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"You did what," Akira's jumping out of his leather seat in his office and rushing towards the car the moment the call connects and Ryuji gives the rundown. He quickly gives the address to the driver that had been waiting for him on the doorside, and the car immediately takes off as he slips on the seat. Into the phone trapped between his ear and shoulder, Akira hisses, "What the hell did you do, Skull? Didn't I tell you to standby?"
"He came across one of our warehouses," Ryuji emphatically maintains his stand. "He has to be dealt with, man! We've dealt with witnesses before. Hell, you set up those rules yourself."
Logically, yes. Their rules with dealing with witnesses has been consistent since the day the Phantom had been established: silence, obtained one way or another. First they'd start with the carrot—astounding amounts of money for bribery, favors, promotions—and if that didn't work, he would go with the whip—the threats towards family and friends, and only if it absolutely came down to it, a more permanent silence.
Yet Akira knows he has every reason to doubt, because the witness that Ryuji has sent away to 'silence' and only called thirty minutes later to give a belated report about it has been the detective Akira has been keeping touch with through Leblanc, Akechi Goro. Akechi, the hopelessly idealistic yet somehow also bleak junior detective assigned to The Phantom case that enjoyed his curry spicy, his coffee blacker than Sojiro, and liked to drop depressing facts about the world they live in. Akechi, whom none of his friends approved, because he was a detective. Akechi, who Akira has been planting the idea about how the war against drugs may have been a tactic to hide the sheer level of corruption in the Masayoshi ministration.
I agree, Akira. The day had been the first day Akechi used his first name to refer to him. That's why I need to solve this case. If I catch The Phantoms, it'll give me enough fame and authority to turn the gun on the current government without being obliterated myself.
Akechi, Akira's confidante, his ace up his sleeve, the secret tenth member of The Phantoms that hasn't even realized it himself yet. The weapon he's been training to shoot Masayoshi Shido where it fucking hurts, his best friend, maybe even something more. To a thrill-seeker like Akira who has become numb to normal-grade violence at the young age of twenty five due to being involved with the mob for ten whole years, Akechi has been the only drug that could satiate his hunger.
And Ryuji's gotten himself involved in it.
Yet he couldn't simply shut it down with authority. Others thought he was already sentimental; if he were to interfere, he had to have proper reasoning behind of it why they shouldn't kill Akechi. "If this was a snitch, a proper team would have arrived, but you said it was just Akechi. That means he stepped in alone, most likely as some fucked-up coincidence, and he somehow saw past the camouflage."
The silence from the other side is a response enough. Akira does not scream into the speaker, despite the craving boiling from the bottom of his stomach.
This is the downside about having teammates that care very deeply about you. On one hand, they're very dependable, he knows they have his back, he doesn't have to worry about snitches. On the other hand, they will worry so much that they deal with issues that are not even there. Akira huffs out a quick breath as the driver makes a sharp left. "You let him see the warehouse so you'd have an excuse to deal with him." It's a statement.
At least Skull sounds apologetic. "Joker, I just—"
"Yeah, I know you did this because you were worried, Ryuji," Akira knows that he shouldn't use each other's real names in case the lines are tapped, but honestly, if anyone could hack Futaba's insane security measures, they probably deserve to know his identity. "But he's a goddamn detective, and illegitimate or not, the fucking Prime Minister's son. He wasn't even suspecting me, and I was working on him."
The line on the other side is quiet for a while, then starts hesitantly again after a moment. "You'll fix this?"
"Yeah, we're friends. Akechi'll listen to me."
Doubtfully, the gruff reply comes. "You mean he thinks you two are friends."
"Ryuji, I don't have time for this," is all he says before he cuts the call and steps out of the tinted car, telling his driver to return back without him.
He knows each of the warehouse well enough to know where Ryuji and his people like to pull off lynchings when they occurred. Three minutes navigating between the mazelike complex of Skull's base, he arrives, knowing he's arrived at the right place by the crowd huddled around a slack figure. Almost mannequin-like, Akechi stays unmoving as the men around him jeer and toss insults, jerking against his clothing, groping his ass, and the like.
Akira sees fucking red. "Stop," his voice is deadly cold as he boldly cuts into the crowd, and towards the center where they can see all of him.
They ignore him, naturally rebellious nature rejecting all command. Then they actually see who he is, and all blood leave their faces. Akira only crosses his arms, not bothering to repeat his orders, letting his eyes speak for him. To their credit, they do all let go of Akechi, and Akechi falls to the dirty brick floor. He flicks a cold gaze to Akechi once, then turns to address the group first. "I'll deal it from here, leave."
