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Akira knows he’s fucked.
Akane is screaming in anger, her will bending the fabric of reality in this Jail however she pleases. When the familiar feeling of a distortion makes Akira’s stomach queasy for a second, he’s on his own, his friends gone, except... there’s someone left. He locks eyes with his mirror self, a cognitive version built akin to Joker’s image. The unruly hair now a bleeding red like a knife to a heart, the sleek black attire an otherworldly void black, and the ebony mask framing golden eyes perfectly.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it?
That this Joker is just as confident, cunning and magnetic as people believe he is. (People, like Akane, think they know him from their public appearance alone. The façade he slips into like a second skin when he’s in the Metaverse.)
The cognitive one, Joker, slowly raises his hands, holding Akira’s gaze, and adjusts his glove just like the original with a confident, dangerous smirk. It’s a taunt, an invitation, a flirtation all in one, and Akira knows he’s royally fucked.
(And now that he is the prey of that wolfish grin, he realizes how his demeanour sometimes makes Makoto blush when he takes down a foe in one hit or makes Yusuke stare at him when he rips off a Shadow’s mask.)
That dangerous thrill Joker’s promising with just that fierce glimmer in eyes is giving him goosebumps. Neither of them has made a move to attack yet.
With his hand on his dagger and his muscles taut and ready to strike, they stare at each other, until Joker breaks eye contact and lets his gaze travel down Akira’s frame, judging what he’s seeing. And apparently likes, if his tongue licking his lips is anything to go by.
A blush creeps into Akira’s cheeks. He’s not used to being seized up or checked out. He always keeps a low profile, so he’s not the centre of attention.
In this moment of self-consciousness, Joker takes the opportunity to strike. Akira blocks in the last second; sparks fly where metal clashes onto metal. Their strength is matching for a moment, but Akira catches himself and presses back with all his might until he forces Joker a few steps back.
That’s his chance – to get in another hit, and another, and Akira’s falling back into a rhythm he’s been fighting in for so long now. He’s fast and deadly, and he knows he will win this fight like he has won so many before.
But it’s not easy, because Joker is just like him: fast, and agile, zipping around the lanterns and dodging a critical blow with an easy flip. He even gets a few hits in, but nothing serious, nothing Akira can’t heal with a well-timed Diarama.
Their strength is up to par, Akira realizes after they clash again, and Joker gives him a cocky grin over their blades. It tickles something within his gut, and Akira knows he’s got to be more serious about winning.
“Naga, come forth!”
His summoned Persona raises its spear, unleashing lightning onto his opponent in a wide berth. There’s no way he could’ve dodged that. Akira’s hand is drawing his dagger, when something crashes into him from behind with force. Breath knocked out of his lungs, he falls hard onto the ground, his knees screaming from the impact.
“Gotcha.”
Akira feels dizzy, and tries to get his head straight, but a strong hand pushes his face into the ground without mercy. His instincts scream at him to flee, to do something, when he’s flipped onto his back and feels a heavy weight on his hips, pinning him down.
“I wouldn’t try anything funny, if I were you,” Joker says, pointing his dagger at Akira’s face. The cold metal gleams in warm colours in the nightlight. “And you should trust me. I am you.”
Akira’s pulse is running a mile a minute, his heart beating hard against his ribcage. He’s still trying to catch his breath and clear his focus, but Joker’s body pressing against him makes it hard to concentrate. The adrenaline isn’t helping either, nor that Joker (almost gently) places the tip of his dagger under his chin, urging Akira to lift his head.
“You’re not me,” he growls out from behind clenched teeth.
“No, I’m not,” Joker says, aloof. “I am everything you want to be.”
And isn’t this hitting too close to home for Akira’s liking. (He can be the person he wants to be in the Metaverse without repercussions. This mask, this persona he’s living out on this other side will never come true in the real world.) He struggles beneath his other self, trying to ignore the light friction on his lap. “Fuck off.”
Joker tuts, shaking his head. “We’re not done here.” He guides the tip of his blade down Akira’s neck, past his adams apple, causing him to still his movements if he doesn’t want to get hurt. Slowly, ever so slowly, the tip cuts through the fabric of his vest, like a knife through butter.
This is absurd. This can’t be happening, but it is, and it makes Akira’s body thrum with anticipation in every muscle he’s trying to hold still. The blade cuts a clear path down to his navel, never breaking skin, and – oh god why is he getting hard over something like this –
Of course his opponent notices, much to Akira’s dismay. Joker’s mouth melts into a satisfied grin before leaning down. “I knew you’d get off on this... We’re not so different, after all. This is gonna be so much fun,” he breathes against Akira’s lips. For a split second, neither of them move, but afterwards, it’s hard to tell who caught the other’s lips first. Their kiss is messy; an urgent clash and with a hint of teeth.
