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“This is undoubtedly a great accomplishment. Good luck in there.”
The clack of her heels recedes down the hallways. Once she’s far enough away, Goro laughs freely, covering the smile splitting his face.
“…Foolish woman.”
His own footsteps echo through the dingy grey hall.
It’s like his body isn’t his own. To have wanted this for so long, to have prepared everything so thoroughly and spent every evening fantasising and compartmentalising in equal measure... now that it’s all coming to fruition, it’s like he’s watching it unfold backwards through a screen.
Akira is in there, on the other side of the door. Scared, and alone. Goro wonders if hope will burn brightly in his eyes when he sees him walk in, and pictures how beautiful he’ll look when it slowly flickers out. Blood gushing down his face.
Rival. Traitor.
Still, it’s a shame. There’s a certain bittersweet taste to this, but Goro has spent months now neutralising it, so he isn’t too concerned. Anything he does feel—which he won’t—can be dealt with later.
He smiles as a guard comes into view.
“May I ask that you accompany me? Going in unarmed to interrogate a murderer makes me uncomfortable…”
He nods, and Goro has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip until it hurts to keep from laughing out loud.
The guard drops so easily it’s almost depressing. Goro looks down his nose at him lying there, blood trickling from his mouth and pooling around the bullet wound in his chest. He waits for movement, nudging him with the tip of his shoe to coax a reaction.
Hm. Nothing.
Well, then.
Still staring through the curling vignette of smoke at his first kill outside of the metaverse, he begins to speak.
“I owe you for all of this… Tha—”
Turning to Akira, the world grinds to a halt.
The last thing he’d expected to feel today was rage. Triumph was a given. Perhaps some anxiety, as anyone would killing a warm human being instead of its husk of a shadow for the first time. But rage… rage wasn’t even in the vocabulary of the Detective Prince.
Akira had been heavily drugged, that much was obvious, but even now, he held on. Gripping so tightly to his last thread of consciousness that were anyone to come and take it, it’d come away shredded and scarred. Goro doesn’t miss the way his fingers quiver on the table, nor the bone at the end of his jaw jutting out over clenched teeth. His curls are matted, skin almost translucent in its pallor, but those bruises… a bloody gash on one cheekbone, and a huge ugly blotch across the other. Scraped skin dusted around his lips, nose, all over his knuckles, as if he’d tried to fight back.
There are deep furrows around both wrists, already turning purple.
He does look scared. His eyes are the kind of cloudy where unshed tears lump in the throat and stab at the lash line. But Goro has never seen Akira cry, and he doesn’t think he ever will.
Bile rises through his chest, hits the back of his tongue. What have they done to him.
A bead of sweat breaks and rolls down the bridge of Akira’s nose. He’s shivering, all over. Goro knows what this is—he’s seen it in himself. Blurred glimpses in mirrors whilst hiding from foster parents banging the other side of a locked door. Reflected in the pupils of other children in the orphanage. In the swirling red bathwater where his mother lay the last time he saw her, unresponsive and stiff.
The fear of what’s going to happen to him—Akira is paralysed with it.
Goro doesn’t know what to do. There’s a bloodlust singing his insides, and he needs to kill somebody, now. It was supposed to be Akira, but he doesn’t think he can anymore. He doesn’t think he should.
He unscrews the silencer, if only to stop himself doing anything stupid, and slowly brings the gun to Akira’s head, brushing his bangs to the side with the muzzle.
His finger flits over the trigger. He drags, not gently, and watches the way skin moves beneath the metal—pulling taut, releasing. Clammy, bloodless white blossoms red, and Akira is watching him, carefully, his only movement the shuddering he can’t contain.
There’s a defiance coming back into his eyes, but the way the barrel darkens with sweat betrays him. He traces the bridge of Akira’s nose, the arc of his cheekbones, and settles into his philtrum. It’s certainly a sight, Goro thinks, and feels the words claw unsaid in the pit of his throat.
He pushes past pale lips and the hard clack of teeth, fingers never moving. One slip, a twitch, a tremor, and a bullet will rip through Akira’s face, painting them both a brilliant red. To walk out of here, drenched in the blood of his rival… he lets himself imagine it, the viscosity, the shade, how it would dry and crack against his skin and bury under his nails for days.
It makes him feel a little ill.