One of the lackeys hesitantly raises their voice as well as their hands. "But boss's orders were—"
Akira tuts his tongue in distaste. Skull's people, like the man himself, are loyal to a fault—they probably took Ryuji's orders of 'do anything to extort information from this guy' literally, not knowing Ryuji's sheer disgust regarding sexual assault (he was friends with Ann and Shiho since childhood, after all.)
"Yes, and I'm telling you as his boss, to stop and leave. You've done enough," Akira orders callously, tone merciless as he tells them off. They all scurry away in fear, not knowing that Akira has just possibly saved all their fucking asses.
It is only when the footsteps have faded away to mere echoes in his ears when Akira finally squats down in front of Akechi to take in his condition. He's been beaten harshly, purple bruises blooming on his otherwise fair skin and blood from the light gashes scattered across his body soaking his white shirt, but no bones seemed broken nor did any of the injuries look like they'd affect him permanently. One of his sleeves has been rolled up to his elbows, and Akira notices the track marks riding his forearm and joint—most likely Special K, or some form of opioid; even something mixed, since there are a lot of marks on his arm. So, beaten and drugged, but nothing more. It seems that Akira had intervened before it was too late.
Having Akira's long shadow obscuring the dipping sunlight is what has Akechi finally acknowledge him—a pair of unfocused crimson flicking up to him sluggishly. "Joker?" Even through the haze of the drug, the detective somehow manages to muster some hostility into his voice. Though, with none of his usual level of self-control, fear is equally candid on his face, the two emotions infusing together to project the perfect aura of a trapped prey, immensely seductive to a natural predator like Akira.
"It's Akira," he lies easily through omission, like how he's always lied to Akechi; silent, yet no less malicious. "I was walking down the street, and I heard a loud bang so I came to investigate. The thugs took off before I could see their faces. They seem to be a part of the teenage vandals that hang out around here."
"No, no! They're part of the mob," Akechi argues—how can he even argue in this state? Akira finds it astounding, frankly. "The mob I've been investigating, The Phantoms. I need to... need to ask... who Joker is..."
"You're not doing anything in that condition," Akira points out. "Stand put. I'm going to get some help."
Akechi decides to completely ignore Akira's advice and try to stand by himself, only to crumple the moment he brushes away Akira's support. Akira catches him easily, hooking Akechi's waist around his biceps to keep him from falling on the dirty floor again. Battered and scratched up, Akechi is still delightfully temptation claws against his stomach, the visceral monster that's brought Akira to the top, to take what he deserves, what is his.
"Akira," Akechi's drowsy voice calls out to him. "Why are you here?"
Great, he's not only high off his ass, he also has temporarily amnesia. Akira couldn't just drop Akechi off at a hospital like this, when this idiot would ignore the doctors as he's ignored Akira's perfectly valid advice.
Heedless of Akira's spiraling thoughts, Akechi continues to ramble. "Oh, I get it. I'm in a dream. There's no way someone scrawny as yourself could come and rescue me from the mob..."
"Hey, what was that about my figure?"
"Explains why your biceps are so thick..."
"That sounds like you've thought about my biceps." Akira wore a long-sleeved shirt at all times, loose and hanging off his frames because the tattoos he has aren't what a scrawny twenty-five year old part timer at a small café would have. He's felt Akechi's gaze on himself, but he didn't know he was being observed in that way. His heart stirs at the thought of his appreciation possibly being reciprocated.
"I have. Thought about how easily you lift the coffee pot, and how you could press me against the counter, but that's unlikely. You probably don't have any experience at all."
Oh, that cheeky fuck. Akira brought him up to eye-level with a grip on his collar, then grinned pointedly at him. "I do, actually. I've been eating ass before I was an adult."
"Prove it, then."
Akira is about to when Akechi grins hard enough to match Akira's, and slams their lips together. The acrid taste of iron is heavy on his tongue, but Akechi's own blood is somehow heady and addictive to him despite the taste. Akira lays his claim by kissing viciously and possessively, no longer bothering with the innocent part-timer pretense, hand twisting the bloodstained shirt and teeth dipping into the plump lip to draw blood himself. God, the thought that someone else drew all this blood from Akechi incenses him. Nobody gets to make Akechi this bloody—he is Akira's.
When they separate, Akechi immediately collapses to the floor, slipping between Akira's looser grip. Yet he isn't disheartened or hurt by the fall, instead using his position on the floor to press his cheek against Akira's telltale bulge forming on his tight pants. Akira decides to take pity on Akechi's sluggish grip by undoing his own belt and throwing it aside haphazardly.
"Have you done this before?" He breathily asks as Akechi releases a hot breath against his cock, now only with a single layer of fabric between them.
"No," Akechi responds, eyes gone lethargic. "Teach me?"
