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Shido likes to consider himself a man of many faces.
Goro knows this. And he knows a handful of those faces. There’s the Prime Minister of Japan. The one he shows to the public, the one he uses to give speeches and make appearances; a man for his country, wholesome but determined, unafraid to look their country’s failures in the eye.
There’s the one that Goro is most intimately familiar with, the captain. The one he uses to order Goro around, the one he barks out commands with; a man who doesn’t flinch in the face of war and violence. The one who places hits on his enemies like he orders drinks at a bar.
And then there’s this Shido. The one Goro likes to call the fool . The one with two women on either arm, who flaunts his money like he has all the gold reserves in Japan in his back pocket. The drunken one, or the one high off speed, whatever he’s determined his vice to be that night.
Tonight it’s booze.
Goro is nursing a glass of scotch as he watches his father act like a damned idiot. It’s only his second glass of the night, mind you; he hates drunk people. He doesn’t know why he keeps letting Shido invite him to these ‘meetings’ , and he uses that term as loosely as one possibly can, when they always end up like this.
They’re at a club that Shido owns (under a different name, mind you), to meet potential clients or business partners or whatever the fuck term Shido decides on using this time. It’s all meaningless to Goro; he’s long accepted that his role, at least here, is to be a gun. Shido doesn’t take him here because he values his opinion. He brings him here to show him off.
Goro is Shido’s most prized possession. His greatest achievement.
God, he hates him.
He lets his eyes slide over to the man in question and tries to hide his grimace when he finds him drinking down one of the women like she’s liquid gold. Hypocrite, he thinks, you should think about this on the car ride home when you’re calling her a tramp and a whore. The other men at their table are faring just as terribly; one of them fondling one of Shido’s women, prying away her attention, and the other snorting a line of coke off the table.
Goro makes the mistake of catching the eye of the second guy as his head comes back up, pupils bulging wide and a shiver wracking his frame. “Hey, kid,” he says, “wan’ a hit?”
And no, Goro doesn’t ‘want a hit’, but it’s almost expected of him to participate and partake in these circumstances. Shido’s slammed his head against the wall for much less than being a downer.
Shuffling closer to the other man as he cuts a line with his black card, Goro lets himself eye him up. He hadn’t been paying much attention during introductions, but now that Goro thinks about it, the man looks familiar — a celebrity, perhaps? One much bigger than Goro himself. Shido certainly has a number of famous people on his side, endorsements in exchange for money or power or Goro’s services. As he presses two fingers to the left side of his nose, he vaguely wonders what this man will ask for.
Coke makes his nose close up. He pulls a stupid face to try an alleviate the feeling as he sits back up, rolling his head back against the booth seats.
“Thanks,” he says, wiping at his nose with the backs of his fingers.
The man takes a casual swig of his beer. “Don’t mention it.”
While he waits for the high to kick in, he tries to remember the name of the man. Surely he must have given it, and if not him, then Shido must have. He thinks back further, picturing him on his television set or on a magazine cover, but no name comes to him.
He tries to subtly study his face, wide and pale and flat, but that doesn’t bring a name to mind either. The man is older; not quite Shido’s age, but close enough. Maybe he was one of the men his mother had liked to watch?
The man reaches into his back pocket, taking out his wallet to put back his card. Goro catches the name embossed into it and remembers.
Murata Kiyoshi. One of those old actor types who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself. A man who’s been accused of multiple accounts of several different assault charges, but has enough money to stay out of jail and knows where to funnel it to keep his reputation spick and span.
So, Goro almost expects it when he feels a hand creep across his thigh.
Murata is well practised at subtly by now, managing to keep up with what little conversation is left at the table while he gropes at Goro’s pants. It would be admirable, if not for the sickly feeling building in Goro’s throat.
He’s been touched like this before — at events like this even — and it never gets any easier to bear. Every time it ties him up in knots; Goro’s still not sure how to deal with it. The first time it happened, he’d gone to Shido, like a moron.
Or, well, it hadn’t felt moronic at the time.
He’d been barely sixteen and absolutely terrified of the concept of sex with absolutely zero control over his life and absolutely nobody to turn to. It had made sense to go to the man who might actually be able to do something about it.
Something about remembering his long-gone naivety — the time when things like this phased him — makes him feel even more jaded.
Shido had laughed at him. Hurled a few slurs at him. Told him not to bother him with such disgusting matters again. And Goro didn’t understand, because Shido didn’t like it when he tried to handle things himself either (and Goro had tried to handle things alone, both in and out of the Metaverse), so what was he expected to do?
