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"Shit!" Akechi curses, bending back nearly ninety degrees to avoid the swipe of the absurdly powerful succubus's claws when Joker's expected follow-up never comes.
"Joker, what the fuck—" his half-uttered admonishment ends with an ugly noise, not unlike the ones Joker's freaky cat makes whenever he steps on its tail, metaphorically or otherwise. Instead of taking advantage of the opening he had so generously provided, Joker is on his knees, eyes vacant and mouth slack.
"Fuck," Akechi says again, with feeling. It doesn't quite encompass the sheer scale of his undying annoyance but it at least makes him feel better. He flips himself back on his feet, and perhaps unfairly, directs the full force of his ire at Yoshizawa since Joker is in no position to appreciate it. "Joker is more brainwashed than a cult member! Do something about it!"
Without bothering to wait for her response, he throws himself back into the fray, this time pulling out his gun as Joker should have done so instead of taking a marin karin to the face. He doesn't miss—each pump of his trigger punches a hole in the shadow's body until it falls to the ground in a heap of scattering ash. Scowling, he whips back around with a scathing insult readied on his lips, until he realizes that Joker still hasn't gotten back to his feet.
"Yoshizawa-san," he starts acerbically, eyes narrowing when their tagalong startles, nearly jumping up with guilt at being unable to follow the simplest of instructions. "I thought I asked you to do something about this—"
"It didn't work!" she interrupts him, before immediately clamping her gloved hands (red like Joker's, he had noticed with a spike of annoyance) over her mouth at her own apparent rudeness. But her distress gets the better of her self-consciousness and she immediately bursts out with a panicked explanation. "I mean, I tried using an amrita soda and a relax gel, but—nothing seems to be working! Akechi-senpai, what do we do?!"
Akechi resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and roll his eyes (for all of three seconds) before he does just that. Gritting his teeth, he holsters his gun before stalking over to the deadweights in his party so he can figure out how Yoshizawa had utterly screwed up such a simple task. Luckily, the girl is smart enough to immediately shuffle off to the side so he doesn't have to shove her out of his way.
What he sees makes him frown: Joker's brainwashing really should have worn off by now, but there is no sign of awareness in his eyes. Instead, he looks… worse.
"... Joker?" he asks, an unwilling hint of concern creeping into his voice. His observation continues, dipping lower to see how his gloved hands seem to be digging into his thighs. There is an unhealthy flush in his cheeks and Akechi can feel the heat even through his gauntlets when he forgets for a second that he is still wearing them. His eyes are just as vacant, as glassy as a doll's and his breath comes out in deep, worrying pants. "Joker, snap out of it—"
Joker doesn't quite snap out of it, but there is a spark of something in his eyes when they meet his own.
And then he smiles at him; wide, dazzling, and utterly delighted like Akechi is the best possible thing he had ever seen in his life—better than coffee or curry or even limited edition Grey Pidgeon collectibles. He forgets how to breathe because it hits him like a punch in the gut, winding him so badly that he completely misses how it is tinged with something not entirely sane.
Still beaming, Joker opens his mouth and—giggles.
Akechi freezes, wondering if he had developed an auditory hallucination on top of his sudden existential crisis over his rival's lethal cuteness. But judging by the equally horrified look on Yoshizawa's face, it seems that his own sanity is still intact. But the same could not be said for Joker's—he giggles again, a soft sound that would have been endearing if he wasn't on his knees and utterly insensible in the middle of the dangerous manifestation of a washed-up shrink's midlife crisis.
"J-Joker-senpai," stammers Yoshizawa, just as out of her depth as the moment she insisted on joining them. "Is he… is he going to be alright?"
"Of course he will," Akechi snaps back, unreasonably offended at the insinuation that his rival would fall from something like this. "It's just a status effect." Scowling, he considers his options; there was no telling exactly how long Joker would be stuck in this state of idiocy if the spell hasn't already worn off. The best course of action would be to get him to a safe room and smack him around until his brain recalibrates.
Decision made, he squats down, preparing to throw Joker over his shoulder like a sack of small potatoes.
"...ks..." Joker suddenly mumbles into his ear, making his spine involuntarily stiffen.
Akechi pauses, frowning as he pulls back enough to examine his face for what he hopes is a sudden burst of lucidity, but Joker's current expression is inconveniently shadowed by his unruly hair. "Come again?" he asks carefully.
Though nothing could have prepared him for the way Joker's face suddenly springs up a mere inch from his own, his cupid-bow lips curled into a demented grin. He watches those lips part in slow motion—plush and red and shining wetly as they lovingly mouth a single word:
"Dicks~♡!!"
Several things happen in rapid succession: Yoshizawa lets out an extremely scandalized gasp as Joker throws himself bodily at him, latching his arms around his thighs like a vice and buries his face right into his crotch.
Akechi makes a loud, high pitched noise that is most definitely a scream but he is happy to dole out a drawn-out, unnecessarily gruesome death to anyone who feels like pointing that out to him.
Across from him, Yoshizawa shrieks as well, for completely different reasons, as her complexion rapidly takes on the color of milk.
"Joker-senpai?! Wh-what are you saying? What is he doing?!"
The sudden shift in pronouns suggests that Yoshizawa has turned to look to him for answers with something like hurt in her eyes and Akechi cannot think of anything he would rather be doing less than explain to a naive, sheltered schoolgirl that her dearest crush is currently nuzzling his junk like a bitch in heat.
"Go—away—" he snarls, refusing to feel bad when Yoshizawa's face crumbles like a kicked puppy's. He lets out another noise of frustration and rummages through his pocket with the hand that isn't trying to fend off Joker's increasingly enthusiastic efforts to tear through his suit. Thankfully, he manages to find what he is looking for and flings the Goho-M at the girl with slightly more force than necessary. "Just. Go. Back to the entrance."
"But—"
"JUST GO!"
"R-Right," she stammers, looking almost on the verge of tears and Akechi only has a second of guilt to spare on her before all of his attention is drawn right back to the brainwashed fool who has just fastened his hot, wet mouth around the growing bulge in his pants.