“You’re terrified. But not of me,” he murmurs—rhetorically, of course, because Akira’s mouth is full of metal, warming on his tongue. He groans around it all the same, pulling his head back to speak. Goro chases his lips.
If he kissed him now, he’d taste of gunpowder. With the acrid smell in the room from his earlier kill, it isn’t difficult to imagine.
“I could put a bullet through your brain any second,” Goro continues before Akira has time to answer. He lets the weapon drop to rest heavy on his lower lip. “And yet, you’re not afraid of me.”
“You won’t,” Akira says, simply. In an instant, Goro snarls, rotating his wrist and shifting his grip to dig the muzzle into his hard upper palate, the front sight scraping against the seam of teeth.
“Because you’re the leading authority on what I will and won’t do.” He does press the trigger this time. Barely. But there’s pride diluting the anger in his chest.
He’s so, so proud to call Akira his rival.
“You won’t,” Akira repeats. The words garble in his otherwise occupied mouth, but they’re firm. Goro’s stomach gives a nauseated wrench that pulling the gun to the left and into his cheek seems to fix.
He holds it there a moment, because Akira looks ridiculous. Then, he withdraws, making sure to knock against every molar on the way. The weapon is shiny with tiny bubbles of spit when he throws it down and sends it careening across the floor.
He can’t do it. He won’t.
“Get up," he snaps. Akira obeys, and starts to grin. Goro ignores it in favour of unlocking his phone, tapping the nav, and hissing mementos.
The second Goro has finished scrabbling with the very inconvenient lock on his apartment door, he’s pushing Akira through it and throwing him hard against the wall. His breath is knocked out of him and Goro swallows it with a swift hand-on-neck, lips-on-lips, and then roughly shoves his knee between Akira’s thighs, pinning him up like a taxidermied insect.
In the dim light of the hallway, the bruises littering Akira’s face are as dark as his kiss-bitten lips. They give him a sort of blurry, distorted texture that unsettles the space between Goro’s stomach and chest, and so he pauses his fusillade to reach for the light switch. Akira comes into focus pale, mottled purple-red, and with a big, dopey smile plastered across his face. For a moment, Goro just stares, until his thumb slides up and over his jaw to sit at the centre of his mouth.
“You’re weird,” he muses, slipping his thumb forward to root around his gums. Akira’s laugh rings out around the digit, bright and ruinous.
“You’re weird. We could’ve gone to Leblanc, you know. Unless you’ve got other plans for me—” Goro crushes their lips back together. Bodies follow, then Akira is hooking a leg around the back of Goro’s knee and squirming his hands free to fly up and work on shucking off his coat and undoing his tie.
He’s right, of course. They could’ve gone to Leblanc—it would’ve been easier to go to Leblanc, even. But Leblanc is a home. A home, to at least three people, and Goro isn’t in the correct headspace for the safety, the comfort, nor the unease it churns up within him. With its empty beige walls and scarcely more than a bed and a coffee table, his apartment was the obvious choice. In fact, Akira is the sole spot of colour the foyer has seen since he moved in almost three years ago.
He’s getting diminishing returns on his face now, so he coasts down to bite at his neck. The noise it elicits is criminal and has Goro’s hips bucking forward and confirming that, yes, Akira is just as hard as he is.
Goro alternates between gnawing on his collarbones and tightening his hand around different areas on his throat. When he pushes hard into the notch at the base, Akira yelps, then lets his head fall back and hit the wall with a long, blissed-out groan. Truthfully, Goro hadn’t expected him to be so receptive. He hadn’t expected much of anything at all—rash decisions weren’t his forte so much as they were that of the boy coming apart beneath him. And so, dragging him all pliant and gooey through the metaverse, Goro’s confidence had gradually eroded, because he really didn’t know why Akira was being this way, nor what to do about it. Then again, putting his mouth anywhere on his body seems to keep him gasping and moaning for enough time to figure that out.
That is, until Akira takes matters into his own hands—literally. Skirting them down Goro’s sides, slipping them beneath the hem of his shirt to grapple uselessly at his back, and then promptly plunging downwards to take two handfuls of his ass and press their hips flush together.