Akira wonders how Joker’s skin can feel this warm when deft hands touch his skin, sending a rush of want right to his groin. A small, embarrassing sound escapes him when Joker touches the sensitive parts on his sides, exploring everything. He needs more of this, more of this touch. But he feels like he has forgotten something important. What was he supposed to do in the first place...? This thought is quenched by Joker grinding his hips down in a smooth motion, and Akira knows he needs this, now. He can think later.
The good thing when making out with your other self is that he’s on the same page as you with every move. (Although it shouldn’t work this way, Akira knows.) So there is little foreplay, just the urgent need to rut against each other, trying to take off just the necessary clothes in the process, which is harder than it should be. By the time Joker has stripped off his pants, Akira is still fighting with his.
“So impatient,” Joker chuckles and hooks his fingers into the belt of Akira’s pants, stopping him in his fumbling. “Do you want to get fucked so badly that you can’t wait for it anymore? Do you know how wanton you look right now?”
A flush of humiliation creeps up to Akira’s ears. He never talks like this during sex, he never had a partner treating him like this, and yet, it’s still doing it for him. (Akira doesn’t want to think about it.) Before he can give a witty retort, Joker pushes down the fabric, including underpants, and slips it off with a victorious smile.
“Way better.” Joker slaps one of Akira’s butt cheeks as a reward. “Now to the good part. Turn onto your side.”
Akira’s body already complies before his brain can catch up with the demand. Joker slips behind him, a warm pressure against his back. He relaxes a little when Joker’s gloved hand travels down his thigh, almost cherishing. A firm grip on the underside of his thigh hoists his leg up, and Akira feels Joker’s cock nudging between his cheeks with a focused clarity. He presses even closer, because he needs it inside him right now.
“Fuck,” Joker says under his breath, next to Akira’s ear, “you want my cock this bad? Needy slut.”
Yes, he’s needy, Akira knows, and with his legs held open even looks like a... He can’t think this through.
But he still doesn’t get what he wants. Akira keens when a cool, slimy substance touches the rim of his hole. The finger spreading the Relax Gel is circling, but never entering, and it’s driving him mad with want. “C’mon already,” he forces out, trying his hardest to keep his cool.
Joker barks a short laugh. “I should’ve fucked you dry,” he says, and pushes in without stopping until he bottoms out. He swears, relishing in the tight heat around him. It was so, so good, and he needed more of it – pulling back slowly and snapping his hips up, he establishes a rhythm that has Akira trembling in no time.
It’s maddening, to say the least. It’s not enough friction, and their rhythms are not fast enough for Akira’s liking. His fingers dig into the ground, trying to gain some leverage so he can push back, but it’s hard. He is literally in Joker’s hands and at his mercy. (A moment he will remember for years, every time someone takes him from behind.)
“Hngh, come on, can you go any slower?” Akira asks, panting.
Joker just bites his earlobe in retaliation. “Demanding piece of shit.” He notices Akira’s cock jumping at the insult and decides to pick up the pace. Without holding back, he fucks into the boy that went pliant beneath him.
Their groans and the sounds of flesh rubbing and slapping against each other fill the nightly scene, and Akira’s lust-addled mind almost misses the movement on the edge of his vision. Shit, was someone there? Just the mortifying thought of being seen, being watched, by someone, or worse: his teammates, releases a weird cocktail of fear and the urge to show off within him, and what the fuck is he supposed to think of that.
“Are you close already?” Jokers asks mockingly. “I didn’t even touch your cock.”
(The condescending tone shouldn’t make his cock twitch. Traitor.)
“Not really,” Akira quips back. “Maybe you should put your back into it.” He knows he’s hit a nerve when Joker growls, pounding ruthlessly into him. Pleasure is already singing under his skin, forcing his teeth into his lower lip to suppress any loud moans that try to escape. Joker keeps hitting his prostate now, and Akira knows he’ll be a goner sooner rather than later.
“Fuck, you’re made for this,” Joker grunts, chasing his orgasm with violent thrusts, so close, and with a last twitch of his hips, he comes inside his other self.
Akira is frustratingly tethering on the edge, and a whine escapes his throat. “Joker...”
His counterpart takes pity on him. He fucks into him once, twice, and sinks his teeth into his shoulder, biting down hard, which pushes Akira over the edge. He comes all over himself, untouched, soiling his cut vest with streaks of come.
Without a warning, Joker pulls out and Akira collapses into a sweaty, gasping heap. He doesn’t really notice what happens next, still floating in that bubble of bliss, until the wet feeling of come dribbling out his ass kicks him back to reality.
“Well, that’s something you can tick off your bucket list,” Joker says, his voice steady as if he hadn’t railed someone just a few minutes ago. He even has his pants back on, Akira notices. “Or maybe you can brag about at a party.”
Akira makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.
“Although I’m more interested in how you explain to your teammates what happened here,” Joker grins, kneeling down to drag a gloved finger through a spot of come on Akira’s chest. “Come find me when you’re ready to challenge me. Bring your friends, I don’t care.”
Something dangerous flits across Joker’s face. Something promising.
Golden eyes find exhausted, but hungry ones. “Come find me and I’ll make sure to give you a good time.”