Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Just like that,” a voice murmurs in his ear, as buttery soft as a knife’s edge. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Joker’s lungs catch and rattle, and for a blissful moment his world narrows to three simple things: friction on his cock, wet and hard and perfect. Stale-mint breath against his lips. The dark shine of deep maroon irises, watching his every move.

And then a fourth thing to break the spell—the static of the mic in his ear which is… off.

Yeah, it’s off. He definitely turned it off.

Joker winds a leg around Crow’s thighs, adjusts his angle, and that’s it, that really is good, and somewhat more importantly that allows him to snake an oh-so-subtle hand along the line of Crow’s belt, feel around, dip it under whatever the hell he’s wearing this time… seems to be some sort of jacket. Too dark to see properly but it’s tailored and loose rather than something tight and functional, which means—

Ah, hell, that felt amazing. Joker hisses something under his breath, incomprehensible to even himself. He can practically hear Crow’s smirk.

The jacket. Loose. Which means—

Oh fuck it, he’ll figure it out later. There’s something incredible happening and—oh, that makes Joker’s entire body convulse, copper and salt on his tongue as his canines close around the flesh of Crow’s bottom lip. A completely normal and not pathetic sound fills the quiet air around them and Joker catches himself, just barely manages to stay standing.

God. Rude of him. He should keep doing whatever the hell that was, but still rude. Crow was always good at pushing his buttons.

Joker licks the blood off his teeth.

Crow pulls away for just a moment, swipes a gloved thumb across his own lip. “You should be careful, that’s government property,” he chuckles.

As if whatever entity Crow is “working” for now could truly control his chaos. As if anyone could.

Joker’s free hand instinctively wraps tighter around Crow’s waist, and—wait. Wasn’t he in the middle of doing something?

“And what were you doing here, little thief?” Crow asks, catching on faster. Those clever fingers abandon their post, capture Joker’s hand on his back. Crow’s grip around his wrist is fun, flirty, and unquestionably firm, which means an end to the snooping Joker forgot to begin. “Trying to uncover who I am tonight? Assassin or detective?”

Well, yes. But he doesn’t have to be a smartass about it.

Joker opens his mouth to respond with a smartass retort of his own when the dark room suddenly blurs, spins 180 degrees; his face makes its sudden acquaintance with the wall. The wall hurts. “I’ll save you the trouble,” Crow hisses in his ear, and on cue the familiar cold bite of metal clasps around Joker’s wrists—his shoulders pinching painfully as his arms are trapped behind his back.

Definitely not a great situation. But better than the pistol, probably. But that doesn’t mean Crow’s not still packing—Joker made that mistake once.

Okay, twice.

Okay, so maybe he’s a bit screwed here, in more ways than just the fun one.

“Wait, I still don’t know,” Joker says shittily anyway, half-garbled by the wall he’s starting to know a little too well now. “Gimme another hint.”

“Ha ha.” Crow replies coldly. “Always with the jokes.” He’s completely out of sight now but Joker can hear the tension in his voice, can feel the tightly coiled springs in his fingers, digging painfully into the meat of his thighs. A starved dog just barely holding himself back from his next meal and starting to growl enough to play the part.

It’s a special kind of pleasure to know that the “Crow” behind him is in fact the former and present media darling Detective Prince Goro Akechi. Shiny idol Goro Akechi, taking his time rubbing his slicked-up cock against Joker’s ass. Pristine and perfect Goro Akechi, who brings lube with him on a mission to intercept his enemy. Japan’s hottest bachelor Goro Akechi, about to fuck that enemy right next to the desk of the former Minister of Foreign Affairs.

Crow leans in, murmurs in Joker’s ear: “You’re under arrest.”

God. Joker hates himself a little, the way that awful line made him shiver. “What porno did you steal that from—oh!?” 

Crow buries himself inside with one forceful thrust and Joker can’t stop himself from crying out way too loud in shock and pleasure, “Shit, fuck—!”

“You’re a menace,” Crow hisses, jostling Joker against the wall like a doll, trying to shove himself in as deep as possible. He’s such a dick but finally, finally, what his body had been aching for since the moment Oracle murmured in his earpiece that she’d spotted an old friend.

Ew, no, stop, don’t think about her right now. His mic is probably off, it’s probably fine.

Joker grits his teeth, grins and tastes wallpaper. “So why don’t you shut up and fuck me like one, you bastard.”

The answering tug on his bound wrists is exactly what he wanted. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Crow says, because he can’t keep his mouth shut for longer than a second. He starts moving regardless, just using Joker, holding him by the roots of his hair. “Filth like you craves violence and Joker… Joker, no one gives you what you need quite like I do.”

Joker has no choice but to lean his entire weight against the wall via the side of his face and take it, which is… god, it’s transcendent. Almost as good as the heist he’s going to flawlessly pull off once he finishes here. The thrill and danger of the cuffs, the singular focus of the man on him, Crow’s heady grunts in his ear. He pushes Joker further down and against the wall, clasps his ass between both hot, sweaty hands and drives right into him where he needs him, right—right fucking there.

Two months ago these very same cuffs were around Crow’s wrists instead, pinning him to the railing of a grimy stairwell outside his would-be target’s hotel room while Joker rode him. Crow insulted him the entire time, murmuring less and less creative expletives until Joker spilled victoriously across his stomach, Crow’s pistol resting impotent and alone a full floor down.

And a month before that, they were on the floor of a freezing server room—Joker still had the imprints of the grated tile pattern on his chest and face when he limped home an hour later, and he didn’t get the data he was there for either.

And just a week before that, three months before that, two days before that…

So, they have a bit of a pattern.

