Archive of Our Own

It’s early November.

Mementos is a dark and cold thing. Stuffy from the city above it; dim and hostile like the public. As congested as it is, it’s still a break from his demanding schedule.

Goro’s legs shake terribly underneath him, long since abandoned their use. He makes to spit out the iron under his tongue. Head jerking to the side, but the trace of moisture is like a tributary blessing, and he swallows against it.

The sudden movement only invites attention from the body above him, long arms braced over his frame. Heaving chest marrying his own, utterly enclosed by the dark. The familiar feeling of hollowness is pleasant to Goro, despite the proximity.

Kurusu looks vicious like this, like there’s a part of him that wants to reach out and take a bite of him. Chew him up and spit him out, finally unmake him like his eyes have always betrayed. Shining with raw and uncut mockery, his crafted smiles, his red gloves. Goro nearly knocks his head against the floor at the thought.

His arms tremble from their place on Kurusu’s abdomen, his obscene jacket ripped and torn off somewhere on the asphalt, his exposed arms bitten and bruised.

Goro’s jaw feels tight, sore, and he heaves back a laugh. “Is that it?”

Kurusu looks down at him, eyes balking into something unhappy. His dark curls are wet against his forehead, stark under the white of his mask. “You look awful,” he grunts.

“Says you.” Goro tries to kick up, but his legs fail him. “Who made me like this?”

In the dim light of mementos, it’s difficult to make out much. There’s something dark smudged into the collar of Kurusu’s vest, one golden button popped off, courtesy of Goro’s teeth. He looks horrible, he looks beautiful. Goro pictures a bullet wound gaping in the middle of his head.

“You did.” Kurusu’s tone promises danger.

Warm pulsing need bubbles inside him, and Goro feels himself shift upwards. His nose knocking against Kurusu’s mask, probably smearing blood all over it. Leather steadies him, and holds him a hair’s breadth apart. “You wanted to,” he says. Lips red with blood and conviction.

Something is seeping from his side, and Kurusu swims into doubles in his view. Looping into twin looks of concern, and something else. Goro can’t make it out. “Think ‘m concussed,” he says, and digs his nails into Kurusu’s shoulder.

“I can heal you.” Kurusu says, but it comes out wrong, like a curtain falling on a stage. He adjusts on top of him, one red glove peeking into Goro’s peripheral, before skirting away.

Goro bites his lip, lets the pain stabilize him, “—’course you can. You get all the tricks.” His voice wavers. “There’s— a life stone in my pocket.”

“I’m not using that.” Kurusu says, pulling him up and letting him lean on his chest like some kind of maiden. It’s awful. Goro hates himself for pressing into the warmth it brings.

Kurusu runs like a furnace, and mementos is horribly cold. “Whatever.” Goro mutters, because of course he’d heal him. Of course he’d wipe away everything he’d done, like it never happened. Clean slate on Goro’s skin, clean conscious of the Phantom Thieves.

He tries to push himself to his feet, but it’s staggered and awful. Kurusu must feel miserable, looking at him. Knowing the blood leaking out of Goro was his fault, getting his stupid morality in the way of their fun.

“Sorry,” Kurusu retorts, “didn’t know you wanted to limp home. Maybe I shouldn’t put you back together.” He stands up and puts his hands on Goro, leather curling into white seams, twisting him upright. “Is that what you wanted me to say?”

Goro nearly spits at him. “What, leader? Afraid of some battle scars?” He leans forward, slanting precariously into Kurusu. He smells like coffee and musk, it’s addicting.

Kurusu jolts him up, like he’s in danger of falling asleep instead of taunting him. “I think we have enough as it is Crow. Stand up, let me fix this mess.” He slaps a hand over Goro’s front, and steps away, summoning a persona Goro hasn’t seen yet, and probably won’t see after this, and casts a mediarahan.

The subsequent warm wash of healing feels like insects under his skin, and Goro takes another step back against it. His innards stitched back up; his resentment fit to burst inside him. Back to usual.

