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Despite his apparent indifference to just about anything in the realm of sexuality, Akihiko is still, regrettably, human. He may be a little naïve at times, but he isn’t oblivious, and, despite his own wishes, certainly isn’t immune. Bouts of arousal plagued him just as they did any other guy his age.
He is almost business-like in how he goes about managing them. Whenever thoughts or feelings distracted him, he dealt with it swiftly, in the comfort of his room. He’s firmly of the belief that masturbation is a private matter, and such a miniscule aspect of daily life that it barely warranted mentioning outside of sex-ed textbooks.
For him, it is a quick, orderly procedure that, some days, felt like a chore. A task he had to do to alleviate a problem, so he could return to whatever he’d been doing beforehand. It was no different than showering before bed everyday, or filling his fridge with groceries. Just another form of bodily maintenance. Annoying, but necessary.
Still, Akihiko is human, and like any human he has needs. Urges. Desires. He’s a young man now, strong and virile, and so is Shinji. They’re not little kids anymore. Physical closeness had different connotations now. It was different. Felt different.
And though he trusts Shinji with his life, though he is fine with the bed-sharing and the midnight cuddles, there’s obviously a physiological reaction that comes with the proximity. Naturally.
Still, Akihiko does not protest, no matter how much his stomach simmers with heat or roars to life with the subtle move of Shinjiro’s fingers against his abdomen. It’s happened before. He’s sure it will happen again. He simply tries to breathe as evenly as possible and focus instead on the October clouds outside his window: their amorphous shapes and silver-lined underbellies in the waning moonlight.
Occurrences like these are hardly rare, though Akihiko wishes they didn’t happen at all. Makes him feel awkward and squirmy and gives him obscene kinds of dreams, dreams he really shouldn’t be having. He spends his nights counting prime numbers and cloud watching, unable to do much else with Shinjiro laying right next to him.
But every time his hand moves, Akihiko loses focus again. One sits curled around his hip, while the other lies on top of his waist, under his shirt, his fingers delectably cool against his hot skin. It is his least favourite part about this—about their arrangement. Though most go without a hitch, there are nights where he simply is driven up the wall in frustration, where his evening shower sessions aren’t enough to get him through to morning.
Tonight is one of those nights.
Akihiko sucks in a breath and shifts further on his side, only for his stomach to drop at the realization that, well—
He’s hard. Noticeably so, uncomfortably so.
Maybe should’ve expected this, but it rarely goes so far. Not beyond a few electric touches, a slight tent at most.
“Hey. Shinji.” he whispers, and frankly he does not know if he is even awake, anymore, does not know what he’d say if Shinji was.
“Can you, um—” Akihiko continues anyway, but he doesn’t know how to phrase it. He’s fine, really, with the physical contact. Just not tonight, maybe, and just not anywhere below the waist. Or maybe anywhere would be too much, too.
“Um what?” Shinji replies, slow and tired, rough with disuse. A chill runs down Akihiko’s spine at the sound, his voice so close and so warm and so deep in his ear. “You good?”
Akihiko pauses, unable to find his tongue in the dark. Roused by the conversation, Shinji readjusts his position, but it’s too little too late to warn him, to slap it away as his hand drifts unwittingly further, until:
“Oh.”
Akihiko is starting to hate that word. Oh. There was too much left in the air, with Oh.
“You’re hard right now.” he says, simply.
“Yeah, thanks asshole.” he hisses back, ears suddenly hot. “I didn’t know that.”
Before he can say anything else, Shinjiro’s hand moves again. It’s clearly intentional this time, how it feels around for his tent, and Akihiko burns up like crazy, his heart pounding in his chest to the beat of a wardrum.
“H-Hey!”
Why he does it is completely out of Akihiko’s sphere of reasoning. Most people, normal people, would recoil at the mere suspicion, not feel around for confirmation.
“Huh.” is all Shinjiro says, as if that was a valid response right now, and Akihiko doesn’t think he has ever been so mortified, so red, in his entire life. “Does this… normally happen?”
“No! Of course not!” Akihiko yells hushedly. And truly, it must just be a bad night. A terrible night, even. Was he normally so easily worked up? Did Shinjiro do this to him? “Maybe if you hadn’t been—touching there.” he seethes, annoyed and flustered and frantic.