"S-Shit," Akechi curses again, roughly grasping a fistful of Joker's curls to yank him off. "Joker, cut it out! You idiot!"
Joker's mouth pops off from the wet leather with a lewd slurp, but otherwise, he seems to be in no position to respond with anything aside from moaning—a horrible, indecent sound that reverberates through his bones. Especially the traitorous one straining against his regretfully form-fitting spirit of rebellion.
"Mm… dicks~♡," he slurs, even more flushed and dazed than before as he drunkenly tries to press himself forward again, in spite of the grip in his hair. And Akechi is suddenly hit with an intense burst of fury that his one and only rival had been reduced to this. He does not know how he is going to fix Joker but he does know that he is going to personally put Maruki's balls through a meat-grinder while the rest of him is still attached because this is surely 100% that bastard's fault.
"For fuck's sake," he growls with another hard yank when he feels Joker's greedy little thief hands try to cop a feel of his ass. "Pull yourself together! Where the fuck is your dignity?!"
But the fool only lets out another moan, his spine arching in response to what Akechi can only assume is the pain in his scalp. He gives him, or more accurately his crotch, another disgustingly smitten stare that suggests dignity is so far from his mind that it's not even in the same plane of existence. His slack mouth opens wider, a string of drool rolling down the curve of his chin, and Akechi is forced to fight down the urge to do something deeply regrettable.
Instead, he decides to stick to his original plan to bodily remove Joker from the hallway before another batch of shadows decides to show up and take advantage of—make use of—exploit—capitalize on Joker's affliction.
Akechi releases Joker's hair in favor of seizing him by the waist so he can hoist him up onto his shoulder. Almost immediately, he realizes the error of his actions because he didn't account for the fact that a fireman's carry was, one, surprisingly taxing, and two, brought Joker's face way too close to his crotch. There is a moment of frenetic activity as Akechi curses out every deity that he doesn't believe in while he tries to readjust Joker's body to minimize the eager and enthusiastic threat he posed to his balls.
Eventually, he manages to wrangle the stupid, giggling menace into a bridal carry, with one arm tucked beneath his knees and the other trapping Joker's arms by his sides as Akechi crushes him to his chest.
Not that it does anything to deter him for more than a couple of steps before the fool manages to free one of his arms and attempts to renew his assault on his dick. In a stroke of fortune, there happens to be a safe room a few corridors behind them and Akechi doubles back as quickly as he can, all the while enduring Joker's squirming and his increasingly frustrated attempts to figure out how to pry open his suit—an ultimately fruitless endeavor because not even Akechi knows how to pry open his suit.
Two shadow ambushes and one immensely bad decision later, Akechi finally throws open the doors with a well-placed kick, feeling immensely grateful for his sixteen-year-old self's foresight to cover up every inch of his skin in nigh impenetrable armor, now that he has a dick-crazed rival panting into his chin guard.
He proceeds to not so gently deposit Joker onto the table, a task made far more difficult considering how his long, athletic legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist that their bodies are practically fusing together. Joker lets out a lewd moan of displeasure, immediately reaching out to chase his warmth with his mouth and Akechi has to slam him back down by his shoulders a few times to stun him.
"Don't fucking move—stay," Akechi hisses like he is giving instructions to a dumb, slutty animal as he rummages through his pockets again and tries not to be distracted by the sight of his rival spread out before him—cheeks unhealthily flushed and chest heaving from the feverish whines that fall continuously from his lips. His coat had also been knocked loose, sliding off to reveal one pale shoulder. His shirt, too, is torn with several buttons missing due to his less than gentle manhandling and somehow, it felt almost sacrilegious to see Joker in such disarray that Akechi has to fight down an urge to throw his cape over him: if only to cover up that treacherous triangle of flushed skin.
Now, however, is not the time for him to dwell on his startling new revelation about how much he would like to bite down on Joker's collarbones. Since Yoshizawa had utterly failed to bring him back to his senses, that task now falls to him. Luckily for him, the brainwashed fool appears to be too dazed from having his head repeatedly make acquaintance with the metal table to stop Akechi from uncapping another amrita soda and roughly tipping its contents down his throat.
He chokes on it, but Akechi's satisfaction from his petty revenge quickly turns into regret when he realizes that he had miscalculated. As the drink overflows, dribbling down Joker's chin and neck in thick milky rivulets, he becomes all too aware of the sudden dryness of his own mouth. It is a good thing he had sent Yoshizawa away, he thinks, as he stares blankly down at her beloved Joker-senpai—at the flushed cheeks, at the tears beading in the corners of his trembling eyelashes, at the messy lips stretched open almost obscenely as he forces him to swallow.
He abruptly pulls back, inadvertently yanking the now emptied bottle away with a pop that echoes wetly in the narrow room. Beneath him, Joker continues to cough weakly, dislodging more ailment-curing white fluid and Akechi finds it nearly impossible to look at him. Because he had spent far too many of his final days obsessing over how to bring his infuriatingly composed and charismatic rival to his knees to not enjoy the sight of him brought so low, so disheveled and vulnerable, so completely and utterly at his mercy—
"—shit," he says emphatically to no one and nearly runs his hand down his face before abruptly remembering that it would be highly inconvenient if he were to accidentally claw out his own eyes. He tosses the plastic aside, taking vindictive pleasure in littering in Maruki's disgustingly pristine palace before leaning down to examine the fool's eyes for possible signs of intelligent life.
There doesn't appear to be an obvious change, aside from the fact that Joker has at least stopped trying to swallow his dick through his pants and is now lying docile on the table where he had left him. His gaze is still unfocused, his clothing is still soaked in the remnants of the drink that he had failed to swallow, and his long legs are spread around either side of his thighs.
Now it's Akechi's turn to swallow—his saliva, that is, along with the increasingly problematic thoughts that are swirling around in his head. He takes a breath, and then another one when the first fails to calm him down. "Joker?" he calls out, grasping him by the chin to better examine his sloppy-looking face.