“Good as new.” He says, pushing forward into a smile. “Looks like I was wrong. You have surpassed me.” His gun feels heavy at his side.

Kurusu pauses. “Does that bother you?” He doesn’t look smug at all, in fact, he looks worried.

“Never.” Goro says, wringing the hatred out of his voice. It doesn’t go very far. “I wanted to test you, looks like I got my answer.”

He’s still unsteadied on his feet, despite the healing spell. Must be psychosomatic now, something ridiculous like feeling inferior towards attic dwelling absurdity. For letting him in like this, letting him trample over and hurt the only thing Goro’s had for years: himself.

Goro compartmentalizes the dawning fear of failure inside himself, and shoves. “I should’ve known. This is the strength from the leader of the Phantom Thieves.” he picks up all the sinister pieces of himself that have trickled out, and pushes them back inside. “I’m glad to have you on my side then.”

Kurusu steps forward, his lips pursed. “Are you alright?” There’s that tone again, that hero persona he likes to flit around, like he wasn’t punching Goro into the pavement ten minutes ago. Like he wasn’t looking at the blood dripping out of him with wide, dilated eyes.

Goro can read him like a book, but it doesn’t do much to poke at a closed cut. “I feel better now.” He answers truthfully, for once. His skin still rings with the memory of bruises, hands over his wrists. Something sharp digging against his throat, leaving impressions of scarcity into his skin.

It feels like he’s given himself over, and even that might not be enough.

“I’m glad.” Kurusu says, and starts towards the entrance, like all was resolved. In his mind it probably was. That this festering inside his teammate was just something that needed to be beaten out, bled into submission. Like Goro was just another devil for him to control, summon when the time was right.

Kept safe in his stride, his shadow.

Or maybe this was something special, just for Goro. Maybe Goro was the only one who got to see Kurusu like this. “I just wish,” Goro starts, his tongue heavy, “I wonder what might’ve happened. How far we could truly go.” If you let me. If you let yourself.

“—Do you think you would’ve won?”

Kurusu fixes him with a look. “I wouldn’t lose.”

He’s so firm, so assured. Goro hates it, he wants to reach inside Kurusu and rip out all the pieces that hold him up, eat away at what makes him so great, so much better than him. “Of course, you’d say that.” He smiles at him, it feels poorly plastered on, but he’s made better with worse circumstances.

Something about Kurusu just undoes the seams that bind him, Goro can’t make heads or tails of it. “Shall we?” He nudges a head towards mementos’ abyss, back up to the real world. Kurusu only nods back, and goes to grab his jacket.

Goro almost mourns its absence.

Kurusu messes with his gloves in silence, squinting up at Goro between tugs on his cuff, and adjustments of the leather. It’s not subtle, but Goro pretends he’s occupied with brushing off imaginary dust. Cleaning invisible spurs of blood in the fabric, rips in his cape that were already repaired by Kurusu.

Finally, he speaks. “I had fun too.”

His voice is faint, like he’s telling a secret. Maybe he is. When Goro breaks to look at him, all he can see is red. Trickling down from his forehead, splitting at his nose, and dragging down his chin. Kurusu is horribly beautiful, and Goro feels himself shake with it. He’s effortlessly perfect, down to the last curl in his hair, the small scar on his lips.

“Then,” Goro twists his hand to his chest. Kurusu’s missing golden button pressing into his breastbone, “maybe I’ll be seeing you again?”

Kurusu grins.

Again, turns into the day after, then the day after that.

Goro quickly loses count of how many times they’ve gone down into mementos together. His hands don’t feel right without Kurusu’s skin between them. It’s stupid, it’s selfish. Each fight is like another grain of sand down Kurusu’s hourglass of time, Goro can’t help but be greedy. It’s time well spent, lugging around hell with the person who’s life is in his hands, who beats him into pieces every evening. Who leans over him when the fight’s drained out of both of them, soaking sweat and blood into each other’s mouths, watching, waiting for the next punch. The next stone to drop.

Kurusu is a wildfire Goro’s locked himself in with.