But Shinji doesn’t stop at just that. His hand brushes again against his briefs, so slow and deliberately that it feels like it’s out of spite. And it probably is, knowing him. Akihiko bites his lip, but isn’t fast enough. A gasp still escapes his throat at the contact.
“Here?” Shinjiro asks, and as though his body was answering for him, he leans into his touch, pushes keenly into his hands. Akihiko almost opens his mouth to say something, some excuse or maybe an apology, but closes it again when he hears Shinji chuckle from behind him.
“Is it good?”
There is mirth and awe in his voice, but also something foul, something dark. And it’s hideous, awful, the way it sends blood rushing to his groin.
And he can’t tell if Shinjiro is just messing with him—if he even would mess with him, in a situation like this. Still, before Akihiko’s brain can even stitch together a response, his mouth does it for him.
“Y–yeah.” he mumbles. Really good.
Shinji seems to take that as permission to continue, humming while his finger drags carefully along the front of his shorts. Akihiko’s startled breath stutters out of his mouth, and his muscles tense under the sensation. Perhaps his body was just overly sensitive, is all. His mattress is free of any of the magazines that guys his age supposedly hoard, because he never needed any. He didn’t use any… additional material to get off, and never needed to. It was all touch and thoughts, all of which Shinjiro seems all too happy to provide him with.
He shimmies closer, his chest hugging against Akihiko’s back, crotch against his ass and arm slung across his hips, where he continues to palm him through the fabric.
And even with all that, even in the awkward angle and lack of visibility, it’s great. Takes the words right out of Akihiko’s mouth, in fear of saying anything that might stop what he is feeling right now.
Dammit. When had Shinji become so skilled with his hands?
The thought passes into his mind, but his stomach turns green as it sinks in. He doesn’t want to think about where or when Shinji learned all this, and certainly doesn’t want to think about with who. Some woman maybe, in those dank alleys he’d frequent. Maybe it was a cold night just like this one, maybe his hands clawed across her skin looking for a warm body, a warm breath. Maybe he touched her just as he does Akihiko, hungry and cruel yet purposeful, deliberate.
He doesn’t think Shinji’s the type for that kind of life, but the thought still poisons him. He places his hand on his arm and stops.
“I’m—” and his breath catches, thick in his throat. “I’m not a girl, you know.”
Shinjiro’s breath comes out in a chuckle along the junction of his neck. It shoots a little thrill down his back, from the summit of his skull to the bottommost part of his being.
“If I knew you this long and still didn’t know that, I’d be the dumbest sucker alive.” he answers, hoarse and warm and wet on his nape. His hand continues, trails beneath the waistline of his pyjama shorts, then he murmurs, quietly, “Hey. This okay?”
And Akihiko’s brain short-circuits, at the question. It starts to become a lot easier, then, to not overthink this. To tell him yes because there is no one he trusts more, yes because it feels good, yes because he wants this more than anything right now.
He does not consider that this is weird to do with Shinjiro. That, well, Shinji is basically offering to give him a handjob, and shouldn’t there be a lot more steps to get to this point...?
“Yeah.” is all Akihiko says, sucking in a sharp breath as Shinji takes him into his hand. It’s the point of no return, really; it’s purposeful, skin-on-skin, unable to be passed off as a mere ‘accident’ anymore. Akihiko curls his toes and writhes under the foreign sensation, at the feeling of Shinji’s hand wrapped around his cock. Shinjiro hums again, pleased, his forehead pressed into the crest of his back.
“S’that good, Aki?” he whispers, and there is something so deeply alluring about his voice right now. It reverberates, runs down his spine, sends Akihiko reeling. He does not trust his own voice, so he nods, thrusting up into his hand with a pitiful little noise, something he’s sure could not have come from his mouth.
It is sensitive flesh, which Shinjiro trails along with delicate fingers, a fickle gentleness that Akihiko doesn’t recall him exhibiting before. Akihiko gasps when Shinji runs his hand up his cock, when he swipes his finger along the tip then back down the shaft, when he tugs him once, twice, and spreads his precum right down the length.
It’s different, obviously, to jerking himself off: the angle is different, the hand is different, and yet it is like Shinji knows exactly how to handle Akihiko: how to push him to the edge, how to pull him right back to centre.
And it’s nice, to simply be taken care of like this, to lay there and let Shinji take charge instead of fighting him, for once. It feels good.