"...mm?" Joker mumbles indistinctly. Clearly discomfited and still flushed, he tries to push himself off the table, dislodging more of his coat until it spills completely off his shoulders to pool around his elbows. Fortunately, for his eroding nerves, Akechi can see his eyes focusing beneath his mask. He magnanimously allows him a few moments to acclimatize back to what he hopes is sanity and slowly eases back. Immediately, he can feel the difference in temperature now that certain parts of his body are no longer pressed flush against Joker's burning skin.
"Fucking finally," he mutters, surreptitiously adjusting his posture because he would like to see anyone staying soft after an ordeal like that. "I never took you to be such an incompetent fool, but I suppose not even you can be so perfect all the time. What would your little friends think if they saw their precious leader like this?" He glances back, almost curious (eager) to see the realization breaking through the clouds in his eyes, to watch them fill with humiliation when he remembers how he had salivated over him like a bitch in heat.
Except Joker doesn't reply. His mussed up hair has fallen back over his face, contrasting against the white of his mask and hiding his expression from view. Half-hidden by his coat sleeves, he can also see a hint of red from his gloves and the fact that they are shaking.
"...Joker?" Akechi calls out again, this time with involuntary concern as he finds himself taking a step forward.
Which turns out to be a mistake.
Joker's head snaps up with a wild, savage grin—the same one he sports just before he tears a group of hapless shadows into shreds—and lunges.
Akechi barely has a moment to curse, dodging just in time to miss the steel flashing past his face, but not fast enough to evade the knee to his stomach. Momentarily winded, he struggles to right himself, only just managing to find his footing before Joker's toned body slams into him and knocks them both to the ground. The clang of his helmet against linoleum reverberates loudly through his skull, along with the slightly hysterical realization that 'it didn't work!' as he might have already known had he not dismissed Yoshizawa so completely.
As much as he enjoys being crushed beneath his brainwashed rival's disheveled, sweat-soaked body while he contemplates his own hubris, Akechi would much rather their positions be reversed be outside popping Maruki's spinal discs out of his mouth like a pez dispenser for architecting this detestable flavour of hell. He curses again, twisting and squirming to free himself from the weight of Joker's deceptively slight frame.
"Joker," he snarls, venom masking his own trepidation as he glares up into his clouded eyes. "If you don't snap out of it—right now—I'm going to snap you in half—!"
But the sound of leather ripping rudely cuts off his tirade and Akechi's gaze is helplessly drawn down. Lower and lower, until he is staring aghast at the sight of his own fully erect dick springing to attention from the opening that Joker had cut out of his fucking suit. He is so offended by the sudden vandalism that he is at a complete loss for words—frozen in a mix of shock and some kind of unbearable, primal hunger as Joker meets his incredulous gaze with another crazed, open-mouthed grin. Its purpose fulfilled, the accursed dagger slips from his hand and clatters noisily on the tiles, leaving Akechi stunned and stupid.
"What—" he says—wheezes—and briefly wonders if this is his retribution for all the mental shutdowns when he can feel his brain slowing down to a crawl. Before it vacates his skull entirely when Joker unceremoniously buries his face in the dick he had so longed for with a cry of delight.
"Mmm~♡!" Joker lets out another demented giggle that will haunt his dreams for the rest of what he hopes is a very short life. Akechi's teeth clack together painfully, trapping an embarrassing whine in his throat before it can escape. He feels as if he is being pushed to the edges of his sanity—by the unique musk of Joker's scent, by the heady vibrations from Joker's throat, by the soft glide of Joker's satiny skin against his engorged, leaking cock.
"Cut—it—out," he finally manages, mustering up the left-over dregs of his self-restraint to fist his hands in his curls and shove him back because he had already taken too much away from Joker to take advantage of him any more. "Get off me!"
It was perhaps a poor choice of words—or more accurately, a dishonest one—because what he had really wanted to scream at the top of his lungs was much closer to, "get me off!"
His only reply is a pleading whine of discontent as Joker protests his treatment, gazing down at the precum beading at the head of his weeping dick with such intense longing that Akechi can almost see the metaphorical hearts in his pupils. He is panting openly now, hard enough that Akechi can feel the hot puffs of his breath against his bared thighs and he is so hard, harder than he has ever been in his entire fucking life, hard enough that he could have used his dick to puncture a hole in the hull of Shido's fucking cruise ship.
It wouldn't be right, he tells himself as he tries his best to play keep-away with his dick; a task made much more difficult thanks to Joker's sad, pathetic cries and persistent hands.
A task made even more difficult by the heat radiating off his body, the way he can feel every shift of his hard muscles as they press against his thighs. By the scent of his sweat, mixed in with notes of bergamot and coffee.
And his face.
Joker, to put it bluntly, looks like a fucking mess—the wet fabric of his vest clinging to the contours of his body, his cheeks are unnaturally flushed, his eyes shining with naked desire, and his lips smeared with saliva and precum—and it makes him want to mess him up even more.
It wouldn't be right, he reminds himself—
to dig his fingers into his scalp and yank his head back down onto his cock,
to watch him choke on it, to see the tears bead in the corners of his eyes,
to drive himself all the way inside that hot, willing mouth and smother him with his cum until he drowns in it
—because Joker isn't willing.
Because none of this—the way he longs for his touch, the way his eyes are filled with nothing but him—is real. No more real than anything else in this twisted world built on one self-righteous asshole's lies. No more real than Akechi himself would be after the final curtain falls.
It wouldn't be right. He should push Joker away, along with all the temptation that he presented, both past and future.
(But it would be so easy.)
He wonders if his Joker is even conscious right now—if he is watching these proceedings with horror and disgust, rattling the bars from the prison of his mind. Or, a greedy, sinister voice whispers in his ear, perhaps in a world where truth is meaningless and wishes take on physical form, Joker will awaken to gaps in his memory, blissfully and utterly ignorant of whatever may transpire here today—that this is his one and only chance.