Joker’s jaw hangs open but he can’t seem to get enough air, someone is moaning into the quiet and that had to be him because Crow is busy mumbling some of the foulest, nastiest shit he’s ever heard to the back of his head. His cheek fucking hurts from being crushed against this shithead embezzler’s wall and he can’t even touch his own hard, weeping cock because of the cuffs. He has to jack himself off, can’t jack himself off, has to come, so he squeezes his eyes shut, knows this can’t last much longer, tries to chase his orgasm in the feeling of Crow inside him while a quieter part of his brain reminds him that if he comes first he loses.

Maybe a little less quiet than before. Joker hates losing. Hates even losing the petty games he makes up in his own head.

“De-detective,” he pants, interrupting Crow’s tirade. “Come on baby, fuck me harder,” Joker chokes out. He knows Crow is still holding back, he’s so close, Crow has to be close too, and the miserable, pathetic, nonexistent friction of open air against his cock might literally kill him before either of them get off anyway.

Crow takes another big handful of Joker’s hair and yanks it back in response, spots appear in front of his vision as his back arches, it gets harder to breathe, just a little more—god, please—

“Do you need me?”

His extremities are going numb and staticky so either the cuffs are too tight or all the blood in his body is trapped in his dick or both, please, please, “Crow,” he doesn’t beg, isn’t begging.

“Are you going to come for me? You are, aren’t you Akira—you… Joker, why are you—why are you like this?” Crow lets out a quiet howl of frustration. “How do you feel so… god—damn—”

Warmth and friction wrap around Joker’s cock, the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire damned life, and Crow squeezes once, hard. Joker cries out so loudly that his navigator might hear it without a microphone anyway.

Crow managed to surprise him in this room, got the upper hand with the cuffs. Joker should have known he’d come out on top here too. Bittersweet relief comes in the form of the hand on his cock finally moving, jacking him mercifully fast and hard until his pleasure crests against his will and he seizes around the man inside him, spills himself across soft, well-worn leather.

Joker hates losing, hates that he lost, but… he hasn’t truly lost.

Because there’s nothing quite like coming while still being fucked, hard and fast in the way Crow does it: the wild abandon of it, the sweet pain of overstimulation, leftover shocks of pleasure flooding through his body. Because Crow is the most selfishly selfless person he’s ever met: he gets off on getting Joker off, he always has and he does now, words finally failing him as he whimpers low and quiet into Joker’s ear.

Because Joker may have lost this battle, but there’s a pretty well-known saying about that.

Crow’s thrusts slow and stagger until he finally slumps down, hugging the curve of Joker’s back, his heavy weight pressing him even harder against the stupid wall.

They remain still against each other for longer than they should. Cum trickles slowly down the back of Joker’s thigh.

Crow huffs out a final sigh, breath hot against the back of his neck. Slides off him, sticky with sweat, to stand up behind Joker, directly behind him, and takes a breath.

“Well, Joker… you really—”

And Joker throws his head back, connects.

It’s a damn good hit, painful for him but worse for Crow: he goes down like a sack of potatoes and stays down, thank god. His lover is just a dark silhouette against a cushy rug now—hair mussed, clothes askew, cock out, glove soiled.

And that’s that. Joker doesn’t win but he wins, which is good enough for him.

Next up, dealing with these handcuffs.

He slides a pick out of his sleeve, starts working the mechanism. It’s not complicated, he’ll be out in a minute. In the meantime he crouches down next to Crow’s slack face, gives him a little kiss on the forehead, right where a nasty bruise is sure to form.

“Until we meet again, Goro.”

And sure enough, just a few weeks later, Akira spots a bonafide celebrity across a crowded, spruced-up high school gymnasium.

Now, Akira knows for a fact that this particular celebrity doesn’t often mingle with the common folk. At least, not outside of the requirements of his job, not since his early idol days. His suit is striking in the sea of ill-fitted black and navy—all white, with red and gold accents, making him stand out even further. A man used to the spotlight, with the looks to deserve it. Shoulder-length chestnut locks shiny and immaculate, not a strand out of place. Skin flawless and glowing under the glittering chandeliers of this ridiculous venue. He really could have stepped right out of the television and into the real world, with one exception: a screen could never truly capture how tall he is.

Anyway, Akira slides right up next to him and pinches his tight little ass.

“Wh—!” Goro Akechi spins around, looks as angry as he’d allow himself to be under these princely circumstances. Fake pleasant fury flits to real shock for just a moment before his face schools itself into something more guarded. “Akira.”

Akira grins, gestures to his own deep burgundy suit. “I know; I look incredible.”

“Charming, as always. Did you bring me a drink?”

“Uh,” Akira falters, holding out his empty hands. Damn. He totally should have done that. “No?”

Goro sighs, shakes his head dramatically, and Akira doesn’t like how generally unsurprised Goro is to see him tonight. Really doesn’t like it—would signal to one of his comrades if he weren’t standing next to one of the greatest detectives Japan has ever known.

“Care to join me for a trip to the bar then?” that detective asks. “I imagine your presence at my side might keep some of the more irritating would-be conversationalists away, like some sort of,” Goro regards his outfit with a raised brow, “…rooster.”

Akira narrows his eyes, but lets it go. He knows Goro’s just being defensive because Akira’s hotness would destroy him otherwise. “Alright then. Shall we?”

“Let’s shall,” Goro nods, and they make their way across the gymnasium together, easily sliding past crowds of puffed-up police captains and tipsy salarymen.

“So you’re getting another award for your shelf tonight? Best Detective-ing or whatever?” Akira asks once they reach the short line for the bar. It looks well-stocked, fairly impressive for a small-time event such as this. They even managed to conceal the basketball hoop hanging above the counter with some flowers. “I thought you usually skipped these things, let them send ‘em in the mail.”