Everything has been sub-threshold so far. Akira’s voice, Akira’s face, Akira’s little moans and shivers and the way his skin feels so soft and elastic between Goro’s teeth. Everything he’s done, his very existence in Goro’s apartment, has been oscillating static low in his gut, and he realises now: he’s been kindled. When Akira starts to grind on him, mouth making a beeline for his earlobe, sparks crackle and burst at his brainstem. Electricity—a pure white-hot rush explodes through his body and turns all his extremities cold. He’s desperate for more sensation, and before a pathetic cry can be torn from his throat, he clamps down on Akira’s shoulder to smother it. It morphs into a growl, and as a painful shudder fizzes its way through his skin, he starts to second-guess just who is in control here.
Akira eases up fairly quickly, releasing Goro’s lower body and returning his fingers to where they can lazily trace the ridges of his spine. Goro burrows into his neck and inhales sharply; he doesn’t need Akira to know how good he’s affecting him.
He smells fucking incredible.
“Fuck you,” he hisses into bitten skin newly damp with breath.
“Looked like you needed the nudge,” Akira laughs, nuzzling the crown of his head. Goro chooses not to think about how affectionate it feels. “Are we doing this, or what? I’m happy to be sent home, if not.”
With his face hidden, Akira thankfully can’t see the look of absolute incredulity that washes over it. What is wrong with him? Goro thinks. He’s veering into agitation territory and becoming increasingly convinced Akira is holding onto some crucial knowledge he’s otherwise missed.
“…What makes you think I’m still going to let you leave here alive?” he says, slowly. Tired of his neck, glossy with saliva and covered with canine-shaped punctures, he drags his hands methodically down Akira’s body and into his hipbones. He tries hard to suppress the pulse of arousal he gets from imagining tearing them out and snapping them into pieces.
“Please, if you were going to kill me you would’ve done it then and there, after fucking me with the gun to my head—” alarmingly, they both bite back a moan at that. Akira recovers first and roughly pulls at his collar to reveal more marks. “You’re savouring me,” he pants, eyes turning glassy, “therefore, I’m either leaving here alive, or not leaving at all.”
Goro promptly turns half-blind with rage and throws him—by the neck—into the opposite wall. He gathers his wrists in one hand above him and presses the heel of the other into the gap between his shoulder blades. Akira just barely avoids smashing his nose by tilting his head and letting his cheek take the brunt of the damage. He gives a breathless laugh, one that seamlessly melts into a moan when Goro pushes his hard cock into the cleft of his ass and growls: “Get on the fucking bed then, whore.”
“Fuck, fuck, okay,” Akira whines, shaking his hands loose and bringing them down to tug helplessly at his blazer buttons. Goro’s arms snake around to bracket his chest, batting them away and tearing the whole thing open.
“Fucker. That’s my school blazer,” Akira protests, to which Goro murmurs, dissonantly gentle: “you don’t need it. You’re dead, remember?”
God, why is that such a turn-on. Akira’s body sags on another drawn-out moan and he starts grinding backwards, arching his back, shamelessly chasing any place where their bodies can connect. Goro indulges him and leans in closer until they’re slotted neatly together, nothing but two thin layers of clothing between them.
“You’re such a fucking freak.” Hands slide under Akira’s shirt, over his scalding chest, and pinch his nipples. “You like this? You get off on imagining me murdering you?” He twists, hard, on one and rolls the other, gloved touch feather-light. Akira bites out an eager yesyesyes on every exhale.
“I’ve still got the gun. I brought it back with us—if you beg nicely for me, I’ll do it. You want that?” Akira nods frantically, starting to babble. “Oh? Then I was incorrect in my presumption that a degenerate like you would prefer my bare hands?”
To illustrate this, Goro inches his fingers up through the neckline of Akira’s shirt and ghosts pressure over his windpipe. His other hand traverses downwards, palming him through his pants. Akira whimpers, and then doesn’t stop.
“Please, anything—please, God, Akechi—” What the actual fuck? Goro pulls back his hands and yanks Akira’s shirt over his head, sending his glasses clattering to the floor and further wrecking his ever-unruly hair.
With the expanse of unmarked skin before him, he can’t help but bend down and lick a perfect trail from the base of his spine to his neck. He’s cool to the touch, and tastes like salt and undiluted adrenaline.
“See? Savouring me,” Akira has the gall to repeat in a broken gasp.
“Brat,” Goro responds simply, latching onto his nape and, now he knows what kind of response it’ll bring, biting down hard enough to draw blood. After crying out like a shot animal, Akira goes limp once more and starts to speak, slurred and giddy.
“T-thought you were taking me to bed.”
