Work Text:
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Akechi says.
“I know.”
The desk bangs against the wall.
“In fact”—his thrusts pick up speed—“it doesn’t even mean that I like you.”
“I don’t care,” Akira tells him.
It’s a lie. He does care, but he knows that Akechi is lying, too. Or maybe it isn’t a lie, but rather a deliberate stretching of the truth, a loose-fisted definition of the word “like.” Akira knows that he and Akechi could have been friends if things had gone differently. Even Akechi himself had said so. The truth is hate can encompass a lot of things. Jealousy, fear. Lust and desire. Want.
Instead, they do this.
It is a thing that started suddenly and without warning in the cold winter air of Leblanc’s attic. Akira had unraveled Akechi from his scarf like he was a present, had let the fabric fall onto the floor before pulling him flush against the wall. He had looked at him, then, without saying much of anything, because he wasn’t going to fuck this up, not again, not when Akechi had appeared so serendipitously in front of him as if conjured out of thin air.
You are an idiot, Akechi told him. Tugged hard onto Akira’s jacket, kissed him.
Now, Akira finds himself in a position that he’s a little too familiar with: on his back with Akechi’s body hovering over him like a ghost. As always, he lets himself be shoved around, pushed against something hard until they’re both aching for it. Today, it’s the work desk that sits in the corner of Akira's room. The flat edge of the wood digs uncomfortably into his spine as Akechi pushes in and out of him.
The desk knocks against the wall again. This time, a tinny jingle. The infiltration tools that hang on the side clink against each other like a vulgar wind chime.
“Slow down a little,” Akira pants. “It’s not like you have anywhere else to be.”
Akechi licks his way up to Akira’s ear and bites at it. “That doesn’t mean I want to spend all night with you.”
Akira isn’t so sure. He also isn’t so sure why anyone would kiss someone they hate. But Akechi’s breath is so warm. This close, all he can smell is his sweat and something undeniably human. He closes his eyes, shudders, when Akechi’s fingers leave Akira's hips and trace along the side of the desk.
“Why do you have these, anyway?”
“Have what?” Akira’s brain is filled with an opaque fog. It is beyond his comprehension how Akechi can hold a perfectly natural conversation like this, mid-fuck and on the verge of orgasm. It takes all of Akira’s concentration to even form an intelligible sentence.
“These.” Akechi unhooks a tool from the rack. Again, a tinkling noise that sounds too pretty alongside the thick, wet slap of Akechi’s balls against Akira’s ass. “Pay attention, Kurusu.”
Akira doesn’t respond, instead just focuses on the raw sensation of a thick cock sliding wet and hot inside of him. It feels good: the way Akechi’s cockhead jabs up against his prostate with each push, how it stretches his rim with each pull. His own cock leaks messily against his stomach, untouched.
It doesn’t register to him that Akechi is still talking until the pleasure ebbs away, slower and slower, until it vanishes altogether.
“—safe to own these, I wonder? Not only that, but it does make you look a little, ah, suspicious.”
“Suspicious how?” Akira asks, sitting up on his elbows. He tightens around Akechi’s motionless cock, rocks a little against him just to feel something. “It’s just a hacksaw.” He huffs. “I use it to make lockpicks to unlock the treasure chests we find inside the Metaverse.”
Suddenly, aching emptiness. He visibly clenches hard around nothing, and Akechi laughs.
“And a cigar is just a cigar,” he says. His face lights up. “Is that right?”
The hacksaw isn’t sharp enough to leave a mark or to draw blood, not with how light Akechi moves it over Akira's skin, but Akira can see it in his eyes: he is absolutely starving for it. It’s the same face he makes when he thinks no one is looking, when a shadow gets down on its knees and begs for its life, when that innate desire for blood takes over and clouds his head with hurt, hurt, kill.
Well, joke’s on him. Akira is always looking, and he’s hungry for it, too.
The tiny, serrated edge is nothing but a kitten’s lick, but Akira breathes heavy, lifts his chest like he’s trying to impale himself. He wants a mess of blood and cut muscle, skin that hangs off flesh, insides vibrating with the want to spill out from inside his stomach. He will take whatever Akechi will give him, and he’ll beg like a dog for scraps from the table.
Please, he thinks.
“You can do it,” he whispers. “You can press harder.”
Akechi recoils. His hand snaps back like he’s been shocked. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m sorry,” Akira says. He turns his face into his own shoulder and shuts his eyes. “I just,” he starts. He takes a deep breath and then looks back up. “I want you to hurt me.”
“Do you even think before you talk?” Akechi snips. “Why would you want that?”