“The award is for solving a cold case in Shinagawa, which you very well know. And you also know that I’ve had to cut back on the usual media rounds these last few weeks—”

“Oh really?” Akira interrupts, staring firmly at Goro’s forehead which is a little more caked in makeup than usual. He can see a hint of bruise, if he squints. “And why is that?” he asks loudly.

Goro glares back at him, deliciously hostile considering their mixed company.

A short time later—Montrachet burgundy acquired for Goro, a Sex on the Beach for Akira (with a side of snickering and eyebrow-waggling)—and they’re off again, eventually finding their way to a small high top table near the edge of the room, far enough out of the way that interruptions should be minimal, even considering Goro’s célébrité.

And Goro… well, Goro is the same as always. Perfectly enigmatic. For any other person, any other job, Akira could have planned this down to the minute.

He could have wandered around this sad little gymnasium, keeping an eye out for the usual meddlers but mostly keeping an eye on the open bar while the rest of the Phantom Thieves scheme, coordinate, sneak, and swindle their way into this little event. Small-time for Goro and small-time for them too, but the pockets of a certain corrupt commissioner happen to be in attendance tonight.

He’d have been bored out of his mind right now. Luckily for him, Goro’s definitely onto them.

Yeah, this is better.

Akira quietly watches and contemplates his other half, tries to figure out his next move, takes a sip from his bright pink Sex on the Beach.

(They did actually have sex on the beach once—their foreplay that night being a fistfight on a yacht, a tumble to the sea, a long swim to shore and then, of course, a second fistfight. He was digging sand out of everywhere for weeks.)

“Akira,” Goro says, not looking at him. Searching the room instead, searching for familiar faces no doubt. He reaches into his suit pocket—Akira’s heart thudding in his chest for a tense moment before Goro places a small stone on the table between them.

It’s not a gun. Or a bomb. Or whatever other shit he’s pulled in the past.

It’s just a rock.

Or, more accurately, some sort of crystal. It’s spiky and a dark grey color, almost black, with an appealing bit of sheen to it. Barely larger than a button. It’s beautiful.

“I found this on the outskirts of Saijō while I was looking into a series of thefts. Stibnite, I believe—there used to be a mine in that city,” Goro explains, still gazing off into the distance. “Do you like it?”

Akira’s heart does that annoying thing where it expands to fill his entire chest, pushing important shit like his lungs out of its way. “I do. Thank you,” he says sincerely and pockets the stone, mentally finding a place for it in his room amongst the other favors Goro’s granted him over the years. He can’t help the smile that crawls across his face, grows even wider as Goro finally catches his eye.

“Goro—”

“I’m going home with someone else tonight,” Goro interrupts, and whatever thoughts Akira might have been thinking come to an abrupt, record-scratching halt.

Right. Akira remembers himself. Who he is, who Goro is. 

“Oh?” He asks carefully. Shoves down whatever unfair, unwarranted, unwanted possessiveness managed to bubble to the surface while his guard was down, crushes it. Crushes it. Crushes it. Chugs a little more of his drink than he should. “Who?”

And oh, if looks could kill. If looks could kill Akira would be so dead he’d never been born.

So, the last time Goro made the mistake of telling Akira he was “ingratiating himself” with someone else “for a case” Akira’s stupid jealous brain decided that a good way of handling that information would be to make a competition out of it. And Akira won. And Goro genuinely tried to kill him for the better part of a year after that, and Akira still isn’t sure if it’s because he lost the game or because he was jealous himself.

“Haven’t decided yet,” Goro says. “The perks of being an award-winner.”

“Of course,” Akira replies, then finishes off his drink.

“But I do have to ask… why on earth are you here tonight, Akira Kurusu?” 

Goro leans forward, setting his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist, his impossibly perfect hair framing an impossibly perfect face.

This is how he catches all his opponents, ensnares all his victims. A mythical siren, come to life.

Akira blinks. “Free drinks.” Shit.

“You can’t expect me to believe that,” the siren sings.

“Really. I’m not here for anything but a good time.” Akira puts a hand to his heart, tries to look very very sincere. “Thief’s honor.”

Goro is too smart for his own good which is why he only levels A Look at Akira. Yeah, this was never gonna be that easy—he should have known there was no way he’d manage to get Goro to believe him on his word alone. And unfortunately he really does need Goro to believe him.

What better way to cover up a lie than with a small grain of truth?

Akira grimaces with real, genuine embarrassment. “Fine. I’m just doing some recon. The team put me on the bench for a few months because I, uh.” He takes a quick swig of his cocktail. Rips off the bandaid. “I forgot to turn my mic off during our last… uh. You know.”

Goro chokes on his drink, just barely manages to swallow it down and save his pristine white outfit. “You didn’t.”

God, it was awful.

“I wish.”

“Aha…” Goro laughs weakly, and now it seems it’s his turn to chug his drink. A silence falls over the both of them as Goro no doubt plays over what he remembers of their latest encounter in his head.

“They must have gotten quite a show,” is what he finally lands on.

“Yeah, they loved it,” Akira snaps sarcastically. Which he shouldn’t have, shouldn’t take it out on Goro, it was his own damn fault for forgetting. “Sorry, this timeout is getting to me. You know how much I love crime,” he sighs melodramatically.

Also not a lie—he may be out on a job right now but it’s Panther who’s doing all the good stuff. Akira’s just stuck on detective-babysitting duty, not even worthy of the Joker moniker tonight.

Goro nods in understanding.