Forest razes between them, the gap growing narrower everyday. The stupid cat even seems worried now, every time they meet up he’s always murmuring, saying things to Kurusu that he waves off. Shrugging at his concerns, all while looking at Goro with the same dark expression he’s come to expect.

Kurusu looks at him like he wants to eat him.

Goro wants that too.

The next day is the final tipping point. Goro’s schedule is clear for the first time in months, only because he’s gone out of his way to do so. Thoughts of coffee and black leather under him carrying him through meaningless jobs.

Cradling his sores, wiping away his wounds. Kurusu is always so pathetically gentle with him in the aftermath, it nearly curdles Goro’s blood.

Bright concern flashes in his mind, but he tosses it away. Letting Robinhood drain him all over again, tossing attack after attack at Kurusu. There was a rhythm to this game in the beginning, but Goro’s surely lost it now.

Long nights of fulfilling Shido’s orders and attending Conspiracy parties precede him, past and present. Waiting hand and foot on greasy men, smiling at them like he had something to gain from their encroachments. Watching his father step to attention every night with his bones still rattling from the metaverse, from Kurusu’s touches, and dreaming of putting a muzzle between his teeth and pulling the trigger.

He could do it in Shido’s sleep. Sneak into his stupidly big estate and blow his brains out. Burn the whole place down afterwards. Goro could do it, his thoughts race. Get this whole thing over with already. Maybe nick Shido’s dental records in the process, so they’d never be able to identify the body. Maybe he’d crawl back into the metaverse after, systematically go destroy each and every palace fragment of the Conspiracy. He could make a night out of it, go kill his father and burn down the whole town with him. Japan’s political and economic sector won’t know what hit them. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to spare Kurusu’s life.

Goro sways from his place on the asphalt. It’s barely been thirty minutes since they started, and already he’s starting to feel the adverse effects of fighting Joker.

Mementos is dark, made darker from his spinning head. Goro’s feet stumble in front of him, one foot, then another, and he bites back a growl. “Don’t hold back!” He throws his arms up, away from his increasingly hazy vision, and charges another attack.

It’s just another meaningless fight to get through, just another long-form game of chess with Kurusu. After this, he’ll go back home to his awful apartment, and call Shido. He’ll present his case again, line up all the strings neatly. Make it sound like it’s his idea to spare this life. That it’s in his best interest as a politician. Shido will sneer at him and assign another bullet-list of targets, and Goro will play stake. Tonight, Kurusu will leave mementos and be swarmed by people who adore him. He'll go to bed in that filthy attic, his futon propped up by milkcrates, and he’ll always have something Goro doesn’t.

Robinhood bustles at him in his mind, but Goro throws off the unease. “You’ll have to kill me if you want to win, Joker.” He sounds off kilter, probably looks the part too. Eclipsed in mementos, his words almost feel real.

Kurusu’s next attack slams into him, hard. Goro’s completely swept off his feet. A flattened gasp knocking out of him from the assault.

He doesn’t move to stand up.

“Crow!” Someone yells in the distance, but it’s muffled and distant. He hopes it’s not Kurusu, that would be embarrassing.

Loki mutters something debasing in his mind. For once it sounds like Robinhood agrees with him. “—‘m here,” he says weakly, “hurts.”

Kurusu’s hands scramble over him, “Crow, crow. Open your eyes. Look at me.” Goro’s not sure when he closed his eyes, but the idea of sleep sounds good.

He tells so much so to Kurusu, but it comes out all jumbled and wrong.

“Fucking, why are you-” something tears above him, and then Goro’s being shifted onto his side. “Fuck. Crow, why are you hurt already?” And then the familiar heat of an amrita shower.

Ah. He was talking about the lesions. “—’r you sure, that wasn’t from you?” He’s slurring his words. Probably not good. He was supposed to be playing the part of an amateur, it wouldn’t do if Kurusu learnt about his solo excursions. “Maybe you,” Goro opens his eyes, but they can’t seem to focus on anything, “forgot to heal m’ yesterday?”

