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The scene is picturesque: the sunrise, painted in all of its reds and golds, peeks over the coast of the dark navy sea, illuminated by only a single ray of bright golden light. The ray eventually splits into several thinner ones, casting in all directions as the sun steadily ascends the brightening sky. The clouds are thinly scattered, dark yet heavy with gold color. Birds fly far off in the distance, their faint cries carried by the sea-salt winds that roll in tune with the calm waves.
If Oda had been an artist, he would have surely sat down and painted the peaceful image of Yokohama’s awakening, but considering he is far from that profession, he instead chooses to bask in the scene while it lasts. Cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, he leans forward against the railing of the balcony and listens to the slow, relaxing jazz music playing from within the hotel room. The low thrum of the bass wafts through the open balcony door, and somewhere among the piano and clarinet, Oda can hear the faint breathing of his sleeping lover.
Oda absentmindedly runs his fingers over his collarbone, tracing over the newly formed hickeys left during the night before. He rolls his shoulders, wincing slightly at the sting of scratch marks that shoots down his bare back. The salty breeze does nothing to alleviate the pain, but Oda frankly can’t bother himself to search for his shirt discarded among the pile of clothes on the floor. Besides, he’s probably going to rejoin his beloved in another few hours of sleep soon.
For now, however, he breathes in the wind’s sea scent and savors the morning bliss. It’s ridiculously rare for him to find a moment to slow down and just breathe - even more rare to have an entire night to himself and the love of his life. They had spent it over cognac and fine steak in the five-star restaurant of the hotel, and then promptly winded up in the room, hands losing themselves among clothes and lips desperately seeking one another after so long a separation.
As the soothing jazz slows in rhythm and melody, Oda recalls the music from last night: the symphony of soft gasps and whimpers, the moans of his name and the sweet nothings whispered among breathy voices raw with lust and passion. The trembling arms are still felt around his neck, pulling him closer and closer, and the nails still rake down his sweaty back, marking him with proof of the night’s events. He closes his eyes and breathes; as composed as he is, he can’t help but feel rather restless, as if unsatisfied with just one night of holding his lover intimately.
He plucks the cigarette from his lips, blowing a ring of smoke into the air and opening his eyes to watch it dissipate. The grey gives way to the gold of the still rising sun, and he allows himself to be mesmerized by the alluring color, until a pair of arms snake their way around his torso and a warm breath falls upon his back.
“Odasaku,” a voice softened by sleep mumbles into his skin.
“Good morning, Dazai,” Oda says, gently rubbing the hands nestled against his stomach. “You’re up earlier than expected.”
“Because you’re not in bed with me,” Dazai replies with a yawn. “Come back.”
“Soon. After this cigarette.”
“Come back now.” Dazai kisses his shoulder blade sweetly. “Please?”
Unable to resist Dazai’s adorable plea, Oda snubs the cigarette out against the railing and drops it into the ashtray of the nearby table. “Alright,” he says, and doesn’t miss the feeling of Dazai’s grin against him. He lets himself be walked backwards into the room, and halfway through the journey back to bed, turns around to meet his lover’s hazelnut gaze. He notices, in that moment, that Dazai is wearing his shirt - and nothing else. It's too big for his slender and smaller form, but Oda can’t deny how much he appreciates the look, especially when it falls off Dazai’s shoulder to reveal the dark mark he personally left.
“You like wearing my things, don’t you?” Oda casually asks once Dazai lowers himself onto the disheveled bed.
“Mhm,” Dazai hums. He pulls Oda down to hover over him and smiles charmingly, too beautiful for his own damn good. “I like having your scent on me.” To prove his point, he lifts the fabric to his face and inhales its scent of cologne and musk deeply, eyelids fluttering from his obvious satisfaction. “It’s calming… And it’s you, which makes it all the better.”
Oda gingerly runs his fingers through Dazai’s soft hair and works out every little tangle and knot. “I see.” He doesn’t stop Dazai from reaching up to weave his arms around his neck. “...It’s a good look on you.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Dazai coos with a grin. “I’ll wear your clothes more often, then.” With an appeased little sigh, he coaxes Oda closer and closer until their lips are only a few centimeters apart. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s not like he has to; Oda understands the message and dutifully closes the gap between them.
Dazai’s kisses are tender and sweet, as always, like soft, warm caramel. Oda melts into those kisses, unable to pry himself away from Dazai’s mouth and lips moving ever so lovingly and sensually against his. His mind becomes nothing but a haze of both lust and adoration, all rationality blurred beyond recognition. Seeking more - for when it comes to Dazai and raw desire, he’s never quite satisfied - he deepens the kiss and lowers himself onto his lover completely.
Eager hands slip underneath the shirt loosely covering Dazai’s body, pushing away fabric to reveal smooth skin just aching to be touched. He takes the body’s unspoken demand - an assignment he can never turn away from - and fulfills it. Skilled fingertips lightly skim over scars, pressing into them carefully, mapping their outline seamlessly, adoringly. His exploration leads him to the new bruises and marks, those of his own design, and he traces those with even greater care. Slow and steady, savoring every single second, he makes love to the blemishes and imperfections of Dazai’s body, loving them as he loves their owner. Hips, stomach, chest, thighs - anywhere, everywhere. There is no spot he leaves untouched.