“And they just…” Akira falls forward onto their table, cradles his head in his hands. “They wouldn’t let it go.”

Akira loves his gang, god does he love them. But what Akira doesn’t love is talking about his own private business, or his past with Goro, or their weird pseudo-relationship, or how they’ve managed to pull off so much fucking mid-heist. Yusuke needed to be reassured Akira wasn’t compromised, Ann asked if they were secretly married for some ungodly reason, and then Ryuji had one too many beers and asked one too many questions on the specifics of exactly what they do together. Specific specifics.

Really specific specifics.

And all those questions made him think about things he’s let slide over the years. Things he hadn’t thought to properly examine himself. Things he honestly had never even noticed. Things he really should have noticed.

And now he can’t. Stop. Thinking about it.

“Mm,” Goro hums, none the wiser to the question Akira is screaming inside his head. “I can imagine, unfortunately.”

And Akira’s cocktail was fairly strong (maybe it was a bad idea to order a double) which is maybe why he blurts out: “I’ve never fucked you, have I?”

Goro’s jaw actually drops. “E-excuse me?”

“Kind of surprising, don’t you think? Is it that you’re not into bottoming? Do you not—erk!”

Whatever other stupid shit he was about to say gets caught in his throat as Goro’s fingers wrap around his hair, subtly and firmly pull at the roots in a way that’s achingly familiar, just short of what he wants—and oh, he wants.

That question in his head that he can’t get out… it’s curiosity, mostly. He has countless memories of Goro behind him, on top of him, even plenty beneath him but not beneath him in that way. Sticking his dick in a guy like Goro Akechi might be about as dangerous as sticking his dick in a shark tank, a bear trap, a dumpster full of raccoons, but damn if he isn’t curious to see how it’d go. And luckily for Akira, curiosity never killed anybody.

“Would you keep your voice down!” Goro hisses at him, sending another pleasant flush of heat down Akira’s body.

“Sorry,” he says, and Goro releases his hair. Which reminds him that he’s not sorry. “Why haven’t we, though?”

The Detective Prince takes a silent moment to examine his surroundings—not for thieves but for eavesdroppers, which means this wild distraction “tactic” of Akira’s… might actually be working. “Well, in short, it’s simply easiest to fall into the familiar.”

“…And in long?”

“Well, I…” Goro trails off, then works his jaw back and forth, grinds his teeth a little bit. “I told you: I’m not sleeping with you tonight, Kurusu.”

Yeah, it’s not the first time he’s heard that. Akira smiles back. “Afraid of trying new things?”

“New as in not you?”

“New as in you underneath me,” Akira leans forward, smirks as seductively as he can. “Moaning in my ear, telling me exactly how good I feel inside you until you come on my—” 

And that’s when an errant thought pops into Akira’s head: Goro is avoiding eye contact. Avoiding the subject. Avoiding just about everything, but given away by the slightest flush coloring the sides of his neck, made so much more obvious by that striking white suit. Goro might have no idea what he’s talking about.

Akira feels his smirk turn predatorial, sharp as the knife he has strapped to his ankle. “Hold on. Have you ever…?”

Goro gives him a look which has Akira’s fingers twitching for that ankle-knife. Just in case.

“I'm getting another drink,” Goro says.

And then he turns tail and leaves.

Shit. Shit.

Was this a good play? It was a bold play for sure—maybe less tactical and more Akira thinking with his dick. But it never paid off to play it safe with Goro Akechi, and now his gamble is going to have one of three outcomes:

1. Goro doesn’t come back at all. Akira is fucked but not in that way, and so are the Phantom Thieves.
2. Goro comes back with just his own drink. There’ll be tough work ahead, and Akira might have to let Goro fuck him instead, but it’s still possible to save the night.
3. Goro comes back with two drinks. Akira is in.

So Akira takes a calming breath. Watches him go.

He really is something else. Pissed and distracted (distracted enough to miss Fox wandering a little too close to his eyeline) but still striding confidently across the ballroom, his criminally perfect ass so tempting in that white suit.

Goro gets sidetracked by an older man who wants a selfie with him. A woman in a green dress taps his shoulder, manages to trap him in a conversation for over 15 seconds. He does reach the line for the bar, eventually. Stands there, idly fixing his hair, tapping on his phone, looking generally flustered and impatient.

But he does come back.

He sets his martini down on the table.

And slides Akira one to match.

“I know what I’m good at,” Goro says immediately. “I know what I like. It’s not that I’m ‘afraid to try new things,’ you should very well know by now that I am no coward. Just because this particular act garners no innate interest from me, doesn’t mean…”

Akira zones out, sips his drink.

It’s pretty good. A little heavy on the vermouth, but that’s not a dealbreaker.

“…and frankly, I don’t see why this is such a big deal to you, or to anyone,” Goro continues. “However, I must also say: it doesn’t sit right with me that we’re unequal in this aspect, as in anything else. As rivals it’s our responsibility to push each other forward and yet here I am, mired in my own incuriosity and refusing an opportunity to expand my horizons…”

He’s pretty cute when he rambles. No wonder people fall for the detective shtick.

Akira is people.

Oh shit, he’s still going.

“…have enough experience to see for myself what that would entail, and while you clearly enjoy yourself I see no reason why I personally would like—”

“Goro, you can’t judge clothes by what they look like on the rack.” Akira finally says, trying to be helpful, though based on Goro’s usual wardrobe he’s not sure he’ll understand the metaphor. “You gotta try it on before—”

“I’m a busy man, Akira.” He holds up a hand before Akira can interrupt again, “and I also see no need for any amateur psychosexual analysis, thank you.”

