Atsushi browses the menu before choosing a meat-heavy sandwich. It’s still a fairly cheap item — some habits die hard — but it still sounds delicious to his ravenous appetite.
Their orders placed, Atsushi continues to question Ota’s account. There doesn’t seem to be too many details from his recollection that differ from what they already know back at the office, but Kunikida has impressed upon Atsushi the value of being thorough, which means covering all of their bases.
“I appreciate you finding the time to meet me here,” Atsushi says once he thinks he’s gleaned as much information as possible. He has all the main details down, and he’ll run it by Ranpo later whether or not Ota’s account of the perpetrator having blonde hair is reliable. Either way, Atushi’s gut instincts trust that Ota’s telling the truth.
Ota looks intently at him, a soft hand landing on top of Atushi’s own. “Perhaps, once this is over, you and I could go out to celebrate what will inevitably be another victory of the ADA’s?”
It’s not unusual for their clients to be grateful, but this is a little strange. Atushi’s brow furrows. “I’m not sure why you’d wa—”
A pale hand slams down onto the table between Atsushi and Ota, and immediately, a menacing aura fills the air. It’s familiar enough that his hackles don’t even raise; at least, not for that reason.
“Leave us,” Akutagawa growls to Ota, and Atsushi frowns as Rashomon descends from underneath the folds of his coat. It’s a cheap intimidation tactic, but one that obviously works.
Ota pales, terror plain on his face. It’s immediately clear that the brush with danger he experienced last week is still fresh in his memory, and being threatened by a Port Mafia member certainly isn’t going to help his state of mind.
“Wait a moment, Ota-san—”
He scrambles out of his seat, the chair tipping precariously as he backs away from Akutagawa, and Ota doesn’t even offer a parting word to Atsushi before he’s hurrying out of the restaurant, his vacating presence marked by the loud sound of his chair hitting the floor.
All in all, the encounter takes only a few seconds, but Atsushi feels anger boiling in his blood as it plays out before him.
“What the hell was that?” he hisses, moving to right the fallen chair. Around them, restaurant patrons are staring and murmuring behind their hands.
“That disgusting little human thought he could touch what doesn’t belong to him—”
And okay, this is definitely not a conversation Atsushi’s about to have in a public place.
He seethes, digging into his pocket to pull out enough money to cover the bill. Akutagawa glowers at him as he does, but he has no right being the angry one here, and Atsushi bodily pulls him out of the restaurant once he’s paid. He’s so angry he’s genuinely surprised he hasn’t been overtaken by his Ability, and marches them down the street until he can think a rational thought around the instinctive rage of the tiger trying to overtake him.
Before he can articulate the thousand reasons why what Akutagawa just did was entirely inappropriate, the man shoves him into a nearby building that looks fully operational but doesn’t have a soul residing inside.
“Oh, great," Atsushi says. “Nothing like starting a fight with you in the middle of a Port Mafia front building—”
“You let him touch you,” Akutagawa responds, looking as furious as Atsushi feels.
“That doesn’t give you permission to treat me like some — some thing you own!” Atsushi roars, and it truly is a roar. The tiger’s just a hair’s breadth from being let out from beneath his skin, and he grabs a fistful of Akutagawa’s coat to drag him closer, tempted to punch him into oblivion for having the gall to say something so viciously ridiculous aloud.
In retaliation, Rashomon stabs into him, lancing through his chest in thin spikes, and it’s the final straw.
A red haze overtakes him, and Atsushi revels in the thrill of a good, old-fashioned fight. The intent has changed: neither one of them are truly striking to kill, but grievous injuries are still on the table, and the sharp, crystal-clear ache of pain as they pummel one another with fists and Abilities feels much simpler than addressing the larger problem, here.
“I don’t belong to you,” Atsushi yells, blood — his own or Akutagawa’s, he honestly isn’t sure — dripping from his clawed fingertips. “I’m not a possession!”
If Akutagawa responds, Atsushi doesn’t hear it, sounds drowned out by the roaring pump of blood in his ears. The fight is chaotic within the small space of the building they’re in, countertops denting around his form as Rashomon throws him into one with nearly lethal force. Akutagawa doesn't make it out unscathed, either, sharp clawmarks raking down his chest and arms as blood meets the ragged edges of his parted skin.
Somewhere along the line, their fighting shifts into something more intimately brutal, fists and shadows turning into bruising touches that bear down along their lengths of exposed skin. Atsushi finds his clothes shredded into useless bits even as his claws tear unsalvagable holes through Akutagawa’s own, and the press of their bloodied, marred flesh has Atsushi hot for more.