As much as it stings him to admit it, empirically, there is no way to prove or disprove that he is no more than the ghost of a boy who doesn't realize he's dead—a patchwork cognition given flesh, tenuously glued together by scraps of Joker's memories.
But, if that is indeed the case, why should he care about what is right or not?
And after he fixes Joker, after they grind the palace ruler's bones into dust and shatter this farce of a reality, after it's all over he'll finally get to go off and die. Die without ever knowing what it's like to have Joker's plush lips wrapped around his—
—and Akechi's vision whites out like someone had detonated a bomb in his dick, except that the bomb is a mouth that engulfs him in a hot, wet heat that makes his body convulse with pleasure as if it had been electrocuted.
Faintly, he thinks he can hear an embarrassing, choked-off scream that sounds suspiciously like "J-Jok—aaaaah!" and also suspiciously like it came from his own mouth but he is currently busy with trying to deal with the fact that all the blood in his body has now converged in his penis.
It appears that while he had been bogged down by the crushing weight of existential angst and unresolved lust for his rival, said rival was, 1) still very much brainwashed into a mindless cockslut, 2) had managed to free himself without him noticing, and 3) had also managed to swallow his dick whole.
The world empties of everything—everything but the velvety heat squeezing around him like a vice as it sucks him deeper and deeper into the abyss of insanity—the soft, playful flicks of tongue wreaking chaos on his senses, the contrast of smooth red leather ghosting across his skin, the triumphant spark in Joker's eyes as he peers up at him through his lashes—and it's so good, so good that he thinks he must be dying.
He is dying, drowning, plummeting overboard with nothing to tether him to reason. His hands scramble for purchase, roughly latching onto his curls, clawed fingers digging uncaringly into his scalp almost hard enough to draw blood, and the final shred of his self-control snaps. He yanks him down by the hair, hips bucking, jerking helplessly off the ground as he thrusts into the perfect paradise within Joker's mouth.
His composure is long gone—as thoroughly and as wretchedly as it had been banished that day in the engine room, leaving in its place the mad, snarling creature that he is beneath the facade of pleasantry. Greedily, he moves—driven by the all-encompassing need to chase after the electric arcs of pleasure that explode behind his eyes with every brutal shove, without thought or regard for the reflexive tears gathering in those luminous gray eyes.
But Joker welcomes him in, his throat swallowing just as greedily, just as voraciously around him even as Akechi ruts into it like a mindless animal—like he's starving for the abuse, for Akechi to ruin him, to make him gag around his cock when it slams in all the way to the hilt.
"J-Joker," Akechi says, repeatedly as if his vast vocabulary has emptied itself of all but one word. "Joker!"
He continues to fuck into the stretched ring of his soft lips, thinking of nothing but the tight heat wrapped around his dick, the warm press of Joker's shoulders between his thighs, the unbearable pressure building up inside him like bottled lightning. Until, after what felt like a perfect, terrifying eternity but he would be mortified to learn was much closer to five minutes, the resulting explosion of pleasure hits him like a megidolaon, vaporizing his bones and turning his vision so white that he is sure he must have gone blind.
His body thrashes, jerkily riding out the aftershocks of his orgasm before it sinks back onto the ground like a useless sack of meat. "F-Fuck… Joker," he stammers like an idiot with his liquefied brain leaking out of his ears the same way cum is leaking out of his softening cock. But as he dazedly tears his eyes away from the ceiling, his traitorous appendage shoots back up like a rocket when he sees Joker's face in the aftermath.
A face that looks far too delighted for someone whose throat had just been rudely used like a fleshlight, especially with the immense amount of thick, milky liquid splattered all over his mask.
Dimly, and with horrified fascination, he rationalizes that there must be some kind of reality-bending actualization at work because Joker is absolutely drenched. There is cum in his hair, cum on his eyelashes, and cum on his cheeks. But most of it had spilled into his still open mouth, pooling on his pink tongue and held there like some kind of prize for Akechi to behold.
"Grrgk," says Akechi, his gaze vacant of anything resembling intelligence as he watches the hypnotic flick of his rival's loathsome tongue, swirling the mess around in his mouth. He makes another aborted noise, a whine like a balloon slowly deflating as Joker grins, a wide, fiendish stretch of his bruised lips before he closes them around it, unmindful of the way the excess dribbles down his chin to mix with his saliva in wet, glistening trails. His throat bobs once, followed by the sound of audible swallowing.
"Mmm." Joker giggles again, pushing himself up onto his knees with another lopsided smile that is somehow infinitely more charming now that he is covered in Akechi's jizz. Then, he brings a ruined glove up to his lips and starts to lick off the stains with slow, languid swipes of his tongue. "Akechi's dick milk ♡… tashes sho good!"
And this is where Akechi's brain short-circuits entirely like a hairdryer in a bathtub—there is a brief, violent crackle like a dying star's last hurrah before it fizzles away—as the final shackles of his inhibitions shatter.
("Self-control? Morals? To hell with that!")
With a raw, guttural scream and his rock hard dick still hanging out, he tackles Joker bodily, hard enough that his head bounces off the unforgiving floor. Now Akechi is the one straddling his thighs, pressing him into the linoleum with his full weight.
Beneath him, Joker moans, his dark curls splayed over the floor and his cheeks flushed with need. Akechi involuntarily tightens his grip in the collar of his shirt, squeezing hard enough to choke him, but he is the one who finds himself breathless—because Joker is smiling up at him with that vile, detestable warmth. Gazing up at Akechi like he had hung all the stars in the sky, like he is everything he could possibly wish for.
"You," he says, thick and incoherent with something like rage, but burns hotter and headier until it encompasses his entire being. The urge to crush his throat beneath his hands mixes in with the old, buried desire to pull him into his arms with whatever scraps of gentleness remain in his polluted soul.
Instead, he seizes him by the hair and forces their mouths together into a deep, plundering kiss. It is wet and sloppy, made even more disgusting by the taste of his own pungent bitterness and, at the same time, is the single greatest experience of his life. Because Joker is kissing him back, returning his twisted affections with unending fervor, looping his arms around to embrace him without regard for his monstrous guise. He whimpers into his mouth, arching his back off the ground to grind up into him, and Akechi's skin tingles, sparking like a live wire at every point of contact between their overheated bodies.