It took him a long time to figure out that Shido expected him to go along with whatever these men wanted from him. To lie back and take it. So long as it doesn’t happen within Shido’s eyesight.
But Goro’s not just going to let himself be a pawn in Shido’s chess game. He has to be his queen piece. Otherwise, what’s the point in playing?
Murata has fame; Murata has power. Whatever he’s giving to Shido, Goro can take from him just as easily.
So he swallows back his bile, takes his own hand and places it atop Murata’s, almost violently stroking a thumb against his rough skin. Murata flinches, but it’s very slight, just once — something Goro might’ve missed if they weren’t so close. Perhaps he’s not used to having his advances reciprocated, or maybe it’s a gay thing.
It doesn’t matter to Goro. He’s not going to back down now.
He feels the beginnings of his high starting behind his eyeballs, insistent and pressing and blossoming fast. With it comes a swelling of confidence, which he knows is mutual from the way Murata’s hand slips up his leg unbidden. Goro lets himself gasp quietly as the hand comes to rest on his crotch, virginal and staggered, as if he hadn’t considered that his actions could lead up to this.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Murata’s mouth quirk up. It’s gone so quickly that, if he didn’t know any better, Goro might think he imagined it.
The giddiness takes over. Goro feels like he’s winning. Better to keep the streak up and take this opportunity now, rather than waste both their highs. He leans over to speak softly into Murata’s ear, and if his hand presses harder against Goro’s crotch in the process, well — is he supposed to apologise?
He lets delicate fingers brush the hair back behind Murata’s ear and chuckles gently when he startles in response, eyes flickering around the room. Everyone else’s too caught up in their own exchanges to be bothered by them anymore. Goro shoots a glance at Shido, just to make sure, and finds that he can’t even see him past the woman in his lap.
“Meet me in the bathroom,” he says, careful not to catch Murata’s eye as he pulls away and slinks off.
Sure, it would be more dignified to have him take Goro home or vice versa, but they never go for that, so Goro’s stopped asking. Usually Goro offers to pay for a love hotel, but these circumstances call for more discretion. It’s not every day you get to bang a celebrity.
Besides, Goro’s had sex in worse places than his father’s club’s bathroom.
…
Okay, so maybe this is a particularly low moment for him.
But he won’t let himself dwell on it; he can’t let himself dwell on it when the high is really kicking in now, making his whole body feel like it’s buzzing, tugging the corners of his mouth up in a manic grin. When he catches himself in the bathroom mirror, he has to slap himself out of it before someone sees him looking so foolish. This place is usually good at discretion — has to be when the future Prime Minister of Japan owns it — but, when you’re a celebrity, you learn that nowhere is truly safe.
He appraises himself in the mirror, somehow becoming wilder by the second. He watches himself visibly change, pupils dilating and hair standing up on end. His reflection swims against the grime of the bathroom, making him feel dizzy and lightheaded, but oh-so-eager to get fucked.
He’s impatient at the best of times, but especially now, in the intoxication of it all; he wants everything, now, until it makes up the world around him and leaves him no space left to breathe.
It’s a little more intense than his usual highs.
Fingers come up to loosen the top button on his shirt, and it takes him a moment to recognise them as his own — far too lost in a greedy sort of yearning, he supposes. He takes off his tie while his fingers are busy, stuffing it into his back pocket.
The door squeaks with movement. Goro’s eyes glide over to watch Murata close the door gently, and lean back against it. A wrecked grin makes its way to Goro’s lips as he lets himself lean back against the edge of the sink, legs spreading with his bending knees. “What took you so long?” Goro asks, dragging the toe of his shoe across the floor — an imitation of coquettishness.
Murata loosens his buttons, stalking his way to Goro like a predator to prey. “Settling some business,” he says simply.
“I would’ve thought a man like you has people to settle his business for him.”
“I take a very hands-on approach to my career.”
“Mm,” Goro instinctively straightens up as Murata starts to box him in. “Do you think you could teach me?”
Murata takes Goro’s wrist in his hand and clutches it, hard enough to bruise. “Perhaps,” he says, eyes roaming every inch of Goro’s body.
It’s always now — the calm before the storm — where Goro is, just for a moment, unable to bite back the twirling nausea in his belly. He’ll get over it in a minute or two, when his cock is hard and his lips are swollen. But, for now, there’s a sickness growing in him. Fattening and oozing with disgust with each passing second — disgust for himself, for the man in front of him, for the entire despicable world that made him like this.
It makes him feel like a goddamned kid.
So Goro always makes the first move. Always.
With his free hand, he grabs Murata by the scruff of his neck and pulls their mouths together. He anticipates Murata’s reflexive jerk back, and grabs all the tighter to make up for it, pushing his fingers up and threading through his short hair.