Kurusu is quiet above him, digging around his mission pack with methodical precision. One hand still clasped tightly on his side; it feels nice.

At some point his mask was knocked loose too, so Goro can see his pinched expression, his flushed skin. “Joker,” he murmurs. “—'s fine. You should…” He trails off, annoyance growing in his chest from Kurusu’s occupied gaze. “Joker. Come on, ‘m fine, don’t waste supplies on this.”

This, meaning him. Kurusu is nothing if not prepared, and there’s not a chance in hell he came down to mementos without a pack of recovery beads on him. Especially today of all days, where they had their run of pedestrian quests to push through before they could get to the fun bit.

“Shut up.” Kurusu snaps, and jolts him upright. Goro gasps from the sudden movement, but Kurusu’s hand quickly steadies him. Rubbing at his side like he was a fucking wounded animal.

Goro swallows. “Guess we’ll have to call it for today?” His vision is still teetering, probably a lasting effect from the poison last night. One of the targets had an awful fledgling palace with snakes and scorpions drowning the place, one of their bites must have gotten infected.

It was his fault. He’d given his last life stone to Kurusu yesterday, after one of his attacks finally downed him. Not that he needed it, Kurusu was a walking pharmacy. But Robinhood cooed in his ear about friendships and rivalries, and maybe seeing Kurusu bleed on the tarmac twisted something uneasy inside him. And then Goro was kneeling beside him, pushing the capsule between his lips.

Whatever. He was paying for it now.

“Don’t close your eyes.” Kurusu suddenly says, shifting Goro in his grip until he’s practically sitting in his lap. Goro’s eyes flutter involuntarily under his hold.

“I’m awake.” He drones, princely attitude beaten out of him somewhere along with his mask. “Stop jostling me,” he blinks an eye open, and sees all of Kurusu’s buttons intact, “we’re done here, aren’t we?”

Kurusu frowns, shadows veiling the tilt of his lips, but the defeat comes pouring out of him regardless. “Are we?”

Goro swallows his tongue, it feels like sand. “Don’t look at me like that, you won this time.”

“Did I?” Kurusu breathes, his eyes flitting down to Goro’s lips. “Have we gone far enough yet?”

His stomach flips, “—far enough?”

Kurusu’s voice is deep, secretive. Goro wants to throw him off and pierce him through. He wants to grab at his hair and tug. He wants every part of him, bleeding and ruined.

“To satiate you.” Kurusu murmurs. “Is this enough, Crow?”

His hands dig into Goro’s side, right against his wound. The amrita’s done nothing to resolve something that’s festered into the physical world. All Kurusu’s done is made it worse. Goro hisses a protest at him, snarling at his knowing grin. Feeling undone under his gaze, his dark shadow. The weight of his trust, cradling him.

Raising a hand, Goro traces his index from Kurusu’s ear to his pharynx. Cutting through his cheek and leaving a line of angry skin behind. His arm is shaking, but it’s not from his injuries.

He pushes a thumb against the other side of Kurusu’s throat, and stops breathing. His throat pulses underneath his fingers, frantic. Goro can feel how fast his heart is racing.

Under the dim lightning of mementos, their eyes meet, black on red.

Kurusu pushes him down into the asphalt, crawling on top of him with festered desperation. It’s a position ever so familiar to Goro by now. Something akin to defeat, but not quite there.

Slowly, he breathes into Kurusu’s mouth. “Never.”

In the end, the hardest part is shoving off the cat.

Goro feels like an alleyway slouch, hiding in the curtails of Kurusu’s chiding. Morgana yowling back at him, incensed, worried. Tail knocking between the usual laptop bag and Kurusu’s looming figure.

It’s a losing battle, so Goro can’t even bring himself to feint niceties. Kurusu keeps glancing over his way, like he’s afraid he’ll make a run for it. Eyes sloping to his shadows curve, right where Goro’s shirt peeks through.