“Because, I like it.” I like you. “Anything you want to do to me, I’d like it.”
Akechi looks on the verge of laughing, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re such a bullshitter.” He holds up the saw, twirls it in between his fingers. “Honestly, I’d like to cut you open with this. Watch you bleed out. And you want that?”
Akira nods, wraps his legs back around Akechi’s waist and grinds against him. It isn’t lost on him that neither of them has gone soft.
“What would you do if I used”—Akechi checks the tool rack again, assessing what is available—“those pliers to peel off your fingernails until you begged me to stop?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to stop.”
“Oh? Interesting. Okay, how about this.” He looks thoughtful, but his eyes are too sharp, like he already knows the answer but just wants to hear Akira say it. “The hammer, then. I’d take my time crushing each and every one of your fingers—”
“Yes!” Enough already. “I’d still let you.“
Akechi grabs a handful of Akira’s curls, rucking his head back. “You’re more of a freak than I thought, Kurusu.”
There is no coaxing him back into it. Akira still gapes from earlier, wet and loose for Akechi to finish what he started. When he thrusts back inside, Akira feels nothing but the welcome burn of cock filling him, the sharp angle of Akechi's hips bringing their bodies closer together. He cries out. Akira loves Akechi like this.
"What would it take, I wonder, to get you to hate me?” Akechi drags the hacksaw over Akira’s throat and then down, down, lower, over his stomach, until it stops at the base of his cock. He threads it through his pubic hair, teasing. “Cut this off, maybe?”
Akira feels himself jerk toward the blade, eager despite himself.
“Oh, you like that? I knew it.” Akechi laughs. “It isn’t as if you need it to come, anyway. You just need”—an especially harsh push has Akira reeling—“this.”
His hands fly up to cover his face, but Akechi slaps them away.
“Come on, look at me,” he says. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Come on.”
He grips Akira’s chin with one hand. His tongue lolls out, searching, until Akechi runs a finger over his lips and into his mouth. It tastes like home, like sweat, like a person he can’t help but love despite it all.
Akechi drops the saw onto the ground.
“Look at me, Kurusu.” He shakes Akira’s face, whose eyes roll up to meet him, gripping hard at Akechi's shoulder as he pumps faster. “I, I need you to hate me. Promise me.”
All Akira hears is: Do not accept this reality. Do not — under any circumstances — love me. Do not come to love me. Do not have anything to do with me.
Ah. Akechi is so pretty, even now. He cannot look away.
“Kiss me,” Akira says, mind like mush. “Will you?”
He knows his words aren’t coming out right, and he knows they aren’t what Akechi wants to hear. Even after asking to be kissed, he’s the one who does it anyway, closing what little space there is between them.
Somehow, this is what does it for him. Not the hacksaw or the welcome threat of violence, but the knocking of Akechi’s teeth into his, the slick feeling of Akechi’s tongue sliding hot against his mouth and sucking away his gasps. His orgasm takes him in minute bursts, his back ricocheting off the desk as his hands search for something, anything, to hold onto—Akechi’s face, Akechi’s back, the edge of the desk where the tool rack shakes with the violent force of his spasms.
Then, nothing, only the blank state of bliss—
Akira comes back to reality spent and dripping. As his vision clears and his body calms, he can feel Akechi pushing down on his stomach as he slowly pulls out. Akira doesn’t remember Akechi coming, and yet his orgasm spills out from inside him into a messy puddle all over the desk.
Already, Akechi steps away to look for the box of tissues. They’ve got it down to a routine, for simplicity’s sake. Akira doesn’t expect anything different at this point.
“Were you listening?” Akechi calls from across the room. He wipes at himself before gathering up his clothes, deliberately ignoring the hacksaw that has fallen onto the wooden floorboards.
Akira kicks it with his foot before standing up. It's easily replaceable, unlike some things. He rolls his shoulders and rubs at his back. Everything aches, and he needs a bath.
“Hmm?”
“What I said earlier,” he says. He smiles in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His scarf is already snug around his neck, a nest of fabric, his jacket buttoned tight against his body. He is too quick a dresser and too eager to leave. “You still owe me an answer.”
Akira doesn’t believe in breaking promises.
“I’ll think about it," he says. Still nude, he crowds Akechi against the railing of the stairwell that leads to the downstairs. It is only a few more hours until Leblanc will be bustling again. "But, if you stay the night," he adds, tugging softly at Akechi's scarf, "I'll give you free coffee."
Again, an unraveling.
The fabric flutters onto the floor and stays there until morning.