"Aah—Akechi~♡," Joker whines, in between the rare gaps where Akechi remembers that they both still require oxygen to live. "I need you... please, Akechi—♡!"
Akechi cuts him off, swallowing the rest of his faux claims with another kiss—if only to prevent him from breaking his immersion in the beautiful lie that this is what Joker wants.
He takes his frustrations out on the rest of Joker's clothes, purposefully raking his claws over them and leaving behind shredded fabric and red, vivid scratches. He tears his ruined top open, scattering buttons uncaringly across the room to reveal, at long last, the creamy expanse of his smooth skin, the tight, wiry muscles he had memorized through stolen glances and curtains of steam.
He is transported back to that dangerous moment in the bathhouse, to the near lapse of his self-control at the sight of Akira's chest flushed from the heat, the tantalizing curve of his hips beneath his towel, the enticing pink of his hardened nipples, begging to be twisted and pinched until his eyes beaded with tears. But now, he finally allows himself to indulge in every one of those urges, nipping and pawing at him like a starving rat glutting itself on his scent, his taste, his warmth.
"I hate you," he hisses, feeling the answering dig of Joker's blunt nails on his sides even through layers of leather. He yanks his head back by a fistful of hair to expose the unblemished column of his throat so he can mark it with his teeth, biting down hard to drag out another round of fevered moans. Marking up his unresisting body simply because he wants to. Until the once pristine canvas of his skin now looks like it had been mauled by a pack of shadows—dark bruises blossoming purple and red along the sides of his neck, ringing around his shoulders, and trailing down his collarbones. The drying white streaks in his hair. The crisscrossing lines of red marking the path drawn by his claws.
And the knowledge that he was the one who had put them there gives him a thrill like none other. In all of his fantasies, he had never dared to imagine that he would one day have Joker like this—on his back, breathless and dazed, cheeks flushed a fetching pink and eyes wide open without a glimmer of intelligence as he mindlessly rocks up into the rough press of Akechi's fingers, seeking nothing but a relief that only he can give him.
"Please, please, please…" Joker is nearly sobbing outright, begging for him so prettily—with wet eyes and bitten lips—that Akechi hurries to oblige him. His pants soon go the way of his top, reduced to rags under the assault of his claws in petty retribution for his earlier vandalism.
Joker whines louder as he is exposed to the icy blast of the air conditioning, his entire torso bare aside from the red of his gloves and the sleeves of his jacket, trapping his elbows by his sides. But Akechi's gaze is transfixed on the sight of his cock—at the pearly beads of precum leaking from his tip, at the red flush of his skin, the tremors of his thighs as he wordlessly begs to be attended to. His mouth runs dry as he suddenly gains an unexpected insight into why Joker had so eagerly swallowed his cock as he is hit with an urge to taste him, to bury his face between his legs and luxuriate in his scent. But before he loses his mind entirely, he notices something out of place.
"Just look at you," he says, part derision and part awe, an incredulous laugh punching out of him involuntarily as he transfers his grip to Joker's knees, spreading them wider apart for a better look, to confirm what he never could have suspected. That all this time, evading Shido's conspiracy, besting him in battle, defeating false gods—and the illustrious leader of the Phantom Thieves had been parading around with an audacious grin and nothing else under his clothes.
The thought of it infuriates him, dying his vision in red and leaving him calamitously aroused. It is so—so fucking Joker—that he can think of nothing but giving him the comeuppance that he so justly deserved. In one swift, violent motion, he shoves his legs back, meeting almost no resistance from his flexible body as he nearly bends him in half. Joker has the gall to yelp, a hint of surprise in the fog of his lust-glazed eyes to find himself with his ankles dangling by his ears and his ass on full display, but it is soon smothered by the return of that familiar haze, the same ravenous hunger that is reflected in his own.
Joker really is perfect everywhere—his soft, rounded globes perfect for him to sink his teeth into, and of course, his perfect little hole, rimmed in a bewitching pink, that clenches sadly around nothing as it begs to be filled. And his voice, trembling and gasping the syllables of his name as he squirms beneath him.
Another thrill rushes through him, dark and heady as he reaffirms that he now has Joker where he had always wanted him: trapped and helpless to resist. He spares a moment, wondering what his Joker's face would look like, suddenly thrust into lucidity while his body is still lost in the throes of pleasure. While he clings to Akechi, moaning like a whore as he begs to be fucked with his own traitorous mouth. (And had he not been a monster, the thought would have brought him horror instead of desire.)
"Perhaps this is the true you all along," he murmurs, pressing a kiss on the inside of his soft thigh—a light brush of his lips that makes him writhe. "Who would have guessed that our esteemed leader is nothing but a filthy slut?"
As if to prove him correct, Joker's only response is to whine as his dick visibly twitches at his degrading words. More precum dribbles from his reddened tip and he takes it as an invitation to run the tip of his claws over his slit. Never one to disappoint, even with all his mental circuits melted by a metaverse spell, Joker wails at the contact, hips thrashing beneath him—not to free himself but to chase after his retreating hand.
"Oh?" Akechi asks pleasantly, putting aside the fact that his own dick is screaming with the need to bury itself in his ass, to fuck him so hard that cum spurts out from his mouth. "Do you like being put in your place? You disgusting piece of attic trash."
"...aah… aaahh~♡!" Joker had never been the most gifted orator but now human speech seems to fail him entirely as he gazes up at him with unfocused eyes. His legs tremble in his grasp, his arms struggle uselessly, still constrained by the sleeves of his own coat. "Yessss….. Aaa...ke...chiiii…!"
"What's that?" Akechi goads him further, reveling in the wealth of new expressions on his normally stoic face, and being the one who had put them there. He continues on conversationally as he traces careless lines along his shaft. "Why don't you use your words, Joker? Just look at how pathetic you are right now—reduced to this because of a moment's inattention. I could do anything to you right now and you would thank me for it."