“So noisy.” Shinjiro complains, but he doesn’t stop with his ministrations. The pads of his fingers press and explore the ridges of his tip and Akihiko spirals, goes halfway insane. “Aren’t you worried someone’ll hear?”
Akihiko’s not, actually—he could not be further away from worried, right now. He bites down hard on his lip anyway, in a fruitless effort to muffle the choked noises that slip up his throat.
“Please,” he sighs, brows knitted and face red. “Come on.” They’re flush against each other now; Akihiko can feel his cock thickening against his thigh. He wonders if it’s him that arouses Shinji, if that's ever happened before. If he’s ever laid beside Akihiko, hard and lonely and thinking of him, the same way Akihiko sometimes does.
He really needs to stop with his wondering, but really, that’s not a tall order with Shinjiro’s help. Hell, he can barely remember his own name with the way he handles his cock, fast and loose then short and straight. He pumps him fully until Akihiko’s back is arching sweetly into the touch.
“Oh, oh—” he sighs, breathily, hastily. He looks behind himself, where Shinji’s determined brow and flushed face hides in his nape. He wants more contact, yet where’s he to find any? Shinji’s hand fully envelops his cock, his spare lying firm on the bone of Akihiko’s hip and his body coiled perfectly around his. He has the most leverage like this, pumps him fully and without restraint, and yet Akihiko wants more. Needs more.
“Shinji,” he says, desperately, and Shinji’s eyes flit to his face. He feels dizzy, flushed and hot and feverish under his gaze and again he whispers, “Shinji.”
“God. Don’t say my name like that.” he scolds, his breath thick against the fragile shell of Akihiko’s ear. He looks away, down to the blank expanse of skin, but he doesn’t stop his hand. “Gonna get me all worked up, too.”
“Do you like it?” Akihiko must sound like he’s babbling now, but he’s drunk on pleasure, burning up all over. “I can say it again.”
“Yeah?” Shinji says, almost kindly, “Say it when you come.”
And wow. Akihiko must have a thing for dirty talk. His knees feel weak, his breaths heavy and heady.
“Mh, hah, yeah,” Akihiko groans in assent, and there’s a hot pool in his knotted stomach, swirling about like molten lava. “Please, Shinji.”
As it happens, saying his name works wonders. Shinji gives in, gives Akihiko everything he ever wanted just through the slight movements of his hand. He flicks his wrist up and right back down, runs his fingers right along the ridge of his head then over its slit. It’s fast, quick, yet his body twists at the motion. Shinji does it again, and then again, until Akihiko is left a whimpering mess, holding on desperately to his bunched sheets.
“Shinji,” he moans, toes curling and hips jerking up, “Ah—! There, Shinji!”
And he comes undone, white-hot pleasure wracking through his body with a sharp whine. Shinji is ceaseless: pumping him through his orgasm, coaxing out release until Akihiko’s body is twitching with overstimulation.
It takes him a minute, after, to refamiliarize himself with his surroundings. With his room, with his bed, with Shinji. He doesn’t think he’s ever come that hard before in his life, and it was all Shinji’s doing.
He still lies beside him, eyes almost in awe at the sight of Akihiko. And there, still, against his leg, he feels Shinji’s cock through the flannel joggers he uses for pyjamas.
“You’re—you’re still hard.” he pants, and of course he would be, but he’s at a loss for how he could help with that. Between that and Tartarus, the energy is wholly sapped from his being, and yet he doesn’t want him to have to do everything himself—that wouldn’t be fair, after everything that just happened, after all he did for Akihiko. “How—”
He looks back at Shinji and drops his question. There’s a dark film over his eyes, wolfish and greedy and dangerous, and Akihiko shivers.
“Let me use your legs.” he pleads, and Akihiko is very nearly stunned still at the question. Shinji was a crude guy, but he never talked like that. "Please, Aki. I-It’s weird, I know, but I need—something.”
But, he swallows, licks his lips and, after a moment, answers, “O-Okay. Right, go ahead.”
And he doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s just his way of paying Shinji back. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the residual arousal telling him that it’s a great idea. He’s almost surprised at his own courage, at his ability to look him in the eye and tell him yes. Shinji seems surprised, too, perhaps that he made such an obscene request, or maybe because Akihiko actually agreed to it.