Fortunately, the evening light makes for good shrouding, because Goro is completely wrecked. They barely got their hands on each other before Kurusu’s feline guardian came prowling around. He didn’t catch an eyeful of Goro, but Kurusu’s ripped collar and red lips probably spelled trouble. Mutiny amongst the team over their leader’s romantic choices, now that sounded like fun.

“—Enough. You’ll go to Futaba’s tonight.”

“And leave you with him?!”

“I can handle it.”

Goro wonders what Kurusu looks like through Morgana’s eyes, through the rest of the thieves’ eyes really. If their strong, competent leader ever looks undone. If he ever breaks for longer than a moment, if they’ve seen him like he has.

Goro sucks on his bottom lip, tasting the iron left there. Left like a promise, like a vow.

“Please, don’t argue on my behalf,” he calls from the perimeter, tilting further into the street light. “We’re only finishing up; you can take him home afterwards.” From his vantage point, he gleams, if you could call it that.

“—Can it Akechi!” Squawk.

“Did I tell you to speak?” Comes Kurusu’s voice. Low and threatening, and fuck if it wasn’t tempting. Goro swallows back a gulp, and pinches the skin between his fingers.

Kurusu’s hands are stuffed into his pockets, but Goro can make out the seamless line above his wrists. Leather absent from his own hands.

Call it a trade, blood from one, skin from another. “Sorry leader.” Goro says, still grinning.

Morgana stomps around a little longer, clearly unhappy, but Kurusu is the embodiment of charm. Goro used to think people like him only existed on static television and crude comics, but here Kurusu is, in the flesh. Real as bleeding, not that Goro had tested it. He’s perfectly reliable, loyal to a fault, and the number one obstruction in Goro’s path.

For a moment, the alleyway seems darker than it is, and then Kurusu’s at his side again. Curling an arm around his waist and leaning in to snicker. The leather embrace feels strange, but comforting. Old on his skin, new in intent, sliding up the curve of his middle.

“Meddling.” Kurusu whispers, and presses him into the wall again.

Somehow, the blockade steadies his thoughts. It shouldn’t, the former street kid inside of him protests, he should be punching up now, not sinking into Kurusu’s arms like it was shelter. Like it was… safe.

“—Me, or the cat?”

Kurusu pauses his assault on his rear, twisting to peek up at him. His eyelashes really do go on for miles, it’s maddening. Pleasant looks and a personality too? Goro was fighting an uphill battle as the teen heartthrob between them.  

“Is that a serious question?” Kurusu murmurs, eyes low, “or did you just want to argue again?”

He loops a finger under Goro’s belt as he speaks, tugging him further into the alley. Something telling on his face. Without the eerie lighting of mementos, Goro is free to gawk all he wants. Eyes falling from furrowed brows to flushed cheeks, then that same small scar running across his lips.

“What happened here?” Goro says instead, running a naked finger across his cupid’s bow. It’s clearly old, the thin line white with time. Kurusu somehow looks even more handsome with it, giving him some semblance of the renegade look he’s going for.

“—My face?” Kurusu grips his fingers, pulling them away, “now that’s mean Akechi.”

They’re in an isolated area, especially for Tokyo, but there’s still the familiar hum of people around. “Your lip,” Goro snorts at the ensuing look, “the scar, not me.”

“Are we sure it wasn’t you?” Kurusu mouths the snark against his throat. “If I recall, I ‘ve had plenty of mouth related injuries in the past few days.”

“Wear a mouth guard next time.”

“With you?” Kurusu laughs into his neck, “never.”

He’s so close to Goro that the smell of the city is swapped with coffee, it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s so pleasant that Goro can feel himself developing a dependence to it. Leaning against dark walls and red hands. Trusting leather bound fingers, calling them by his name. Giving himself up to them. Akira, Akira, Akira.

Goro parts his mouth, and slips Kurusu’s fingers inside.

“Akechi,” he hisses, reaction immediate. Goro shuts his eyes against it, for once not wanting to see Kurusu’s expression, or perhaps, trying to hide from it.