“The bed? Do you seriously believe you still deserve the bed after all this?” Goro buries his hands in his curls and wrests him to the floor, kicking him hard in the gut for good measure. He starts to drop with considerably more elegance to his own knees, freezing when Akira tries to speak.
“Wait, stop,” he wheezes, clutching at his stomach. For a moment, Goro’s chest loosens up, and he worries he’s gone too far, which is frankly insane considering what he’d been going to do not even an hour earlier. But Akira isn’t finished, and the next words out of his mouth are a thick, husky command and have all the blood rushing away from Goro’s head.
“Don’t. Stay up there—I’m sucking your dick.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Akira,” Goro half-sputters. Akira just nods, sitting up weakly, then twists his hands into Goro’s pants to heft himself onto his knees. They don’t waste any time—Goro feverishly battles with his belt buckle as Akira hooks his fingers into the waistband, poised and ready to pull. He does, and since Goro’s reasoning has left the room, instead of stepping out he just leaves the garment pooling around his ankles.
With Akira’s hot, wet mouth slathering all over the imprint of his aching cock in his boxers, Goro doesn’t notice he’s been rummaging until the stiff leather of the newly excavated belt is being waved imploringly under his nose.
And even Goro baulks at that. But Akira’s eye contact is unyielding, certain, the kind Joker would use to intimidate a particularly stubborn shadow. So, he takes it. And with a gulp that goes down like sandpaper, he folds it, gathers the two ends in one hand, and slides the loop over Akira’s head. Akira rewards him with an unguarded moan, his half-lidded eyes falling fully closed before he utters one word: “pull.”
Goro obliges, and watches entranced as Akira’s head stutters to the side, unable to peel his eyes away from where he struggles to swallow around the restriction, Adam’s apple bobbing desperately. He needs his cock in there fucking yesterday.
“Fuck, ‘Kira,” his voice is reedy and embarrassing, but he doesn’t think he cares anymore. His body feels like it’s deflating, and with it so does his grip. The fraction of liberation this gives Akira has him pouncing forward, clawing Goro’s cock free, and impaling himself all the way down to the base. They both moan, guttural, when the head meets the back of his throat.
Now, Goro has never had his cock sucked before, nor has anyone but himself ever touched it, and he thinks it’s wholly unfair that his first foray is into the throat of Kurusu Akira. It’s indescribable—it’s wet and hot and so, so tight and Akira is taking it so well and moaning with so much ecstasy you’d think the roles were reversed. Like he was the one with his cock down Goro’s throat, and oh, God, for a moment, Goro doesn’t think that sounds too bad.
Still, there’s a pang of… something. A little irregularity in the beat of his heart, when he thinks about how exactly Akira is so good at this. Be it toys, other people, or what, the thought of Akira with literally anything other than Goro in his mouth has his brain misfiring.
Without breaking eye contact, he leans down to take the ends of the belt in each hand, and pulls. He feels his own cock get strangled and makes a noise so filthy it takes a second to realise it came from him. Akira follows with a harsh gag that has his eyes streaming and rolling back into his head and Goro can’t recall the last time he saw someone so beautiful.
“You’re beautiful—,” he says, flinching, because that was supposed to stay in his head and he doesn’t understand why things keep slipping out when he’s normally so good at controlling them. But Akira hums happily, almost purring, and the vibrations shooting through his dick have him quickly yanking him off by the belt and gracelessly throwing it down the hallway.
He’s breathing hard, hungrily, and so is Akira, and they stare at each other for what quickly stretches into a humiliating amount of time considering the physical state they’re both in.
Goro doesn’t know how to explain that he can’t cum yet, and probably shouldn’t cum around and especially not in Akira at all. Doesn’t know how to explain that if he does, it’ll be so good it’ll turn bad, rot him from inside out, and throw into question everything he’s forced himself to stay alive for.
He doesn’t know how to explain how fucking terrified he is right now.
“Do you want to stop?” Akira whispers, and shatters the last of his resolve.
“…No.”
It’s relief—he thinks—that floods Akira’s features as Goro reaches down to cradle his chin. He brushes through his curls, cups the back of his head. And then he just stops.
Akira is on his knees, inches away from his flagging cock, hands gripping his thighs, looking up at him with reverence. And reverence is something Goro has a lot of experience with, but never like this. Never so honest, so pure, with nothing behind his hazy blown pupils. Because there are no intentions, good or bad, and nothing whatsoever to hide.