No, you’re doing that well enough on your own. “So you don’t want to hear about how all this means you have an inflated superego?”

The Grand and Exalted Detective Prince grants him a single laugh. Akira wants him so badly he’s actually aching—and he’s already wasted so much time here. He still has to get Goro out of the way so his team can work.

Enough stalling. It’s now or never.

Akira reaches across the table, takes Goro’s hand—their lines and calluses as familiar as Akira’s own. “There’s another saying I know: the best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second-best time is now.”

“Akira—”

“You can go home with whoever you want. Do whatever you want later.” Akira leans in as close as he dares in public, brushes his thumb against Goro’s wrist. “Indulge me now, try this with me, let me have you first.” He glances at his watch as if he doesn’t know exactly what time it is, hopes the gesture is convincing. “There’s an hour before your little ceremony, that’s plenty of time. My gift to you.”

Goro’s hand slides down, closes around Akira’s. He reaches across their table, delicately plucks the stem of Akira’s glass and brings it to his lips for a long, quiet sip.

“But… what if we get caught?” Goro asks over the top of Akira’s drink, a sly smile crawling across his lips.

Akira and Goro have never gotten caught. They didn’t get caught in the minister’s office (Akira refuses to count the earpiece mistake), didn’t get caught out in that nature reserve, didn’t get caught in the casino, on a plane, on another, different plane, even managed to escape notice in a busy train station bathroom—and they certainly won’t get caught in this pathetic little venue.

They make it three steps outside the gymnasium before Goro slams Akira into a wall of lockers. He’d care more about the lock digging into his spine if Goro wasn’t doing such a good job of distracting him with his hands.

“Unless you want me to take you right here?” he whispers slyly into his ear.

No, that wouldn’t take nearly long enough for the Thieves to work. “No, I thought we had a deal,” Akira whispers back. He slides out of Goro’s grasp, grabbing his hand as he goes, and leads them further away.

This wasn’t Akira’s school, wasn’t Goro’s either, but high schools aren’t all that difficult to figure out. They make their way further and further away from the decorations, the noise, the crowds, teasing each other with increasingly brazen maneuvers as they pass hallways, courtyards, doors upon doors to rooms upon rooms that are never quite right—

“Hello?”

So of course this is the time they get caught.

“Hello?” that voice calls out again, small and meek around the next corner. A woman. “Is someone there?”

Akira and Goro scramble to make themselves presentable. It’s kind of a lost cause, but—

“Hello—”

“Hello!” Goro interrupts, a dazzling smile spread across his face, all the more dazzling for the red flush in his cheeks. He waves pleasantly as their interloper finally turns the corner. A young woman in a modest outfit unfit for the event still raging on the other side of the building, likely a teacher working late.

She takes in the both of them with wide eyes. Goro’s undershirt is still untucked on one side.

“I apologize profusely,” Goro says, the picture of poise and calm, bowing slightly. “Did we startle you?”

“Um,” the woman says.

The one time they get caught. The one time, and it had to be now. Now she’s going to call them out and they’ll have to go back to the party way too early and the Thieves will have to abort their operation and Akira will never hear the end of it—

“Are you… Goro Akechi?” she asks quietly, stars in her eyes.

Oh. Akira hides his smile behind his hand. Oh, this might be worse.

“Ha ha, you’ve caught me,” Goro winks. “I am indeed Goro Akechi. Could you… be a fan of mine?” he asks fake-coyly, his head suddenly so large it’s in danger of toppling off his shoulders.

Why the hell does anybody like this guy? Akira asks himself as the woman nods and visibly swoons.

You’re about to fuck this guy, genius, his brain helpfully responds.

Oh, he’s about to fuck Goro, Akira realizes. He’s going to fuck this ridiculous man—in his element now, flipping his hair and posing for selfies and flirting so convincingly that this poor woman doesn’t notice Akira’s suit jacket is buttoned wrong, doesn’t notice how Goro’s hair is all tangled in the back. He’s going to fuck him. He’s going to finger him open and slide into his ass and pound him for as long as he’s physically able.

“Now Suzuki-san—I am ever so sorry, but my associate and I do need to continue on our way. We’ve got some investigating to do down the hall, though we’d appreciate it greatly if you could keep our involvement here to yourself until this case is closed. The work never stops, you understand haha!” he grins, sparing a passing glance Akira’s way, and Akira hates how much he’s not turned off right now. He should really be turned off.

“O-of course!” she stutters, stepping out of their way. “Um, good luck and thank you, Akechi-san! Oh, and you too, Watson-san!”

“You’re unbelievable,” Akira murmurs out the side of his mouth as they calmly walk away, Goro waving cheerfully until they’re out of eyeshot.

And then an iron grip closes around his wrist. Goro must be in some sort of mood, because he actually kicks open the door to a nurse’s office before shoves Akira forcefully inside, locking the door behind them. He’s on him again before Akira can even blink, pushing him up against one of the elevated beds walled off by curtains. “Unbelievable? I’d like to think so, Kurusu. Did that make you hot?” he asks huskily, crowding Akira further back onto the thin mattress. “Did you enjoy watching me work?”

“That’s you working?” Akira mocks as he pulls Goro closer, feels the puff of his breath against his lips. “So what does a detective do for fun?”

Goro smirks, gracefully takes the opening Akira handed him and grinds down on Akira’s cock.

So here they are again: tucked away in a little corner of the world, somewhere they aren’t supposed to be, doing something they aren’t supposed to be doing. Together.

But this time… this time things are going to go a little different.

Akira gets a leg between them, kicks Goro away. “‘Easy to fall into the familiar,’ huh?”