He pulls out a tube of relax gel from his inventory and uncaps it with his teeth, the corners of his lips tugging up into what he knows is a hideous smile. Full of madness and desire, he shoves the nozzle into his puckered entrance and empties its contents inside him to get him wet enough for his dick.
Joker cries out in shock—his eyes just as endearingly wide as they had been when he had pulled the trigger—as his twitching opening instinctively clamps around the foreign object. He is suddenly intensely jealous of it, at how it gets to be the first to breach Joker's walls. After deeming him sufficiently drenched, he roughly yanks the tube back out with a lewd squelch, delighting at the sight of the lubricant leaking from his hole in a promise of what's to come.
The serrated grin on his face stretches wider as Joker's whines, clearly disappointed to find himself suddenly empty like the mindless cockslut that he has become. And what a pleasing picture Joker paints—with his head thrown back, his vulnerable throat bared in surrender, his body pliant and soft like a banquet of indulgence spread out just for him.
"Just look at you," he coos, tracing the delicate edge of his twitching rim with the tip of his claws, hard enough for him to feel its sharpness but not hard enough to cut. "You really are pathetic."
A sick heat slowly fills him—the same disgusting thrill that filled him as he gazed down at Akira's lifeless eyes in that small, metal room—as he imagines thrusting his claws inside him as is, fucking Joker with them until he sobs, conflating pain and pleasure with a mind so broken that he can only beg for it. He wants to make Joker scream, to ruin him so irrevocably for anyone else, to sear the brand of his ownership into every part of his flesh. But he restrains himself if only because he has far sweeter plans—when Joker breaks, it will be when he's impaled on his cock.
Unable to deny himself any longer, he discards his gauntlets, tossing them away like trash in his haste to finally touch him. To feel the heat emanating from his soft, bruisable skin and the hard, wiry muscle shifting beneath it. This time, he traces the rim of his wet hole with his fingertips almost reverently, scooping up some of the excess lubricant that had dripped between the cleft of his cheeks and works a finger inside.
Joker stiffens reflexively at the intrusion, a low whine falling from his lips as his thighs tense around him like he can't make up his mind to expel him or pull him in deeper. But Akechi is the one who is breathless from the sudden overload of sensations—Joker is so hot, so impossibly tight, squeezing desperately around his finger like a vice.
"Tighter than I would have expected from such a greedy slut," he grits out as he works in a second, almost dizzy from the thought of having this wrapped around his dick—his silken walls, burning with a feverish heat that threatens to drive him insane.
Except, Joker has long since laid claim to his sanity since long ago. He had waltzed into his life, hollowed out his chest, and made himself home in his thoughts. Stripping away his convictions with one warm smile at a time until he is left with the overwhelming desire to possess him. Even now, he is being effortlessly charmed by the artful way Joker's hair falls into his face, by the way he moans his wordless encouragements as he desperately grinds into his fingers, urging them in as deep as they can go, by the way he is still perfectly in control of him even when he is slowly falling to pieces in his hands.
"Aah, aah-kechiii~♡! M-More!! Mooore…!!"
All traces of Joker's smug, easy confidence, and effortless elegance are long gone, replaced by a whining petulant creature crying out like a back alley whore, with every one of his lewd moans is sending electric jolts up his spine. And the impatient way he rolls his hips, the way his slippery hole clamps around his fingers, desperately milking them for something that they cannot give him. Akechi feels as though he were about to explode, just from the anticipation shaped by the memory of Joker's wet mouth. His own neglected cock is so painfully, painfully hard, smearing more precum onto Joker's toned thighs with every impatient press of his hips. His movements are unintentionally brusque as he hurriedly works him open, scissoring him roughly until the last traces of his resistance finally leaves him, easily taking three of his fingers like he was born for it.
"How disgusting," he sneers as he finally pulls them out with an obscene, wet pop and marvels at the sight of his stretched hole and the endearing way it struggles to close. Joker immediately voices his reluctance with a small, forlorn whimper, stunning gray eyes blinking up at him in foggy accusation. "You really are nothing more than a useless slut now, aren't you? What will the phantom thieves do with a leader that only knows how to take cocks?"
He punctuates the cruel words with a crueler twist of his nipples, heedless of the way it makes Joker thrash. He is suddenly and irrationally angry because Joker had no business looking so good like this: stripped of his dignity and will, reduced to nothing but a hedonistic puppet dancing to his command. And it gives rise to a slew of dangerous thoughts.
If Akechi had been the one to bend reality to his whims, would he have chained Joker to his side? Would he have twisted his cognition and slowly excavated his heart, tearing out every shred of resistance and filling the gaping lesions with only him? Or would he have risked everything to preserve his righteousness, his fire, his unrelenting kindness, just to hold onto everything that made Joker himself?
But in the end, the answer is obvious.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he asks him, trailing his hands down the sides of his thighs. The tips of his fingers sink into his plush cheeks as he carefully pries them apart to further expose his leaking hole.
Their story had long since concluded with his final defeat—the hero, marching off into battle while the villain sinks beneath the waves. But in that brief, tiny moment when he had opened his eyes, not to the gates of hell but to the bustling streets of Shibuya, he had yearned for its continuation.
"Do you, Akira?"
He tears off Joker's filthy mask and flings it to the side. His own mask soon chases after it, discarded along with the rest of his pretense. With far greater care than he had before or knew himself capable of, he lines himself up against his entrance.
With his unworthy hands, he cradles his cheeks, his gaze drinking in his features like he is trying to memorize them anew, to burn his image into his soul—the silver luster of his eyes, the delicate point of his elegant nose, the gently pouted cupid's bow lips—lips that he leans down to capture once more as he sheathes himself into his eager hole.
Akechi sees stars, galaxies worth of them exploding across his vision, transporting him to new heights of sensation, setting every cell of his body alight with agonizing pleasure. What he had considered to be the pinnacle of ecstasy before was just a glimpse from its doorstep, compared to being so tightly, inextricably joined with the perfect, maddening creature crying out in his arms.