Goro, who is the patron saint of insincerity, who lives and breathes direct from its artificial capillaries, knows that this is a look you cannot fake.
He thinks he’s meant to cherish Akira, but he doesn’t know how to. He doesn’t even know where to start.
“Goro,” he breathes, and Goro’s eyes instantly snap away. A tidal wave of embarrassment roars in his ears at how long they’ve just fucking stared at each other, and now Akira has weaponised his given name to top it all off. Akira laughs and mirrors him so that they’re both gripping the other’s chin, and then he leans in to kiss him, long and slow.
Goro stiffens, then melts into it.
Just for today, just for this night, he thinks it could be okay to stop struggling.
When Akira pulls back, a fire that is distinctly Joker’s has bled into his eyes.
“Fuck my face?” he says. Another command, disguised as request. He’s perfect. He’s made for you, is what Goro’s brain screams, desperately, in response.
“With pleasure,” is what he says.
He straightens up, both hands now carding through Akira’s curls and holding on just behind his ears to keep his head steady. There’s a remnant of malaise in his gut, but he barely registers it, not when he’d rather let himself be captivated in all that is Akira. In the way his tongue flits in and out, lapping at the head of his cock, circling it slowly whilst he pumps Goro back to full hardness. He stares up at him through dark lashes the entire time.
When he’s done, he sits back on his heels and tilts his head into position, face doped up on lust. His mouth falls open, and combined with a bead of fresh blood on his bottom lip and a barely-there ligature mark around his neck, it’s all the invitation Goro needs.
It truly is unfair, Goro thinks again as he slowly thrusts into him, speeding up and chasing the pleasure at the back of Akira’s throat until growls escape his gritted teeth. He’s so good, his mind babbles, he’s so fucking good at everything he does, and Goro doesn’t even want to be good at having his face fucked, but it’s infuriating nonetheless, that Akira can do anything, be anything, and always handle it perfectly with minimal effort.
In the metaverse, quicksilver smile and dagger in hand; on his knees, sitting pretty with a cock in his mouth. And enjoying it so much, too, moans resonating through the empty hallway and only broken intermittently when he has to inhale sharply through his nose at the punishing pace Goro has set.
“You’re such a slut,” Goro is saying, suddenly deflective, “a needy, pathetic, good-for-nothing slut.” Akira’s still looking up at him, eyes so glassy with adoration it crosses some threshold and dips into challenge. His nails are digging deeper and deeper into Goro’s thighs, and the familiar prick of broken skin followed by the hot sting of blood has him hissing around a stutter in his hips.
In the pause, Akira deftly curls his tongue around the shaft and swallows, compressing the head, and Goro thinks he’s about to fucking die.
“Look at you,” he manages, trembling. “Useless attic trash. I bet you think you deserve my cum in your mouth, don’t you?” Akira’s eyes widen, and he nods frantically. Starts to rock back and forth on Goro’s cock himself, hand working in tandem with mouth, saliva dripping to the floor, for Christ’s sake, and Goro just lets him do it, because fuck if it doesn’t feel incredible.
Heat pools in his belly, and every muscle seizes around it.
“F-fuck, Akira, I’m gonna—” he tries to pull him off by the hair, but Akira makes a strained noise of protest and grips Goro’s wrists with an iron-strength as he works him through his orgasm and greedily swallows every drop. Goro makes a low, strangled sound as his hips twitch forward arrhythmically until he’s spent, and then after that, too.
His hair is stuck to his face, his ears are ringing, his cock is softening against Akira’s tongue, and he feels so boneless he could cry.
Akira slides off and the suction breaks with an unpleasant, wet pop. Goro slumps against the wall, lungs scorched and chest heaving. There’s sweat prickling his eyes, vision so blurry he doesn’t notice Akira shakily standing up until he’s beside him, kissing him gently. He tastes mostly of cum, and a little like metal.
“Water,” he croaks into his lips, “for both of us.” Goro nods and pulls his boxers back up on autopilot. He leaves his pants, finally stepping out of them and kicking them to the side on his way to the kitchen. It’s dusk already, the only light in the room a harsh glare spilling from the near-empty fridge after he opens it to retrieve a one-litre bottle of drinking water.
After padding back into the hallway, he lets Akira drink first, staring at his own fingerprints on the condensation of the plastic, and then to Akira’s throat moving up and down with the fluid. He gasps loudly when he’s done, wipes his mouth on his inner elbow and hands Goro the rest.