“Fuck, Akechi, there’s,” he doesn’t move his hand, doesn’t pull them out either. The leather feels odd on Goro’s tongue, but the fact that it’s his gloves, that it’s him inside. That nearly undoes him.

“—‘kechi, there’s people…” Kurusu trails off, unsteady. Goro hums back on his fingers, sucking them in further. It almost feels like he’s out of his own body, floating above them in the dim alleyway. Watching all his meticulous plans free flow down a drain.

Goro’s known Kurusu for all of six months, and that’s all it’s taken for him to ruin everything.

“You look so…” The fingers in his mouth suddenly separate, digging into either side of his mouth, and forcing his tongue down. “God Akechi,” Kurusu grips his jaw with another hand, dragging it so that Goro’s mouth is wrenched open. He pauses for moment, as if deliberating his next move, or simply just to stare at Goro, before thrusting his fingers in and out of his mouth.

He fucks his mouth like it’s the only thing he’s ever thought about, hand moulding bruises into his jaw, then slipping further down along his throat. Twice, Goro gags from his fingers, but Kurusu pets his throat and kisses his cheek, and then continues fucking him like he never stopped. Praise falls from his lips, but Goro can hardly hear it. Everything is blaring red exit lights in his head, thoughts stop and start from Kurusu’s fingers inside him, and he finds himself slumping against the wall.

He's painfully hard, but the thought of Kurusu’s fingers disappearing from his mouth is unbearable, so he tries to grind himself against Kurusu’s thighs. It’s pathetic, it’s exhilarating. His prince schtick is a diluted mess, Kurusu’s pulled it out of him with his fingers and hopeful words, and Goro is utterly entranced by him.

Returning to the real world settled most of their bloodied appearances, but Goro’s side still aches like a stakes been driven through it. Worse still, the sting of pain makes his head spin. Kurusu nudges his head up, and Goro is forced to swallow around leather incursion. His salvia sloping down to the edge of his throat, the worn-down fingertips wet and spongy on his tongue. He chokes on the feeling, but it only sounds like desire.

The hand on his throat trembles. “Good, that’s good,” Kurusu presses his leg up into his heat, “—so good for me, just needed to be roughed up, right Akechi?” Goro’s hands are useless, but it’s almost better that way. Helpless guiding Kurusu into his mouth, like it was a hidden conduit. His gloved fingers feel terribly hot in his mouth, and Goro pants against them. There’s drool and spit everywhere, it’s a miracle no one’s heard them.

Kurusu has an appraising look in his eyes, dipping from Goro’s spit-soaked lips to his thighs, desperately humping him, and then hastily, up to his throat. “Need me to tug on your pigtails to get you in line, right Akechi? Remind you who’s in command? Who’s your leader?” Squeeze.

Goro kicks out, angered words escaping through leather bound fingers. “—‘s that what this is? Ream’ng me ‘n?” His eyes open like marigolds, blood tripping off plumy petals. The words unspoken sing between them. Is that what I am to you?

Kurusu digs his fingers into his throat. “No.” His props his leg further up the wall, enough that Goro has to tip up on his toes to balance between their knit limbs. “You’re special.” It’s barely Kurusu anymore, too low, too deep, too angry. Joker has manifested into this alleyway, and he’s fucking Goro right into the wall.

“—‘pecial…?” Goro practically keens, something long dormant stirring inside him, “is hurting me special?”

Kurusu curses, tugging his fingers out of his mouth. “Fuck.” His hands rip open Goro’s shirt, buttons flying everywhere. He looks monstrous, and it’s all Goro can do to bite his lip and not beg Kurusu to cut him open. “Yes, ‘kechi.”

Sunlight was already fleeting following their exit from mementos, but it’s entirely gone by now. Rays of neon leak into the alleyway’s edge, polluted with smoke and the smell of city. Dark, much too dark to make out anything, and Kurusu’s lips still taste like blood against his own.

Goro drags himself in further, one hand ripping into Kurusu’s scalp, another at his back. “Then,” he whispers low, “hurt me.”