It doesn’t take long for Murata to get with the program — a few seconds at most — and start kissing back. Goro lets Murata take back his control, loosening his fingers and tongue and letting himself be taken.
Murata’s hand travels down towards his hips, then his ass, squeezing the flesh there and providing support as he hoists Goro up to sit on the sink. Goro barely spares a thought to how uncomfortable the ceramic is, shrinking the whole world down to his tongue and his cock.
“Do you do this often?” Murata asks; his words casual like they’re discussing the weather while he kisses down Goro’s jaw.
Goro barely bites back his grunt of indifference, “Does that matter?”
“I expected,” he pauses to nip at Goro’s ear, “someone much different.”
“As did I,” Goro breathes as he presses his knee to the bulge in Murata’s pants. “I thought you’d be rougher, given what I’ve heard of you.”
Murata takes the bait — they always do. He grinds against Goro’s knee and says, “I can be rough. Just didn’t wanna offend your Princely sensibilities is all.”
He pulls Goro by the wrist, swinging him 180 degrees and shoving him into one of the stalls. Goro won’t lie, when his head collides with the wood of the door, it fucking hurts. But Murata doesn’t falter — not even for a second — striding back into his personal space and shoving him again until they’re both in the downright-claustrophobic stall. Murata locks the door behind him, and then turns them around to give Goro one last shove against the door.
The ache in Goro’s head blooms across his skull as Murata ungraciously pushes down his pants and reaches into them. He finds himself caught between the two burgeoning fires in his body, pleasure and pain. Two violent senses that meet in the middle, creating a feeling that mixes intensely with the vibrating excitement coursing through his veins. It leaves him gasping, aching with a hunger for more.
He pushes his hips into Murata’s touch, but Murata leaves his cock almost as soon as he finds it. Instead, his fingers sink lower, prodding aggressively towards his hole.
“Wait,” Goro grits out, grabbing the man’s arm to halt his movements. “I have lube.”
Murata backs off for a moment, content to just watch as Goro pats down his own pockets in search of that small, trusty sachet. When he finds it, he rips it open with his teeth and pours some gel onto Murata’s offered fingers.
“You came out tonight looking for this, then?”
Goro spits out the bit of wrapping left between his teeth. “Never hurts to be prepared.”
“You carry it everywhere?” Murata asks, manhandling Goro until his face is pressed up against the stall door. “You take it to your little interviews where everyone thinks you’re the perfect darling?”
“Maybe,” is all Goro has the breath to say as Murata immediately plunges in a finger to the second knuckle.
“There’s no shame in admitting it. I can keep a secret.”
A second finger joins the first already. Goro hates the filthy stretch, hates the burning-hot fingers and the greedy length of them, but most of all he hates the way he doesn’t hate it at all.
He feels like who he’s supposed to be.
“Definitely gonna keep this one,” Murata goes on, “don’t want the rest of the world trying to get in on this tight ass.”
Ugh. That takes him out of it for a second. For a moment, he’s not Goro Akechi, the smartest man in the room, playing this guy for all he’s worth with a mere shake of his hips. He’s Goro Akechi, a goddamned stubborn child, in a dingy bathroom, with a revolting stranger two- three fingers deep inside him.
Determined, he angles himself so that Murata’s fingers press hard into his prostate. There, he thinks, that’s better.
“I don’t usually fuck dudes,” he keeps talking, breath burning Goro’s ear, “but you’re so pretty like a girl, you might as well be one.”
Goro tries to lose himself in the chemical euphoria in his head as it grows, dancing between his ears like it has never done before.
“God, you’re gonna feel so tight around my cock. So fucking good.”
Goro tries to drown out the pedestrian dirty talk by thinking of nothing at all, by basking in how good everything else feels.
“Maybe I’ll come visit you on set next time you do one of those stupid fucking interviews, jack myself off backstage. Maybe just watching you act all priss on TV will be enough.”
Goro fails miserably.
“Shut the fuck up,” Goro whispers into the wood of the door, words mostly covered by the lewd squelch of sex.
The fingers slow down, in an attempt to listen in, “What was that, princess?”
“I said that I think I’m ready now,” he lies. He can almost feel the smirk growing against the crook of his neck as Murata’s fingers slide out. It takes the sound of a zipper meeting his ears before he thinks to ask, “Do you have a condom?”
“Nope,” Murata asks, grinding his bare cock between Goro’s cheeks.