Akira’s eyes haven’t left him since his orgasm, but it isn’t until now that Goro notices: the tiniest sliver of worry, and a tinier trace of pleading he doesn’t think is an artifact from what he’s just done.
His stomach constricts so violently he thinks he’s about to throw up.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he chokes out, “why are you letting me do this?”
Akira breathes in a way that sounds like all the tension in his poor, broken body is being released at once.
“Because I want it?” he replies, stupid little rising intonation tugging at the last of Goro’s patience. Then: “and I trust you,” which immediately anchors him back in the absurdity of it all. When Goro goes rigid beside him, Akira’s brow furrows, and he laughs – actually laughs.
“Well, I trust your mind can be changed, at least.”
You’re too reckless. It’s not possible for everything to work out for you all the time Goro thinks but can’t say, not after this. Instead, a flare of anger blazes up inside of him.
“You’re a fucking imbecile. If you think desperately submitting your body to me like this will earn you mercy—”
“That’s not what this is, and you know it,” Akira cuts in, voice suddenly rough. He continues, a mostly-amused, somewhat-irritated edge tinging the words, “just fuck me already, I’m dying over here. And you clearly still need to let off steam—”
Goro winds back his fist and punches him in the face.
He makes a good point, though. Goro has touched him precisely once since this farcical, degenerate shitshow started, and he thinks it’s high time he levelled the playing field.
Akira staggers back and laughs incredulously, clapping a hand over his nose. Unfortunately, it’s not quite broken, but there is blood, and a dime-sized spot of it drops to the floor.
When Goro launches forward to kiss him, he feels more trickle down over his upper lip. To taste him like this—his Joker, the blood in his veins and his raw, unfiltered humanity—has his cock stirring again already.
He pulls back and swallows a mouthful of it.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard that smartass mouth of yours will only know how to scream my name—”
“—Sounds good—”
“—I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. I’m going to have you begging at the tip of my cock until you’re numb and brainless, and then for hours after that, too. Imagine: the leader of the Phantom Thieves, split open and crying at the behest of his murderer—”
“—Sounds really good—”
“—You’re mine, Joker. And I don’t treat what belongs to me kindly.”
Akira stares at him, then. After a beat, his lips curl into an errant smile and he swipes his nose along his forearm, leaving a shiny stripe of red. He lowers his voice an octave, leans in, and purrs into Goro’s ear:
“Get on with it, then.”
Goro grabs him roughly by the shoulders, pulls him down, and knees him hard in the diaphragm.
“What would your motley entourage of fools think of you if they saw this. Their whore of a leader, drooling over the enemy’s cock,” he spits down at Akira, coughing and curled into a foetal position.
“T-they wouldn’t get it. You’re the only one. The only one I could do this for. Jesus, fuck, Goro. You don’t know what you do to me,” he’s spluttering, fighting to get the words out, and in one painful, laboured breath he heaves: “you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”
Goro tries to process that. He really, truly does. But it’ll have to wait, because all the blood in his body is pounding around in his head and making his vision swim. He swallows dryly, the back of his tongue still copper-coated, and makes a point of looking away from Akira and down the hall. His voice only slightly wavers.
“To clarify, you don’t want me to use the gun?”
“Fuck. N-no. You’re right, I am a degenerate, and I do want your bare hands,” he laughs—a weak, airless chuckle, “maybe next time?”
“Next time? I do wonder where you get your confidence,” Goro scoffs, “get up, then, if you can manage it. I’d rather your blood be on my launderable bedsheets than seeping into my floorboards.”
Whilst Akira composes himself enough to cross the short distance from corridor to bedroom, Goro peels off his gloves. He briefly considers shoving one into Akira’s mouth, but he decides not to lest he desecrate it with the ecosystem of blood-spit-cum growing in there.
It isn’t until Akira is spread-eagled on his bed that Goro realises how hard he actually is, and has been this whole time. It’s equally disturbing and genuinely heartwarming how long he’s held out. For all his brattiness and backtalk, he hasn’t touched himself once, nor has he asked Goro to.
Goro ignores the implications, instead distracting himself by rummaging through his bedside drawer and retrieving the cold, unlabelled bottle he keeps there.
He throws the lube down at Akira. It smacks his belly, bouncing off of it and into the sheets.