“Odasaku,” Dazai breathes softly once they part from their deep kiss. “Remind me… Remind me of the night we spent together. But do it slowly, so I can better remember it.”
Always eager to please his one and only, Oda acquiesces with another kiss, this one slow and sensual and in tune to the steady beat of the music. Lips drag and pull over one another, just as the hands on Dazai’s pliant body graze up to roll a sensitive pink nipple between two calloused fingers. Dazai whines at the back of his throat, too swept up in the addicting kisses to let his voice be heard clearly.
But Oda longs to hear his sweet voice and the music it plays. He withdraws from their kissing with a heavy breath and slides down to Dazai’s chest, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his other nipple. Dazai outright whimpers, arching his back and spreading his legs to accommodate Oda’s position between them. His trembling hands, meanwhile, fall back beside his head and grip the ivory sheets until the fabric strains.
Encouraged by the melody of soft, adorable gasps, Oda devours Dazai’s chest with his mouth. Every swipe of his tongue, every tug of his teeth, has the melody shifting in pitch and tune, sometimes rising, sometimes wavering, but all the same playing the theme of pleasure and satisfaction. Oda plays Dazai skillfully, no longer awkward and uncertain as he had been just about a year ago. Now, he’s experienced and calm in his craft, familiar with every note and sound, practiced with every method and trick. It’s no wonder that Dazai unravels seamlessly in Oda’s hands.
It’s no wonder that Dazai has become the loveliest instrument of all.
Lips pleasantly bruised and swollen, Oda raises his head from the abused pink nub and trails his hand down to between Dazai’s thighs, underneath his heavy, aching cock. He slips a single finger into the hole already loose and slick from the night before, invoking perhaps his most favorite tune from Dazai’s pretty mouth: a breathy moan. He engraves the sound into his memory, as he always does whenever he plays its seductive note, and extracts his finger from Dazai’s warmth.
Dazai does not delay in voicing his disdain. “Why did you stop?” he demands with a frown.
“Just a moment, sweetheart,” Oda assures him. He reaches over to the bedside table and plucks the bottle of lube left there, taking no time at all to slick his fingers with the cool substance. He watches Dazai’s thighs tremble in anticipation, spreading more ever so slightly to welcome the two fingers that slide into him with little objection. Dazai probably thinks it’s unnecessary to bother with the lube, but someone as careful and caring as Oda can’t help but take precaution. The last thing Oda ever wants to do is hurt his treasured and beloved Dazai.
Oda watches Dazai’s face soften with pleasure and satisfaction and shudders when that seductive mouth of his resumes its earlier tune. Who would have thought that one man’s voice could hold so much power over another? Oda’s head swims in ecstasy and lust, drowning deeper and deeper with every hitch and gasp, every moan so faint and breathy it runs electric tingles down his spine. Yet, it’s not enough - it never is - and so Oda seeks to intensify the tune by introducing a third finger and sinking all three even deeper.
Dazai sings gorgeously. His song is all whines and whimpers, moans that beg Oda to stop, I’m fine, give me what I want. Not one to disappoint, Oda retracts his sticky fingers and moves to release himself from the tight confines of his pants. He’s achingly hard, a fact he had failed to realize during his unabashed worship of Dazai’s marred body, and as he slicks himself from tip to base with the lube, he notices Dazai staring at him hungrily. He presses the head against Dazai’s entrance and teasingly rubs against it, an action that rewards him with a desperate whine. Finally, unable to deny both himself and his stunning lover, Oda presses into Dazai slowly, sheathing himself bit by bit as the heat and pleasure consume him entirely.
Fuck.
Dazai, as he always does, feels beyond fantastic. He’s deliciously warm and wet and tight - Oda never fails to be surprised by his own ability to stay composed. Hands holding onto the trembling thighs on either side of him, he pulls back slowly, marveling at the give of Dazai’s receptible body, and eases his way back in. Dazai moans sweetly as his eyelids flutter close and his long eyelashes kiss the skin of his own blushing cheeks. Moved by the sight of his contentment, Oda can’t help but lean over and plant a gentle kiss against Dazai’s lovely face.
Last night they had simply fucked - carnal and raw and fueled only by the intense sensation of lust. This morning, however, with the radiant sunrise and the faint cries of birds drifting in from the balcony, they make love. Their coupling is all tender warmths and gentle, soothing caresses, unrushed and focused solely on one another’s presence. No one else matters in this moment. They only see and need each other.
Oda trails his hands along Dazai’s thighs, once again taking the time to map the scars and marks that litter them. He recognizes most of them - some are gracious gifts from their enemies, others are Dazai’s own handiwork. Regardless of their source, however, Oda loves them, because they are all a part of Dazai. He loves them so much he decides to stop the rolling of his hips just to raise a heavily scarred knee to his lips and press several loving kisses against it.