Goro stumbles and catches himself, confused for a short instant before that big smart brain of his can catch up. Akira busies himself with pulling the thin mattress he was just cornered on off its frame and throwing it haphazardly down to the floor—they’ll need more stability than rickety metal built to hold one teenager.

The first time Akira was properly fucked was on a mattress just like this, years ago, back when he was just a teenager himself. A dusty attic lit only by moonlight, still and silent, with a quietly nervous Goro Akechi above him. So now they’ve got the mattress, they’ve got the atmosphere. It’s only fair that Akira finally returns the favor.

“Aha, yes. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you?” Akira parrots back.

Goro stands in the middle of the nurse’s office. Grinding his teeth again. “I won’t back down,” he nods, more to himself than Akira. “But first, a warning: I’m not like you. Or like the other… people,” he spits out, like “people” is in quotation marks, “you dally with. There is a high probability I won’t enjoy this at all.”

Yes, of course, you’re very special and different and you’re the toppiest top to ever top, Akira doesn’t say. “Get on the mattress, Goro.”

Goro doesn’t, not immediately, because he’s an asshole who refuses to take one single direction properly as given. First he rolls his eyes. Then he slowly unbuttons his white suit jacket. Then takes it off, folds it, and places it gingerly onto a chair.

It’s his funeral, really. Akira doesn’t care how long he takes, this whole thing is a diversion anyway. The longer the better.

But god he takes absolutely fucking forever.

“Well then?” Goro asks, settling into a casual recline on a mattress on the floor of a random high school nurses’ office, like he didn’t just take days to undress to his undershirt and slacks.

“Turn around for me,” Akira says, making a spinny gesture with his finger. “Hands and knees.”

His heart is pounding against his chest too hard, an unfamiliar kind of fear and adrenaline pumping in his veins. It gets better without Goro staring him down, but Akira might understand teenage Goro’s anxiety better now.

As for Goro: he plays the part. Perfectly. Of course he does. Drops down to his elbows, arches a delightful curve to his back for extra credit. Akira’s brain takes a little break at the sight and he vacantly watches himself smooth his hands under Goro’s shirt, along his toned back, across that ass barely hidden by tight white pants. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this since our last time together, you know.”

“Mm, then I have high expectations.”

“Did you bring lube?”

Goro scoffs. Reaches into his pants pocket, passes back a small packet, then grants Akira the favor of unbuckling his own belt for him before returning to being a pillow princess.

Fine. Akira will do the rest.

But getting Goro out of his slacks proves just about as ridiculous an affair as his week-long jacket-only boring-ass “striptease.” The things are practically painted on, not to mention the added complexity of a switchblade hidden under his belt as well as a set of suspenders Akira has to unhook that are concealing not one but two pistols.

“Expecting a fight?”

“In a room full of Tokyo’s finest and you?” Goro grouses into the mattress. He reaches an arm up, brushes some hair away from his face, doesn’t offer to help Akira at all. “It never hurts to be prepared. Be careful with those.”

Be careful with those, Akira mouths mockingly to Goro’s back. He gives up on Goro’s pants—they’re most of the way down his thighs, that’s enough—and gives the perfect ass in front of him a solid, healthy slap.

“Mn!”

“You like that?”

“No.”

God, Akira hates this guy. But if hating each other were a turn-off they’d have stopped fucking a long time ago, so he takes a quiet moment to caress smooth skin now turning a light shade of pink, pushing and pulling his cheeks apart, blows a little cool air on his exposed hole to tease—

“Don’t use your mouth.”

Jesus Fucking Christ. “Your loss,” Akira grits out, crossing at least ten different fantasies off his list. He’s really determined to be a bitch the whole time, isn’t he? Akira looks down at Goro, still resting serenely on the mattress. He looks relaxed, and Akira’s never been able to get Goro to do something he doesn’t want to, but… his patented sultry gaze is marred by what has to be a hint of uncertainty. “Are you really ready for this?”

The uncertainty vanishes in favor of an over-the-top eye roll. “For the love of god,” Goro groans in clear exasperation. “It’s just your cock, not a cattle iron. Get on with it, Kurusu.”

New mission: fuck the bitchiness out of Goro Akechi.

Ha, Goro Akechi. Goro Akechi. It still amazes him. Face down, ass up, spread out in front of him. His to fuck. All his, all Akira’s. Or rather… their conversation from earlier winds its way back into his brain. I’m going home with someone else tonight, he’d said. Which is fine, it’s fine, Akira has him now, it’s not like they’ve ever been exclusive, it’s just like anyone else—

No, that possessive voice whispers in his head. This isn’t anyone else. This is Akechi.

And Akira is going to wreck him. He’s going to ruin him for anyone else. He’s going to fuck him so good that Goro only has two choices at the end of the night: go home with Akira or go home alone.

Akira’s thumb teases and tugs at Goro’s cute little pink hole, reverently watching it flutter. Mine. “Have you ever touched yourself here?”

Silence answers him. Akira had asked so quietly that if it were anyone else they might not have heard. He watches his finger slide in. Goro tenses.

The event they were both here for is still raging on across the school—Panther is surely talking up the commissioner by now, Skull and Fox watching in the wings in case it goes sideways, Oracle in their ears as always. That little teacher is likely sitting in her office just a few doors down with her photo of Goro, swooning over a man she’ll never have. Akira slips a second finger inside.

For his part, Goro is just… taking it. Eyes closed now, eyebrows pinched, lips a thin line, he’s gone quiet and still. No more bitchy comments, no more anything. When they fuck he can’t get Goro to shut up, but now the only sign of life is his hands shifting slightly on the mattress, intermittently clutching and releasing its edges. Akira was hoping for more of a reaction—he knows he’s good at this—but maybe… maybe Goro was right.