There’s nothing sweet about the way Atsushi forces bruising kisses against Akutagawa’s lips, but sweetness certainly isn’t something they need at the moment. What they need is this bruising pressure and feeling like they're about to explode. It’s more real to have Akutagawa underneath him like this: bruised, bloodied, and writhing like a spitting cat, unwilling even now to cede the loss.
“God,” Atsushi says, frustrated, hard, and hurting. It’s feral instinct that has him pinning Akutagawa’s frame to the cold wooden floor, heart pounding as the other turns his head to spit out a mouthful of blood. “You’re so stupid, sometimes—“
A fit of coughing wracks Akutagawa’s frame. “You were the one flirting with him,” he gasps once his lungs are cleared. It’s almost enough to make Atsushi regret attacking him. “Like this means nothing!”
This is indicated by the way Akutagawa jerks his hips against Atsushi’s own, and they both hiss in pleasure at the sudden pressure against their respective arousals.
Atsushi keens at the sensation, the tiger chuffing in a satisfied way, and he's glad that most of Akutagawa’s clothes are already ruined. It makes the next frantic few minutes more bearable, as he shoves all remaining fabric aside and sets to preparing Akutagawa for what they both know is coming.
He doesn’t have much with him, just the blood-tainted spit between them; under any other conditions it wouldn’t be ideal, except Akutagawa’s still stretched out from the pleasant morning they’d had together. it seems an eternity away from the rage pumping through them right now, but it bodes well for Atsushi, currently.
It can’t be particularly pleasant, as Atsushi shoves two fingers inside him and starts scissoring them to stretch Akutagawa’s rim, but despite the scowl on his face, he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s already writhing in pleasure and anticipation, hissing out filthy words for Atsushi to just get on with it, fill me up, what are you waiting for, weretiger—
Any other time, Atsushi may have bothered to be nicer. To show kindness to the fact that Akutagawa would let Atsushi in to this intimate part of him. But right now, all he wants is to put Akutagawa in his place, and gentle touches aren't going to convey the message he's trying to send. He’s still burning the fumes of his anger, and this is as good as it’s going to get, so he withdraws his cock and spits into his hand one final time, slicking up his length before lining it up and easing his way in. Even through the fury, he’s careful not to slide in too quickly — that’s a sort of pain that Atsushi could never bring himself to deliver, even as frustrated as he currently is— but once he’s settled completely into Akutagawa, all bets are off.
He’s quick to snap his hips forward, overwhelmed already by the searing pressure, and sets a brutal rhythm, intent on fucking Akutagawa until he's wrecked.
“I was just,” Atsushi starts, words intercepted by a huffing moan of pleasure. “Doing my job, you asshole, and we weren’t even flirting, what are you talking about?”
“You’re mine,” Akutagawa snarls from beneath him. “I saw the way he looked at you. He wanted you like this—” and Atsushi moans as fingers brush against where the two of them are currently connected “—and he’s lucky I didn’t stab him where he stood.”
It takes a moment for Atsushi to respond to that as a stab of annoyed anger swirls alongside the pleasure. “You can’t possibly think I would’ve chosen him over you.”
Akutagawa flushes beneath him, eyes hard as he refuses to speak, and oh.
"You did!” Atsushi gasps incredulously. “Admit it.”
There’s the slightest hint of Akutagawa shaking his head, but still he won’t concede. He looks furious, though not at Atsushi, but at — himself.
It’s almost comical, to see him pouting like this, so Atsushi thrusts particularly hard into him to see that defiant expression melt into a more mindlessly pleasurable one. Atsushi finds himself overcome as well, fucking into him desperately like he needs this more than oxygen itself, and his entire existence narrows into one pinprick of thought: Akutagawa.
Pleasure rolls through him like a tidal wave, whiting out his vision as he spills deep within Akutagawa. When he comes back to himself, it's clear that he's not the only one riding the high of an orgasm: Akutagawa's chest is painted with his own come, and Atsushi collapses against him, uncaring of the uncomfortable stickiness.
“You’re infuriating,” Atsushi says a few beats later. Akutagawa tenses, a defensive mechanism, while he continues. “But I wouldn’t give this up for anything.”
Akutagawa scoffs. “And you’re a fool.” It sounds more self-deprecating than insulting, though, and as such Atsushi doesn’t take much offense.
“Though if you ever do anything like that again,” Atsushi growls against the junction between his neck and collarbone, enjoying the rumble in his chest that speaks to the validity of the threat, “I’ll make you regret it so much you won't be able to walk for a week."
Underneath him, Akutagawa shudders. Whether it’s from fear or pleasure, Atsushi isn’t sure, but either way, he relishes the way his teeth sink into the flesh of Akutagawa's shoulder as he stakes his own claim against that pale skin.