“Spread yourself open for me,” he says coolly. Akira’s eyes turn huge for a split-second before he’s throwing his head back and lifting his hips to wrestle with his boxers.
“Oh, God. Goro,” he whines, shivering so much he almost drops the lube he’s haphazardly smearing over his fingers, “you turn me on so much, you have no idea.”
“There’s something fundamentally damaged about you, Akira. Neurologically speaking.”
“Ah—I know, I know, fuck, I’ve thought about this so many times, and now—,” his voice breaks off into a long, high-pitched moan as he pushes a finger deep into himself, “Goro, touch my cock. Please.”
Goro has been pointedly not looking at it, but he supposes it’s only fair. It’s flushed dark, slick with pre, and curves delicately up towards Akira’s navel. From where he’s stood, he cautiously wraps a hand around it to give it one, two, three rough pumps that have Akira crying. Then, an idea occurs to him, and he releases it to lay neglected against Akira’s belly once more.
“Keep fucking yourself,” he says, leaving the room. Akira’s response is nothing more than a loud, unrestrained groan as he adds a second finger.
The belt is where he left it in the hallway. He grabs it and re-enters the bedroom where Akira is fingering himself loose and senseless, looking so utterly pathetic that Goro wants to kiss him, hold him, slap him, spit on him and fuck him into his next life—ideally all at once, if he can.
He climbs onto the bed and straddles Akira’s thighs, grabbing his wrist to pull his fingers out of his hole. Akira blinks up at him, bleary-eyed and confused, realisation dawning into a look of icy terror as Goro holds his wrists together, wraps the belt around them, threads the end through the buckle, and fastens it tightly. He takes a moment to check Akira’s circulation, makes sure nothing is pressing too hard on the raw, lacerated skin there, and then bends down to pacify his whimpers with a chaste kiss.
He sits back up and takes off his boxers.
“Goro,” Akira gasps, arms above his head. “Untie me. Please, please, I need to touch you, I need—”
“Stop your fucking babbling,” he interrupts, stroking himself lazily as he drizzles more lube where the head meets Akira’s hole. It’s freezing, and they both wince.
“Please,” Akira continues to sob, “you can’t fuck me like this—let me touch you, God,” as if to demonstrate some inane point, he loops his bound arms around Goro’s neck and pulls him uncomfortably close, hot breath on his lips, their noses almost touching.
“Well, you seem to have figured something out,” Goro drones, and pushes into him slowly. Akira cries louder, and Goro will never admit this, but his heart is beating so hard it may as well be throwing itself against his ribcage and trying to break clean out.
“Fuck you, fuck you, just touch me, and take off your goddamn shirt—”
“Tell me how good I feel,” he orders, and a tiny, irrevocable sliver of his composure is chipped away when it ends on a tremble. But he thinks he should be forgiven; Akira is tight, so tight. His big eyes are wet with tears, bloody nose quickly drying, and a rosy, pink flush has been expanding gradually over his chest. Half his curls are damp with sweat and plastered to his face, the other half largely unharmed and fanning out onto the dark sheets below him.
For all his scowling and jaw clenching and verbal ballistics, Goro wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away if he tried.
“S-so fucking good. You’re so good, the best. At everything you do, ngh—”
Fuck.
“K-keep talking. Don’t stop—”
Praise spills from Akira’s lips, coaxed further by intermittent, whispered yeah?’s from Goro. Akira nods breathlessly after each one, the fingers of his bound hands bruising Goro’s shoulders. Eyes scrunched, head thrown back, thin neck exposed. He’s started to drool a little.
Goro thinks he’s earnt it, so he stops. He leans back and lifts Akira’s arms like they’re something fragile and precious. Slowly, he unthreads the belt, biting back moans at the stream of blissful nonsense continuing beneath him.
Once free, it takes Akira about two seconds to rotate his wrists and flex out his fingers before surging upwards to pull Goro down by his hair and crash their lips together. Then, he locks him into place with his legs, and madly fucks himself up from the mattress, still mumbling incoherently into Goro's mouth.
Goro springs into action and takes Akira’s cock in a death-grip, pumping furiously. When they break for air, he pulls his shirt off over his head and dives back down to press his chest flat against Akira’s. The other boy repositions his legs and continues pistoning himself, looking faintly rabid. He leaves deep jagged paths over Goro’s back with his nails, scratching and groaning and sobbing with each thrust.