Fuck, he really wanted him to be wrong.

Goro is still hard though, Akira confirms with a quick reach underneath and a squeeze, so some part of this has to be working for him. “That’s it, baby,” Akira coos softly, bending over him to murmur in his ear. “You feel so good.”

“Don’t… call me ‘baby,’” Goro says. Strained, definitely affected somehow, but whether in pain or pleasure Akira can’t tell. “You know I hate it.”

Yeah, that’s exactly why Akira says it. “No you don’t,” he replies in a sing-song voice, because he can’t help being annoying. He nips his ear, then rocks back in his heels to continue his work.

But Goro still doesn’t make a peep. Not for anything. Akira strokes, scissors, rubs soothing circles in his thighs and back, tries every technique as he can think of while his patience quickly wears thin. And for all his effort Goro is… well, his breath is coming faster, his cock still hanging hard and heavy between his legs, but he doesn’t give Akira the satisfaction of a single reaction. Not a whimper, moan, mewl. Nothing.

It’s killing him.

“Are you sure you—”

“Akira!” Goro all but barks back, startling him. “If you ask me that one more time instead of doing your fucking job I’ll reach back there, snap your neck, and fuck myself on whatever pathetic erection remains in your rigor mortis.”

Jesus. Fine. Be careful what you wish for.

Maybe he’ll never know what Goro really thinks of all this—the man is an impenetrable fortress when it comes to his true feelings—but Akira does know one thing. He really likes when Goro is pissed at him.

Akira strokes himself a few times to spread what’s left of the lube on his cock and lines himself up with Goro’s virgin hole. He would take a moment to take it in, if he could wait even one single second more for this. Goro flinches when he starts to push in, grits his teeth like he’s in even more pain but fuck it, Akira doesn’t give a shit anymore. This is what Goro wants. This is what he asked for. And he is moving slowly for him, as slow as he can manage, reveling in the reactions he does get—white knuckles pulling at the mattress, eyes shut tight, chest heaving, biting into his arm—

“S-stop—stop!” Goro yells.

Oh, fuck— “Shit, sorry—” Akira’s stomach drops and he feels awful—god, if even Goro is giving up—he’d only gotten halfway in anyway, so he can just pull out—

“No, don’t move! Don’t move!” Goro cries again, this time in a high-pitched voice Akira’s never heard from him before. His right hand is clenched so tight around the edge of the mattress he’s starting to pull it up, the other flying back to slap at Akira wherever he can find him. “Don’t, no—ah… ah!”

Pressure tightens around the tip of Akira’s dick as Goro shakes in a full-body shudder, then releases. Then tightens again, and Goro finally moans, and—holy shit.

Holy shit, Akira knows what this is.

He reaches underneath Goro one more time, easily bats away the weak hand frantically trying to cover himself up and grasps his hot, heavy cock just in time for a few more spurts of cum to streak across his hand. Watery and weak: something Akira’s only ever seen from a prostate orgasm, which he’d only managed to achieve after a full hour of deliberate massage.

“A phys-physio-physiological reaction—just… it w-wasn’t,” Goro babbles, trembling and panting underneath him, still stuck on the tip of Akira’s cock. “It wasn’t—it’s not me, not…”

I’ve fucked a lot of people and no one’s ever come like that, Akira doesn’t say.

No, just kidding, he says it. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, he doesn’t give a shit anymore.

“You like this, don’t you Goro?” Akira laughs, a manic grin spreading across his face. He slams himself back inside Goro all at once with a single thrust, revels in how he screams, how he fails at bracing himself and collapses face-first back into the mattress. “You thought you could get away with acting like you hate getting fucked? Thought you could fool me?” he mocks, free of any worry and doubt, and drives into Goro’s ass again and again and again.

And he just takes it. Like every thrust of Akira’s is hitting a weak point, like Goro was holding onto himself by a thread and that thread wasn’t just snapped, it was completely fucking obliterated. All he can do is lay limp across the thin mattress, his hips held up by Akira, shaking his head and babbling some nonsense combination of it’s not me, not me, I can’t control it and oh god, oh fuck, Akira, Akira.

And then barely a minute later he tightens up again. Buries his face in his arms, and wails.

Akira is the only one who has seen this. Akira is the only one who will see this. He pulls out, hissing as cool air hits his hard cock, and watches Goro tip over onto his side, one hand reaching down to stroke himself out of reflex and then fluttering uselessly because he’s already finished coming, untouched, for a second time.

He’s never seen anything like it.

“Ah–Akira,” Goro pants. He pushes himself back up on a shaky elbow, turns to stare at Akira with glassy eyes. “Are you…?”

It’s clear: Goro is spent. Finished. Used. Covered in his own sweat and saliva and cum, face flushed red, hair mussed, thoroughly fucked out for the first time. All Akira’s fault. All Akira’s.

And the thing is: Akira isn’t done yet.

“You know what?” he decides, “I’m gonna make you come again.”

“What? No—”

He ignores Goro completely, grasps his hips again and flips him fully around, flat on his back. Makes quick work of his pants this time, stripping them off as well as his shoes in a haze of pure, frenzied need. There must be some part of Goro that still wants more because he lets Akira do it all, lets him toss even more concealed weapons off to the side of the room and hitch his knees all the way up to his chest, lets Akira sink into him for a second time. He moans again when Akira bottoms out, low and soft, a sound Akira was only lucky enough to hear a few times before when their positions were reversed.

“You feel so good, baby,” Akira says, his voice wrecked out of his control, everything he has lost to the feeling of his cock pistoning in and out of Goro’s slick hole, quickly picking up speed again. “So good. You know exactly how good you feel, don’t you?”