Dazai giggles softly; an absolutely endearing sound. “Odasaku,” he coos, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m feeling a rather bit jealous...of my own knee.”
Understanding full well the message behind those words, Oda gently lowers Dazai’s leg and leans over him, hands placed on either side of his head. Gorgeous. Dazai is gorgeous underneath him, brown hair splayed against the ivory pillow and hazelnut eyes peeking up at him with pure, utter adoration. His gaze is warm and soft, reminding Oda of the many lazy afternoons they spent chatting over a cup of coffee. Oda would always listen to Dazai thoughtfully, entranced by his voice, but even more entranced by his plump, pink lips and the idea of kissing them.
Now, he can kiss those lips all he damn well pleases.
He gently caresses the side of Dazai’s face, sliding his hand down until his thumb rests against his bottom lip. He drags his fingertip over it, watching as Dazai’s eyes flutter half closed, and suddenly begins to rock into him at a slow, steady pace again. Dazai’s lips part to release a moan, and Oda takes the opportunity to lean down and capture his mouth in a kiss. He kisses him again and again, drowning out his every sweet sound until his lips are swollen and slick.
Dazai gasps for air when they part, and reaches for Oda’s hand. Silently, save for a few stifled noises that come with every roll of Oda's hips, he brings it to his lips and kisses his weathered palm. Oda knows that Dazai is conveying his love for the hands that treat him tenderly and with care, as well as his appreciation for every callous that marks them. Although Oda thinks little of the roughness of his palms - only sees it as a reminder of his past deeds - Dazai values it as an integral part of Oda’s person.
It’s identical, Oda thinks, to how he adores the scars on Dazai’s being, scars that Dazai secretly hopes he can someday be rid of.
“Odasaku,” Dazai breathes, “I love you so, so much.”
Oda’s heart threatens to burst. “I love you too.”
Lured in by the undeniable temptation of love, Oda forgoes all other thoughts and instead buries his face into Dazai’s neck, inhaling his coffee scent and basking in the music of his pleasure. He keeps his steady pace, slow, languid, not seeking the end anytime soon, his own pleasure marked with deep groans that vibrate against Dazai’s neck.
“I l-love you,” Dazai babbles incoherently, “I love - mm! - love y-you so, s-so much -” His unsteady arms wrap around Oda’s neck, keeping him impossibly close as they both lose themselves to the sensuality. Their bodies move in tandem with one another, one entity instead of two, rolling and arching like the waves of a calm sea. The jazz music is completely forgotten in favor of listening to only each other.
Desiring to view his lover at another angle, Oda suddenly rolls them over, and immediately encourages Dazai into a rhythm of lifting and lowering his hips. Within no time, Dazai is riding him, palms splayed across his chest and back arched with every thrust against his sweet spot. He looks stunning like that: biting his lip, eyes half-lidded, Oda’s shirt fallen around his elbows as he rolls his hips in tune to his own moans and Oda’s grunts.
Breathing hard yet slow, Oda clasps onto Dazai’s hips and urges him on just a little bit faster. His stomach is burning intensely with a familiar heat, and he knows it’s only a matter of time until he unravels deep into Dazai’s body.
Dazai promptly clutches Oda’s wrist. “I’m so c-close,” he whimpers weakly.
“M-me too,” Oda groans.
Nearing the edge with every passing second, Dazai’s voice rises in a beautiful crescendo. His moans are louder, breathier, higher in frequency now that he’s so helplessly close. His sweaty thighs tremble in Oda’s grip and his hands clutch and grasp against Oda’s chest for some sort of leverage.
Oda is entranced by the sight. “Fuck, Dazai, you’re - you’re gorgeous.”
Dazai’s voice suddenly hitches with a sharp gasp - the climax to his crescendo - and he comes untouched all over Oda’s taut stomach.
His orgasm has him clenching impossibly tight around Oda’s cock, the pressure so intense it has Oda coming with a hiss. Heat floods his body immediately, but it’s a tender, soothing heat, rather than the blazing wildfire brought upon by a rough fuck. This heat has him floating in serenity, his senses calm, his worries nowhere in sight. It takes a moment for him to drift out from the afterglow, and when he does, his body is lax and weak. Dazai is no different.
The two take a moment to regain themselves, breathing in and out the air of post-coital bliss. Dazai raises himself to a kneel, shuddering when Oda’s softening cock slides out, and weakly flops onto the bed. He curls into Oda’s side with a pleased sigh and nuzzles his shoulder affectionately, intertwining their fingers together without another thought.
“Are you alright?” Oda asks, rolling onto his side to press a light kiss against Dazai’s forehead.
Dazai smiles. “Never been better.”
Oda returns the smile and closes his eyes as reality seeps back into their shared little world. The jazz music resumes, the birds cry again, and the morning winds roll in without invitation.
The scene is picturesque.