“I have one,” Goro says, shuffling his feet in an attempt to get his pants off the floor. “Let me-,” he starts, cutting himself off with a surprised yelp as his rim stretches around Murata’s cockhead. “Wait,” he says, but Murata pushes forwards.
“It’s okay. It’ll feel better like this.”
“We’re not doing this without a condom,” Goro says, trying his hardest to push away from the man behind him. But there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to escape to; it makes his throat tighten and seize up.
Scoffing out a laugh, Murata bottoms out. “ Fuck, ” he sighs.
“Stop,” Goro shouts, lashing out backwards with all his limbs and all his strength, “fucking get off me!”
Murata just takes the back of Goro’s head in hand and shoves him against the door, hard enough to make Goro dizzy.
“You don’t tell me what to do, you dumb fucking slut.”
Goro recognises the distinct burn of acid coming up from his stomach as he tries to blink away black spots in his vision.
“You definitely,” Murata slams him up against the door again to make a point, “don’t fucking try to attack me. I could ruin your goddamn life, kid. Fucking kill you with my bare hands here.”
“Fuck,” Goro breathes, heavy and winded but as emphatic as he can make it, “you.”
“Mouthy, huh?” Murata scoffs. “Don’t worry, I’ll fuck that out of you soon enough.”
Goro hisses past his teeth as Murata sinks all the way in, clumsy and careless. It hadn’t been enough prep and Murata was banking on the excess lube to slick up his cock. It hurt, sure, but not like it should’ve.
Goro knows all too well what it should hurt like; a burning strain that has his jaw locked and eyes teary and his fingers scratching flecks of paint off the door. Instead, there’s just a pleasant ache in the muscles.
It’s the fucking coke, the bastard fucking cut it with something, he realises, as Murata’s cock reaches that perfect spot inside him. The thoughts are tossed to one side as he moans, loud and pornographic — enough to shock Murata into momentary stillness.
“God,” he says, hands coming down to steady Goro’s hips as he starts back up at a brutal pace, “you’re such a whore.”
And he tries, please, please, please, he’s trying — to remember that rage inside him. He’s the one in control of all this, he controls all the decisions, makes people go exactly where he wants them, and this fucking asshole, this white-collar piece of trash, thinks he can take it from him so easily.
But Murata keeps putting pressure on that spot, keeps pulling moans from him like he’s a puppeteer and Goro’s on the goddamn strings.
It’s hard to think past the droning pressure in his head. It’s too much, now. It’s all consuming.
He feels himself melting under Murata’s capable hands, leaning back into his touch and his body and his cock as his legs give way. “There we go,” Murata breathes, a mockery of sincerity, “God. Shido told me you’d be a handful. Didn’t expect this.”
“Shido?” Goro slurs, his mind struggling to keep up.
Murata doesn’t answer him, just keeps fucking into him — keeps ripping sounds and pleasure directly from Goro’s chest with his bare hands. “You feel really good, I’m not gonna last,” Murata reaches around to give Goro’s cock a few tugs. “Cum for me,” he pants, “wanna feel you tighten around me.”
It doesn’t take long for him to follow the order. Goro can’t help it. Can’t fight back the tears in his eyes or the cry in his mouth as Murata forces him over the edge. It’s not even a good orgasm, cresting low and fading fast. His traitorous body can’t — won’t — even let him have this.
“Fuck, fuck,” Murata groans behind him, pushing him against the door once, twice, three times before his hips stutter and still.
Goro tries not to retch when he feels the warmth spilling out inside of him.
Murata pulls away from him in what little space is left in the bathroom, buttoning up his fly as he leaves Goro to hold himself up. Wobbling, Goro stands up. He reaches for his pants and tries desperately to ignore the dripping from his ass.
When he’s dressed, he stumbles from the stall to splash water on his face at the sink. He hadn’t realised how hot he was; how his skin burns to the touch. He presses his head against the cool, hard bowl of the sink.
It feels like a lifetime ago he leaned against that ceramic and played coy.
Murata seems content to leave their encounter at that; to head back to their table and drink some more or snort more coke or fuck somebody else. But Goro can’t let that happen. Not yet.
He’s about to push open the bathroom door without as much as a goodbye when Goro calls out to him. “Wait,” he says, “you said Shido.”
The man stops but doesn’t turn, “Yeah?”
“He told you I was a handful?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
Murata shrugs, “When we were discussing the terms of our arrangement.”
Goro’s breath comes unevenly. He knows what he needs to ask next. But he doesn’t want to.
“And this was a part of that arrangement?”
He doesn’t want to believe it’s true.
Murata chuckles gently, as though Goro has said something amusing. He leaves. The door swings closed behind him.
In the end, he doesn’t get his answer.