Goro tries to hide behind his arms. Not a coward, yeah right. Akira doesn’t let him, scrabbles and fights until Goro is pinned, open and exposed. And he’s gorgeous like this: all his carefully applied makeup ruined, the bruise from their last encounter showing clearly now on his forehead, the veins in his neck flexing and straining as he still tries to fight what his body is doing to him.

“You’re such a—” Goro hiccups, the rest of whatever Akira is lost to a high-pitched whine. All the sounds Akira wanted before, and now he’s finally getting them. Akira hitches his legs up higher, would be fucking right into Goro’s sweet spot if he didn’t suspect Goro’s sweet spot was everything.

He hits a steady rhythm, pounding his rival further and further back on the mattress, sadistically enjoying how gone Goro is, his hitched breaths breaking in time with Akira’s thrusts.

“Tell me it feels good,” Akira demands, high off all of it, and gets only a shake of Goro's tear-streaked face in response. “I can see you, just admit it!”

“Shut up,” Goro cries. “Shut up, I can’t—Akira I can’t—”

He struggles against Akira’s grip, finally managing to get a hand free and immediately reaches down to his cock to jack himself off—which Akira intercepts again, slams that hand back down above his head.

“You don’t—need that,” Akira pants out, so tired but so close to his own release, so close. “Because you’re gonna come with me. I’m gonna come baby—Goro, Goro you feel so good you’re gonna make me come—” he says as his vision narrows and the pleasure in his gut builds, because Goro is his, because he knows Goro, because he knows exactly what Goro needs to hear to fall over the edge again. And Goro does: his mouth opens but no sound comes out, chest fluttering, his exhausted body seizing pathetically around Akira one final time. Akira keeps his promise, reaches his own peak along with him and moans quietly as he pumps himself as deeply inside of Goro as he can, claiming him as Akira’s.

And then it stops. And he falls limp to the ground—not even on the mattress with Goro, just on the cold grimy school floor. He feels like he might be dead.

He would be alright with being dead. He’s lived a pretty good life.

A few breaths later, out of habit, he checks his watch and—oh. Time’s up, he did it. Mission success. Nice.

Oh. Wait, shit, “Shit, uh. Goro. You gotta go,” Akira slurs, stumbling to his feet and fixing up his pants.

Goro doesn’t move. He’s awake, probably. Probably not dead either. Staring up at the ceiling, but just fully out of it. A little cross-eyed, which is adorable.

Akira grabs some tissues from a nearby desk, pats at the mess on Goro’s stomach and undershirt. He leaves the mess trickling out of his hole.

“Mmnnh,” Goro says.

“They’re giving you your award in a few minutes,” Akira explains. “We gotta get back.”

“Pants,” Goro groans.

“Got ‘em right here.” Akira grabs them from the floor, tossed them on top of his still-sprawled out rival, one of the legs hitting him in the face.

Goro doesn’t react at all. Just places a hand on top of the pants on top of his face, and says quietly: “Fuck.”

They manage to get him into a semi-presentable state, eventually. His slacks somehow stayed clean and his undershirt took the brunt of the rest of the damage, covered up nicely by the white suit jacket Goro took off before they started. Akira takes care of buttoning it up for him because, despite finally getting himself to an upright standing position, Goro still seems like he’s going to pass out at any moment.

“Good as new,” Akira says charitably as he smooths a hand over the jacket, attempts one last time to fix Goro’s hair. Fails.

Goro starts leaning precariously to one side. Akira catches him by the shoulders.

“Akira…” he mumbles, caught in his hold. He’s got a look in his eyes now that’s…

Akira’s seen this look a few times before. He saw it when Goro gave him his first little gift: a shell from Zushi beach, and a promise to return to him one day and give him another. Saw it when they ran into each other during a heist, ready to fight, and realized that for the first time in a long time they were on the same side. And he saw it years ago in a dusty attic, when Goro leaned over him, exhausted but satisfied, no longer nervous at all, and brushed a lock of hair away from his sweaty forehead.

“Akira, I—”

“You’re going to be late,” Akira announces, baseless panic overtaking him. He releases his grip on Goro, shoves him out of the room instead.

Because Goro would never forgive him if he let him finish that sentence. And then everything would be over.

When a disheveled Detective Prince Goro Akechi! limps to a makeshift podium in front of a crowd full of officers and office workers alike and delivers a thoroughly embarrassing, nearly incoherent acceptance speech, Akira is the one to clap the loudest. There’s no way this crowd won’t realize something’s up, but he hopes they’ll be charitable and assume the poor detective is just drunk.

Akira reaches into his jacket pocket, brushes against Goro’s latest gift—stibnite—and takes his mic out of his jacket pocket, places it in his ear. Says a silent prayer of thanks that it flips on instead of off when he presses its switch.

“Hey guys, how are we doing?”

“Ugh, gross, he sounds so happy,” Oracle’s voice immediately responds in his ear.

“Mission success, Joker!” Panther announces, confirming what Akira already knew.

“Piece of cake without that bastard snooping around,” Skull adds with a grumble.

He chances a glance over at Panther’s table. She pats the pocket hidden in her dress, flashes a wink and a peace sign. Package secure.

“Yeah…” Oracle sighs dramatically. “Good job, I guess.”

“Better watch out Joker,” Skull chuckles. “We might hafta make Panther our new head thief. Idiots didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Sorry guys, but I’ve got a new ace up my sleeve,” Akira murmurs to his earpiece. He watches as Goro Akechi returns to his seat, flushed and stumbling. “It’d be a shame to use it just once.”