But Shinji’s never been one to freeze up in the heat of the moment, so he forces himself into motion. He kneels into the mattress, positions himself at the foot of the bed, and pulls down the lip of his waistband enough to set his cock free.
Beneath him, Akihiko stares at the length, at its girth. There is something intimidating about it: perhaps a trick of light, or simply the perspective he has from below. It’s larger than he had expected, fat and already beading precum. He’s never felt so vulnerable before, lying practically naked beneath Shinji’s steely stare.
“C’mon. Lift your—” he instructs shakily, and so Akihiko catches up and does, swallowing thickly. Shinji, thankfully, takes care of the rest. He pairs Akihiko’s legs together at the knees, perches his calves over his shoulder, then props himself up close.
There’s no preamble, no warning or preface, just a simple groan as he fits his cock snug between Akihiko’s wiry thighs, then drags himself out. He pushes back in until his hips meet with Akihiko’s flank, his head lolling against the side of his leg and his shirt riding up to his ribs.
It’s strange. He’s never seen Shinji in such a vulnerable state, but everything about him right now makes something dark stir deep in his being. There’s desperation in how his hands dig into Akihiko’s thighs, vulnerability in his state of undress, a magnetism simply in the way he looks at Akihiko. Like he didn’t give a damn for nothing and nobody else.
Even things that did not change about him have been newly recast as attractive—his dishevelled hair and grey eyes, the curve of his lip and the hardness of his jaw.
And his body, thickened from months of regular meals and training, sharply carved by the scant lighting of the moon. It’s a Shinji he’s known for years, really—with the same moles and scars he must’ve mapped out years ago—yet kneeling at the foot of his bed with his dick between his thighs.
He’s at Akihiko’s mercy just as he was at Shinji’s; and, with his legs pressed together, Shinjiro’s hands move for his hips instead. He finds a point of leverage there, which he uses as a means to drag Akihiko’s body to and from his own.
Akihiko is entranced, yet so utterly aroused by the thought of Shinji, his lifelong friend Shinji, using him to get off. He rarely shows his strength outside of Tartarus, but he clasps onto him tight, pulls him back and forth on his cock in tandem with his motions.
“Feels—feels good.” he whispers, carelessly. “God, Aki.”
Akihiko’s body alights, even though he is exhausted and numbed-through and already much too hot.
“Yeah?” he breathes. Distantly, he cannot believe this is happening. Something like this probably really shouldn’t be happening.
And yet it is. Each thrust, Akihiko can see the head of his cock poking out from between his thighs, overcome with slick precum that coats his inner legs in a sheer film. It’s wet now, wet enough to where his cock glides back and forth easily against his skin.
“Yeah,” Shinji answers, breath heady against his leg. “So… so god damn hot.”
Akihiko can’t possibly take much more of this. He’s spent already, of course, but it’s so much. Too much. He feels helpless but safe with Shinji. Drunk and sober, hot and cold, crazy and sane. It’s overwhelming, and in the most delicious way possible. Feeling his soft breaths, watching his furrowed brow and hazy eyes, and feeling that foreign, immense heat thrust between his legs.
Akihiko looks up at him and slides his thighs, slow and easy, against his cock. His efforts seem to please Shinji by the obscenities he mutters beneath his breath and how the pace picks up in turn. The bed begins to rock softly with each push, and Akihiko distantly wonders if they can be heard. It’s a passing thought though, discarded immediately when Shinjiro’s hands tighten into a vice grip on his ass, stopping him from moving at all.
He really doesn’t think he should find being manhandled nearly as hot as he does, but he lies there stunned at the shock of heat that zips through his being.
“Fuck, Aki,” Shinji mutters, voice breaking into huffs. And that nickname of his reminds him just who this is, just what it is they’re doing. “I’m close.”
And yet, the words are nothing but encouragement to him. He lifts his hips off the bed and Shinji takes it as permission to continue, to fuck his thighs in earnest, without his interference or restraint.
He holds onto the sides of Akihiko’s legs bruisingly tight and thrusts into the space between with abandon. If anyone is awake, and god forbid someone is, they’d have a lot of explaining to do. Shinjiro doesn’t bother with being slow or gentle anymore, and the harsh creaking of his bed resounds in his room, audible perhaps even from the third floor. He can only hope that the girls are fast asleep, or will simply be too embarrassed to bring up the noise.