The heat, the friction, the heady warmth that encompasses him—all of it feeding into the madness that had grown inside him like an inferno.
It began as a spark, set alight at the moment they had first locked eyes across the studio—like he had been jolted awake for the very first time only to find himself drowning in their endless gray depths. And slowly, that spark had begun to consume him, gnawing at his thoughts, filling the hollowed-out space where his heart had once beat, until it threatened to burn away every last fragment of his soul until one thing remained.
Akira. Akira. Akira.
This is the name that he screams into the crook of his neck, the name he chants like a prayer to the only thing in this twisted world that he believes in.
A name that he despises and desires in equal measure because Kurusu Akira is perfect.
Selfless to a fault. Beloved by all. Courageous, wise, thoughtful, forgiving, charismatic, kind, graceful, effortlessly powerful—Akechi could have an eternity to extol his virtues and still run out of time. He is perfect like he had been made just for him. Everything that Akechi could never be and could never have.
Which is why Akechi kisses him now like he means it, drinking in his fill of him when all he had before were fragments of stolen moments—
—the way his brow furrows in concentration as he leans over the chessboard—the shadows cast by the curl of his lashes as he lowers his gaze in thought—the stubborn set of his mouth at the start of a new debate—the shy twist of his fingers in his curls as it spills into his face—the curve of sly grins half-hidden behind the rim of his mug—his intelligent yet kind eyes, gazing up at him with warm, misplaced affection—
—until he drowns in him, in the salty tang of his sweat, in the warmth of his slick, satiny walls welcoming him into the deepest parts of him, in the torturous intimacy of their bodies joined inextricably together. He wants nothing more than to devour him, to disdain the reality where they are forced to exist in two separate bodies.
The truth is this: he loves Kurusu Akira and he doesn't want to give him up anymore. Not to his revenge on his bastard father, not to a walking four-eyed god complex, and certainly not to the minor inconvenience of his own death. Even if he has to claw his way out of hell by his fingernails.
His most selfish wish of all is to meet Joker again in the true reality with every thread of their histories kept intact. For Joker to accept him as he is, not a sanitized, unproblematic puppet fashioned just right, so as to not offend Maruki's delicate sensibilities—or not at all.
And this is why Maruki will never sway him.
The Akechi Goro in the lotus eater paradise smiles with the blood of a different man in his veins and none on his hands. But Maruki clearly does not understand Akechi Goro at all because he would have wished to remain exactly as he is—as the one who had cherished Kurusu Akira like a priceless treasure and chose to shatter him with his own hands.
To be the Akechi Goro who is here now, fucking Kurusu Akira within an inch of his life, watching him come completely undone, unraveling at the seams as he begs to be fucked harder, to be stuffed until his insides are molded to the shape of his cock. He can feel the heel of his boots digging into his back, his laboured breaths against his neck.
And of course, Akechi obliges him. He sets a brutal pace, digging red crescents into his hips as he drives deep into his body like he wants to bury the memory of himself inside him, to leave an indelible mark as a proof of his existence. That the two of them had been put onto this forsaken earth to meet each other.
He pulls him up into his lap, into his arms, their chests pressed flush, their bodies slotting together like the pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. He kisses the tears from his cheek, murmuring his praises as he bounces him on his cock. He slides his hands into his red gloves to lace their fingers together as they move as one. Until neither of them can tell where the other begins. Until nothing else remains aside from the overwhelming pleasure rippling through their bodies, pushing them to the brink until they fall over it together.
They scream their completion into each other's necks, shuddering as they ride out their releases, clinging to each other as if trying to anchor themselves back into reality.
An eternity later, Akechi comes to with his face pressed against Akira's shoulder, his arms had given out when his orgasm had punched its way out of him. He is still shaking from the phantom sensation of Akira's entrance spasming around him, milking him for every single last drop. The rest of his senses are slow to return as if finding the concept of having his own body foreign after being joined with Akira for so long.
He is still buried inside him, so deliciously sore and pleasantly spent. But as unwilling as he is to separate from him, he is becoming starkly aware of how their skin is starting to stick together from the drying mix of their fluids. With deep reluctance, he pulls his softening cock out from Akira's abused hole with a wet squelch. And almost immediately hardens again when he sees the torrent of cum that gushes out of him, and the way his stomach visibly deflates.
It is only then that he becomes aware of the fact that the other boy has not yet moved.
"...Akira?" he calls out, almost timidly. His throat tightens when he receives no response, and it isn't until Akira takes his next breath that he realizes that he must have been fucked into unconsciousness. Akechi finally takes a breath of his own, his face still buried in Akira's neck so that he gets a lungful of his scent, and as expected, he still manages to smell absurdly good beneath the stench of cum and sweat. Even like this, Akira is still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Like a debauched angel that he had torn out of heaven and chained down with the weight of his greed.
His skin is painted with the evidence of his selfishness—darkening bruises, ringed red and purple around his wrists, his neck, his thighs. Almost every inch of him is marked in some way, covered in a lewd mixture of their release—congealing in his hair and dribbling endlessly out of his gaping hole. But it is the coat that hammers home the gravity of what he had just done—the one that Akechi had secretly eyed with envy on more than one occasion, crushed beneath their bodies and soaking up their mess like a sad motel mattress.
He smooths the filthy hair from Akira's face. For a moment, he cannot bring himself to do anything other than to stare at it; the face that had been the source of so many of his problems, the face that had been centered in his most terrible dreams and fondest nightmares. Finally, he laughs into the empty room, finally without an audience to perform for. Laughing at how ironic it is that in life, he had nothing to live for aside from an empty vengeance and it is only now that he is dead that he has something to lose.
How utterly pathetic.
"Shit," he sighs, running his fingers through his own bangs and grimacing when he realizes he had forgotten that it was still covered in cum. As the heady afterglow begins to fade, he finds himself at somewhat of a loss as he considers the mess they'd made. The mess he had made of Joker.