Kurusu conceals a grunt into his side, “oh. Oh, Goro.” He says, rapturous. Goro feels like he’s choking on iron, it’s too much, it’s not enough. He muffles a whine into Kurusu’s throat, hands grasping leather, digging welts into pretend skins. His mask is slipping, it’s over, it’s just beginning. “—So perfect,” Kurusu forces forward, pulling all of Goro’s weight onto his thigh. Goro’s legs dangle underneath him, and his eyes flutter shut against the heat.

“Don’t,” He cries out, trying to grind forwards, but hopelessly held in place by Kurusu. Leather against his bare flesh, captured, caught, “I need…please, please leader.”

Goro wonder’s if there will be indents cut into his gloves forever. He wonder’s if he’ll ever be able to wash his hands of Kurusu’s trust, of his blood. “Hurt me. Show me what you’d do.” He’s frantic, bucking his hips into whatever he can grasp. “Hurt me, enough to make it last.” His voice dies into a whine, lips uselessly panting against Kurusu’s.

Tilting back on his heels, Kurusu gets his hands around Goro’s thighs and lifts. His head still tucked into Goro’s jaw, biting bruises in a line. Goro locks his legs around Kurusu’s waist, bracing one hand against the wall and another to unzip his pants. Adrenaline shakes through him, enough for him to finally get a real look at Kurusu.

Like this, he’s another man entirely. Dark curls tinged in sweat; eyes blown out. Something vicious on his face, beyond winning, beyond their rivalry. He’s boxed in by darkness, but Goro can still make out that knowing look on his face, the same look he gets before he ambushes a shadow.

Like this, Kurusu looks like he hates him.

“This’ll last,” he says low, daringly. Adjusting his grip around Goro to press him against the wall, grind into his cock. His erection strains against his belt loop, like it had been tucked under it. “Goro,” he says between kisses, “I’ll make it last.”

He gets a hand under Kurusu’s belt, nearly ripping apart the cheap thing. Stuffing his hand down Kurusu’s underwear to grab a hold of his cock. Heady and wet, already pulsing into his hand. “Oh, that’s… y’r gonna.” Goro snuffs out another moan, “Fuck,” he grinds forward, “—feel so fucking big.”

“Yeah—?” He can feel Kurusu’s grin against his lips, “you want it sweetheart?” He rolls Goro onto one arm, pushing most of his weight onto the wall behind them, but it’s still an impressive show of strength. “What am I gonna do? What do you need, Goro?” He pulls himself out of his pants, cock springing between them. From the angle, his head is pushed against Goro’s exposed stomach, leaving a small string of slick attaching their bodies together.

It's addicting. “I need, need…” Goro’s eyelids flutter shut against the touch, his words turning into seafoam at his lips.

But Kurusu understands enough. “I know baby—” he uses his free hand to tug Goro’s cock out, the air between them damp. “I know what you need.” He gets his arms under both of Goro’s thighs again, and forces forward. Frotting the two of them together with Goro’s hand uselessly drifting between them.

Someone is making these pathetic sounds between each thrust, panting into skin to catch their breath before breaking out into cries again and again. Dimly, Goro realizes it’s him.

He knocks his mouth against Kurusu’s again, getting his teeth in the mix and cutting his lip. It’s unpleasant, it’s perfect. With his free hand, he reaches down to grab at their cocks together, taking a second to really look at them.

Kurusu is big, unfairly big. Goro’s cock is all pink and red and eager beside his. Kurusu nearly doubles him by thickness alone, and Goro hates him. Completely and utterly. “—‘kira… need y’r cock,” his voice comes out all hazy, “need your big stupid fat fucking cock.”

Kurusu groans into his mouth, glancing between them to see what drew Goro’s attention. “Fuck Goro, your mouth,” he grinds forward, eyes fixed on their cocks rubbing together. Grinding his hips into Goro, carelessly rucking forward. With an inhuman growl, Kurusu leans back in to catch his lips, licking into his mouth, muffling curses against his tongue. He tastes like blood.