But those are worries saved for the Akihiko of tomorrow, and they barely register even as passing thoughts for the present, very horny and not very reasonable Akihiko. All sense has been thrown out the window. Instead, in his dick’s infinite wisdom, he can’t help but find it incredibly exciting just how loud they are, how easily they could be caught and found out.
Shinji moans, soft and low, against him. His lips press against the middle of his leg and he breathes him in, the scent of Akihiko’s soap and sweat and skin. Akihiko doesn’t think he has seen anything so hot before, and wonders if this is what it would look like if he wasn’t just fucking his legs right now.
(And what would that feel like, he can’t help but wonder. Would Akihiko… like that? Would it feel good, to be fucked by him?)
It’s a horrible, dangerous thought to have about your best friend, but it comes naturally, lights a fire low in his belly that has his spent cock twitching up in interest. He wonders if it’s disgusting, if Shinji would be repulsed at the prospect of fucking Akihiko for real.
Damn. He really needs to stop with that. It's an insidious kind of thought though, one that sticks to the forefront of his brain as Shinji fucks his thighs desperately, chasing his release like an animal.
His breath is heady and sharp, his thrusts erratic against his skin. Finally, his hips stutter to completion, spilling out a long groan and spurting ropes of come from the bottom of Akihiko’s abdomen up to the middle of his torso.
Distantly, Akihiko remembers that this is not really something friends do. That he must be sick or weird or something for finding it hot.
“Christ, Aki…” Shinjiro says first, and he can’t wrap his head around the fact that they just did that. That he let and enjoyed and wanted it to happen. “You, uh—you got a towel?”
Akihiko snaps out of his trance, belatedly realizing that yes, he supposes they will need to clean up unless he wants to wash his entire bedding tomorrow. His stomach is covered in both he and Shinji’s release, his shirt not pulled up far enough to escape unscathed. An unfortunate casualty.
“One on the table.” he answers hoarsely. His face is beating hot and completely red, the shame and disbelief sticking to him like wet paper. It is only barely outweighed by the exhaustion, which sets into his limbs and leaves him barely able to move or speak or care, thankfully.
Shinjiro pulls back up his waistband while Akihiko lies in post-coital haze. He’s pretty grateful for it. It saves him from all the panic and shock he imagines he should be experiencing right now. There are questions, lingering in the thick fog of his mind, but they are distant, existing only as objects to be observed. How everything else leading up to this point—it became habit. A part of their routine. Something they just did.
And he wonders, then, if this will too.
It’s—not something Akihiko tries to think about, really, but the thought of getting each other off every night leaves his stomach in knots and him wandering, wanting.
Shinjiro gets up to wet the towel, leaving Akihiko with too many thoughts for much too long. It’s about a minute at most before he returns, but a minute is a lot of time when you just basically had sex with your best friend.
And when he does return, it’s no better. It is hard not to say anything and yet equally as hard to find something to say. Akihiko almost feels drunk, absent from the spinning world.
“So…” Shinjiro starts, in a pathetic attempt at breaking the ice. He hovers over him, wiping his stomach clean with the worn rag, and, for some reason, Akihiko can’t help but laugh. It’s not a funny situation, but it’s absurd.
“Yeah?” Akihiko asks, smiling, and the tension evaporates from Shinji’s shoulders. “Got a little carried away?”
“Oh shut up.” Shinjiro grumbles, ears red even after all they’ve done tonight. “Like you didn’t.”
“I did.” he says, almost dreamily. “Didn’t I?”
Shinjiro throws the rag in the hamper by Akihiko’s bedside, and sits down on the side of his bed again, propping back up the mussed pillows and straightening out the blankets of his half.
A pause stretches between them as Shinji worms his way back under the sheets.
“Maybe we should… do that again, sometime.” Akihiko whispers, quietly. He still feels breathy, exhilarated, the same way he feels after a good run or a hard fight, but lucid enough to realize just what he’s saying. “If you’re gonna be here anyway.”
He thinks it’s a decent bet, to propose it now after everything they just did. At worst, Shinji will punch him. Or leave. Both options would be devastating for his ego, but he’ll get over it. What comes out of Shinji’s mouth, though, is neither of those things.
“Yeah?” is all he says.
And all Akihiko can respond with is a simple;
“Yeah.”