He’s loud, much louder than Goro, who has his teeth actively clamped around his tongue so as not to show how fucking euphoric this feels. The only way he can be sure he’s still alive is the knowledge that Hell would never be so kind to him.
A tiny whimper breaks through, and he curls into himself to press his forehead to Akira’s.
His brain is distressingly quiet in its overwhelm. Between the burning-hot cock in his hand, the friction where it’s wedged between their bellies, and Akira ripping his back to shreds, all he knows is this—the sound of Akira’s voice, the scent of his skin, the shape of his body wound so tightly around his he doubts they could ever separate.
Before he realises it, he’s coming for the second time. He spills into Akira, pleasure cresting, pulling him under.
Their hands quickly find each other, gripping so hard the knuckles turn white.
Afterwards, he’s panting so loudly, body throbbing all over, that it takes a moment to realise his other hand has stopped moving on Akira’s cock, and Akira is begging for that to be changed.
“Can I cum? Will you let me cum?” he cries, uselessly jerking his hips up and down. Goro, bone-tired in a conflicted afterglow, indulges him. Drenched in pre, the slide is smooth and obscenely wet, so even though he’s pretty sure all the muscles in his arm have disintegrated, Goro knows it’ll be enough.
“Okay—”
And then Akira is screaming, coming so hard it spatters up onto his chest. And Goro feels so, so thoroughly enamoured he doesn’t even care if the entire apartment complex hears.
For a while, they stare at each other. Legs tangled together; skin tacky and breath condensing between them in the cold room.
Akira is the one to break the silence with a pre-emptive inhale, and then he starts to speak.
“That was… um… Akechi, that…”
Goro grimaces, all at once unbearably aware of how disgusting they both are, and slowly pulls his cock out of Akira.
“Don’t.”
“…Okay. Sorry.”
He sighs and cups Akira’s cheek, the bruises there already turning blueish, and the space from nose to mouth encrusted with blood. Even now, Akira never breaks eye contact, as if Goro will disappear if he does. He turns his face to the side and plants a soft kiss against his palm.
Akira wraps a hand around the back of Goro’s neck and starts to pull him closer, lips parting. But the heavy, ropy clumps of self-loathing in his chest must be showing, because he stops. Tilts his head and guides Goro into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, instead. The pressure in his fingertips eases, and they slide upwards to curl into the sticky hair at his nape.
“Join us,” he says, not quite a whisper, and it thrums in the space where their ribs slot into each other. “We can help you.”
Ah, there it is. Joker, and his saviour complex. A future, offered to friends, to shadows, to traitors and to all.
He truly is an inexplicable fool.
His nose is pressed into Goro’s temple, inhaling deeply. Goro twitches—his scalp feels suffocated in sweat; he probably smells horrible. Unclean and far too human.
Still, he allows himself to suck a mark into Akira’s salty neck and scrapes his teeth lightly over the tensed muscles there. The other boy’s heart is thumping against his own chest, and he wonders if Akira can feel his, too.
When Akira tentatively pulls him impossibly closer and into a hug, he’s suddenly struck by how utterly and categorically unfair everything is.
He reaches around to take a gentle hold of his wrists, heaving himself upright. He traces the marks there before his thumbs follow the path of Akira’s tendons and glide down to hook into the webbing below his index fingers. Akira watches him, impassive, and meets him halfway by lacing the rest of their fingers together and squeezing.
“Go and take a shower. I’ll have to keep you here tonight, regardless,” Goro hears himself saying, and wonders what he means. Regardless.
Akira’s face doesn’t change. The molten gaze from earlier has hardened, but Goro is fixed under it all the same.
“Come in with me?”
Goro doesn’t respond. After a long, weighted silence, Akira huffs out a sigh and looks away.
“We’ll talk after, then.”
“Fine.” Goro’s voice is clipped, but Akira smiles anyway as he lets go of his hands and shuffles out from beneath him, flushed and bite-covered and ever-so-slightly trembling. He doesn’t push, because he never pushes.
You did that, a voice tells him. And, watching Akira stand up unsteadily and walk towards the bathroom carrying Goro all over him, he can’t decide how to feel about it.
He sits and waits to hear the water switch on and smack against porcelain. He knows once Akira is inside, because the stream stops and starts around the shape of his body. He tries not to think about it, and goes to find a towel.
He suddenly feels very, very sick.