Neither of them is even close to being remotely presentable—idly, Akechi wonders about the implications for their will of rebellions considering the blasphemous way they had treated their cognitive manifestations. The cum drenched jacket aside, Joker's clothes are shredded, along with much of his soft, smooth skin, the latter of which he could repair with a bead chain but the former is a lost cause, even if he could take it to a metaverse dry cleaning service. His own situation is only marginally better; while the majority of his suit managed to avoid staining, there is still the obvious problem of how his junk is on full display.
At this point, he can only hope that leaving the palace will reset everything. If he can even manage to carry Joker out of here, past hordes of shadows and Joker's little cheerleader camping anxiously by the entrance. Akechi can already feel the impending migraine claw at his temples as he is sure that the sight of her beloved senpai ravished into unconsciousness would send Yoshizawa straight to the afterlife.
The best course of action now would be to heal him up and bundle him up in whatever he can salvage from his clothes, to cover up the bruises and bites and scratches that he had so unabashedly decorated his skin with. With some creative maneuvering, he might just be able to pull off the greatest heist of them all.
But now, he finds himself reluctant to leave, to tear himself away from this slice of unreality, free from the consequences of his vile, monstrous actions where he can fool himself that Joker would ever feel anything else for him again besides hatred and revulsion. In a gesture that is almost shy—which is absurd considering all the liberties he had already taken with him—he leans in to press their lips together once more, this time soft and chaste, filled with all the tenderness and unspoken yearning that he can never allow himself to voice.
Which is the exact moment when the object of his abhorrent affections begins to stir beneath him.
Akechi freezes, his insides turning cold like he had swallowed a bucket of ice water. Slowly, haltingly, he lowers his gaze to see that Akira is staring back at him with wide, wide eyes.
"J-Joker," he stammers as he tries to regain his bearings.
"C-Crow," Akira stammers as well with his cum-smeared cheeks dyed a bright, fetching red that would have not have looked out of place on a blushing, freshly deflowered virgin. And it hits him again just what he had done to him. That he had just spent the good part of an hour using his body as he pleased, thinking of nothing but to satisfy all of his unbridled desires in one go. "Crow, um, this is… Do you…—"
"...Joker, I can explain—"
"—do you like me?"
Akechi freezes again, faced with a question so absurd that it catches him entirely off guard. Whatever he had been about to say is lost in the transition of his mental processes shutting down, coming out instead as a faint gurgle of distress. If he had the presence of mind to think, he would once again affirm his undying hatred of the way Akira can so easily destabilize his entire world with only a few simple words. His sanity is once again imploding, collapsing around his ears like a tumbling house of cards as he can do nothing but stare into those beautiful gray eyes, shining with poorly disguised hope.
Does he like Akira?
Is water wet? Are the fires of hell hot? Is it not etched into the fabric of the universe that Akechi Goro will forever be caught in Kurusu Akira's orbit?
Is this divine retribution for falling in love with an oblivious, sentimental idiot?!
"Akechi?" Akira wonders with obvious concern over why Akechi had suddenly gone comatose with his eyes and mouth open. He reaches up for him, winding his fingers in his hair like a siren about to drag him down beneath the depths, and kisses him.
This is how Akechi knows that he is dead, that right now, he must be bleeding out in the engine room as his dying synapses fire off beautiful, indulgent dreams where all the impossible desires he had in life are granted. Or perhaps the gods had fucked up their paperwork and admitted him to heaven instead of summarily casting him down to hell.
Akira is kissing him. His lips are warm and pliant and sweet, his tongue is soft as it gently maps out his palate. He kisses him with care, like Akechi is something precious and delicate, like a beautiful dream that could just as easily burst like soap bubbles with the slightest touch.
He kisses him like he loves him too.
Akechi is burning up from the inside again, but this time the fires have climbed up behind his eyes searing them with emotion that threatens to spill all over his face. At long last, the hungry, jealous inferno gnawing his chest is suddenly calm, radiating instead a soft, gentle warmth that slowly suffuses his entire being.
(Because, in this moment, he is finally, unquestionably, happy.)
"Akira…" he murmurs, mouthing those precious syllables against his lips. Still in disbelief that after everything he had done, after all the deceit, the betrayal, the attempted murder, the rest of this, Akira had accepted him. Is embracing him—unperturbed and unsurprised to find himself covered in marks and practically drowning in a pool of their release.
(Too unsurprised.)
Akechi slowly pulls away, breaking the kiss with a soft pop that seems deafening in the sudden quiet.
"Akira," he repeats gently, carefully as he brushes away a cum-sodden curl from his face, "exactly when did the brainwashing wear off?"
Now it is Akira's turn to freeze.
In a clear sign of guilt, he slowly averts his eyes to the side, his throat visibly bobbing as he swallows his nervousness.
"...dicks ♡?" he asks hesitantly but quickly amends with a yelp when Akechi shoves him back down onto his back and yanks his legs apart. "Eep, wait," he tries again, "after you… uh, fed me the amrita soda?"
Akechi is momentarily dazed. His memories flip rapidly through his head until it unravels like a long reel of an embarrassing amateur porn film with featured scenes of Akira giggling, moaning, lapping hungrily at his cock, begging needily to be fucked. If he had been standing, he would have stumbled as his cognition forcibly realigns with this new information, the last piece of the finished puzzle snapping into place with an almost audible crack.
He smiles pleasantly, with a slow, sweet curl to his lips. His gaze is endlessly magnanimous as he gazes down at Akira's increasingly sheepish expression.
"Oh, is that so?"
"... Akechi… are you mad at me?" Akira asks meekly as Akechi's smile continues to grow. The slow, dawning dread in his eyes is just as rewarding as it is adorable—like a naughty kitten sitting innocently in a mess of its own making. "I'm sorry, I just—I just really, really wanted to suck your dick and I wasn't thinking straight. And then, well, um, you looked like you were really into it and I thought—aaaAAH!!?"
Akira lets out a loud, satisfying scream as Akechi resheathes himself into his sloppy, used hole, fully intent on fucking him to death.