When he's asking so nicely, how could Akira resist? "Tuck your teeth behind your lips," he tells kindly, watches as the drugged detective obey without hesitation. Akechi's mouth is sloppy and hot, hardly able to take half of Akira's cock into his mouth before gagging, showing the telltale signs of inexperience. Receiving this type of service from Ann's girls (not that Ann would have tolerate this level of unprofessionalism from them in the first place) would have left him infuriated, but that this is Akechi, the same Akechi that's been sitting across the bar in Leblanc seeping coffee and commenting on this and that, makes this one of the best blowjobs he's gotten in his life.
He lets the brunette control the pace of the blowjob until the fact that Akechi's mouth is on him isn't good enough to keep his interest anymore. Then he takes hold of Akechi's locks, the strands falling through the interstices of his fingers. Akechi makes a confused mumble around his cock, but before he can interject, Akira fucks in hard, cockhead hitting the back of the throat and making him gag hard. Akechi's head jerks up instinctively to look at Akira with glazed betrayal, and Akira only pushes harder the next time, pushing into Akechi's throat.
This feels far better, Akechi's untrained throat a hot, tight cocksleeve around him, and Akira finds himself soon to climax that he's pushes out of Akechi, reluctant to come in his mouth. Surprisingly, as he does, Akechi struggles, trying to keep himself on Akira's cock—and, god, Akira knows he wouldn't be able to forget this for long, the sight of crimson eyes with tears pooling at the corners looking up with a different kind of betrayal, tongue chasing after his cock for a final lick, completed by the feeble push against Akira's arm. When he pulls out completely, Akechi pouts, and Akira's not quite sure if that's the drug talking or if Akechi's naturally a pillow princess, but he's so fucking horny either way.
"Ssh, princess, you'll get what you want," Akira chastises him, dropping to his knees in front of Akechi and pulling against his own shirt while cursing his own company policy for making dress shirts mandatory. They come off soon enough, falling to the floor and getting the polyester dirty, but Akira does not care. Akira cannot fucking care because Akechi, still unfocused and exposed, is tracing his index finger over the six-winged beast painted over Akira's back. This huge tattoo that spans across his entire back, the creature's wings carved into his own scapula, is what makes Akira the underground prince of Shibuya, and the one of the most feared yakuza in Tokyo.
If Akechi knows the implications of this, he does not show it in his blank face. But then, if Akechi were even half sober compared to his usual, controlled self, Akira would have been arrested already.
"Take off your pants," Akira orders quietly, voice betraying no emotion. Akechi quickly complies, pawing against his pants, panting lowly and looking at Akira like he can't stand being unable to touch himself.
And god, this mewling, bared-open Akechi is so sirenic that Akira is almost tempted to keep him drugged and chained to his bed, but he discards that thought as quickly as it comes. There are many beautiful men and women in this world whose value is beauty and only but, yet there are very few that has a mind like Akechi Goro's, perceptive and intuitive as Akira's own, capable of matching up to him. Joker is the ruler of Tokyo's night; it would be unbecoming of him to be satisfied with a broken thing. No, Joker does not make compromises, so he has to have Akechi whole. This is nothing but a morsel to sate the growing hunger in him until that moment comes.
Akechi's still not done with his pants, so Akira moves forward, takes out one of the knives he keeps strapped to his ankle, and expertly cuts through the fabric. Some of the gashes go to deep, slicing skin and adding to the many lines already on Akechi's skin, but Akira does not care. He cannot do this patiently, he is not that good a man.
What was once a pair of pants now nothing more than strips of black ribbons, Akira quickly pulls them off and throws them aside. He runs his hands over Akechi's exposed ass and thighs, pleasantly surprised to find it taut with smooth muscles that would be perfect around his own body as he rode him. One day, Akira thinks as he slides finger and nudges against Akechi's rim. Akechi's entire body rocks against him.
Akira licks his lips. He can guess the answer, but he asks anyways. "Are you a virgin?"
Akechi confirms, the movement jerking and unnatural. Akira tuts and reaches for the lube that Ryuji's team dropped, and picks up one of the condoms in afterthought. In case Akechi's memories are so muddled he thinks he's been assaulted, or worse, remembers everything that Akira has told him. Tearing the condom with his mouth, he squeezes a generous amount of gel onto his hands, rubbing them over his hands to warm them up.
Akechi, half-lidded and about to fall asleep, gratuitously observes him. The crimson crescents widen to a proper sphere when Akira finally positions himself over Akechi, slipping his index finger into Akechi. His body squeezes down on the intrusion instinctively, and the choke around his single finger is so satisfying that Akira finds his breath quickening. It only surrenders after two minutes of furious wiggling an stretching from Akira's part, and even then sliding in a second finger is such a tight fit that Akira worries for a moment that he would still end up breaking Akechi while fucking him because Akira's much bigger than two fingers.
When Akira adjusts the angle and presses down on a certain spot, Akechi keens loudly, back bending in an arch. Grinning from ear to ear, Akira massages it as he continues to scissor apart, coaxing the walls to yield.
"More," Akechi pants, body somehow electrified with tension and loose from the drug at the same time. No longer in the mood for vapid foreplay, Akira carelessly pours what is left of the bottle onto his hand and slathers it all over his cock and pushes in.
God, Akechi's tight. Even though Akira's stretched him adequately thoroughly before, due to Akira's sheer size, Akechi's walls clench down him, squeezing him deliciously as he pushes on. Akira has to consciously think to not spill prematurely as he's entering Akechi, the entire maneuver equally torturous as good as it feels. By the time he just enters him, and not even all the way, Akira's squeezing his eyes tight to prolong his orgasm, and Akechi's not handling it any better from the way his nails dig against the concrete flooring under them, splattered with crimson smudges.
The initial thrusts are shallow and experimental, Akira hesitant to go any harder because Akechi's already a wrecked mess under him, tears streaking down freely down his cheeks and his breathing a chaotic mess—the drug seems to have altered his sensitivity levels, and for the better. Yet Akira can only restrain so much, Akechi so tight and sweet around his cock, his unravelling all visible to him to the face-to-face position they've chosen, and he gets gradually rougher and cacophonic with his rhythm until he's pressing into Akechi all the way in a single thrust, right against Akechi's prostate. It's enough to make Akechi come under him, his cock twitching and splattering generous amount of come between the two of them. And fuck, when Akechi comes around him the already-tight grip turns punishingly hard and Akira loses all of his self control, fingernails digging red lines into his ass as he thrusts into his ass freely, only his own orgasm in his mind.
Akira has barely the thought to dip his head to take Akechi's earlobe into his mouth, the position conveniently hiding his eyes from Akechi's view. Like this, as he is about to peak, he confesses, "I'm Joker. I'm the one you've been looking for all along."
The satisfaction from the confession alongside the grip Akechi has on him finally has him orgasm. If Akechi has heard him, he doesn't show it, busy coming for a second time when Akira finally releases into him, filling the rubber.
It doesn't take long for Akira to catch his breath. He immediately pulls out, rolls the condom off of himself, and ties it to a knot and tosses him aside—used condoms are so common in these alleyways nobody will suspect anything, anyways. Taking a quick breath to appreciate Akechi's asshole gaping after having taken Akira, he moves his gaze to observe Akechi, who's fainted after the intense second orgasm.
Akira laughs, the kind that's loud and hysterical and shakes your very structure, and brushes a stray strand out of Akechi's face. "I really hope you don't remember this tomorrow morning," he whispers.
God, it fucking hurts—like he's been hit by a car. Though Akechi's never been hit by a car before, he's very confident that what he's feeling is very close to it. There isn't a cell in his body that isn't complaining about the treatment he's put them through— the treatment that he can't even recall clearly. The entirety of yesterday is a big flat blur, like a watercolor painting that's been shoved in a sink full with water, only comprehensible in the general shape and colors but nothing more.
He rises in Akira's dingy Leblanc attic, dust heavy in the air and sunlight leaking through the broken window. "Good morning," Akira greets with his signature detached face when his eyes fly over to him in question. "You look confused."
"I don't know why I'm here," he rubs his neck awkwardly. There are bandages wrapped on them.
Akira sighs. "Yeah, I had a feeling you were going to say that. You were high as fuck."
Akechi frowns and looks over to his elbows. There are track marks on his arms, now bruised purple and ugly. "What did I do?"
"Oh, nothing much, at least nothing more than climbing on my lap and trying to fuck me. I tried saying no, but you insisted, so..." Akira sighs, but looks apologetic. "Sorry. Shouldn't have taken advantage of you like that."
At the mention of sex, a few key images do float into his mind. A battered alleyway, a company of gangs, syringes, screaming, thinly-veiled threats. He swallows, and stares at the marks again. "No, you're better than anyone else," Akechi tries to wave away Akira's guilt. He does lightly frown in consideration. "My brain seems to connect it to Joker, for some reason. It's because his gang was trying to go down on me."
Akira's eyes are wide, intoxicating. "Do you remember?"
Akechi licks his lips, thinking it's a big fat shame that he doesn't remember what really went down. "Considering the cuts on my body, I'm assuming it's good that I don't."
Akira swallows, and closes his eyes. "Yeah, I agree."