“Use your hand,” he says between bites, “get your hand wet, and…” He jolts them up, Goro’s legs split, then fall into the crook of Kurusu’s elbows. He’s nearly folded in half, and Kurusu’s still standing, holding up all his weight.

Goro’s hand files to their cocks. “Use your,” his head falls back, lips forming words around drool. “Spit on me, on my hand Akira. Get me wet.” He undulates his hips, feeling Kurusu’s cockhead bump against his navel, and then down again. “Oh. Oh, need you,” he whines, “need your cock inside me.”

Kurusu spits on him.

It’s clumsy, it gets everywhere, and Goro doesn’t care. He swabs up the spit from his stomach and braces a hand against the wall again, panting against Kurusu’s lips. “—so wet, wet for you leader.” He pinches a nipple between spit slick fingers, and sobs.

“Fuck. Goro.” Kurusu sounds winded, his eyes are all black. His lips are utterly swollen, and there’s a bead of blood on his chin. Goro licks it off. “—‘m gonna fuck you, gonna break you,” he says.

Oh. Goro thinks, desperately fisting their cocks together, the wet slide of his hand feels incredible, but Kurusu’s words feel better. ‘Hurt me,’ he thinks, frantic.

‘Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me,’ he thinks. Grinding up into Kurusu’s heat, clawing against his back, gasping into his mouth. It feels like his throat is closing up at every thrust, like somethings strangling him. Something black, something red.

Coffee assaults his nostrils as his eyes roll back into his head, small sounds getting knocked out of him. ‘Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me,’ he thinks. Tugging on Kurusu’s curls, panting into his mouth, Goro’s hand hanging limply around their cocks. Struck with tremors, but loose enough for Kurusu to fuck into. Using Goro like he was a fleshlight, only for his leader’s cock, only for his rival.

Goro chokes on a moan, his limbs going taut. He thinks he’s screaming, but he can’t be sure, nothing feels real. Slowly, Kurusu’s voice dips into his ear. “That’s it baby, so good for me, so good when you listen,” he jerks forward, “want me to hurt you? Want me to make you bleed?” Goro nods uselessly, he tastes salt in his mouth. “I’ll do it sweetheart, I’ll cut you up, gut you open. I’ll get you so soft and sweet for me.” His voice hitches, but Goro can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. “Oh. Oh, Goro,” Kurusu whispers, “I’ll do everything. Anything. Just let me, let me…” He buries his face into Goro’s neck, biting hard enough to draw blood. He thrusts once, twice, then shudders, coming all over Goro’s stomach. He doesn’t stop his hips, milking his orgasm to the sound of wails, fucking himself into Goro’s fist, completely glazed in his come, before his thrusts finally stutter to a stop.

“Nnn—!” Goro tightens his fist around them, a silent plea, because his mouth won’t work beyond broken moans, and pathetic keens.

As always, Kurusu indulges him. He despises it. Cooing at him like an injured bird, it’s cruel, it’s sincere. He wants to envelope himself into Kurusu’s heat and stay there forever. Even now, with Kurusu’s come soaking into his stomach, with their lips gnawed red between each other, it’s not enough.

Goro hates him, completely, irrevocably. He’s a copper cord pulled taut enough to pop, and Kurusu is digging his grave.

“Oh Goro,” Kurusu says, softly, sweetly, “did you want me to come inside you?” He tips them up, tentatively placing one of Goro’s legs on the ground, but still holding him up.

Goro feels foggy, unbalanced. Tremors shake through him. Kurusu’s face dipping from seedy smugness into soft concern between blinks.

“It’s alright baby,” he runs a gloved hand from Goro’s flushed cock, down to his hole. “Can feel how hot you are baby, so tight around me…” He presses a finger against the fabric of Goro’s underwear, and groans. “But not right now.” His hands pull away, “I can’t fuck you like you need, in this alleyway. So you’ll have to wait, alright Goro?”

It’s not alright. Goro’s hands shake under him, his legs tremor even worse. Without Kurusu’s arms around him, without his warmth, Goro’s hit with a horrible chill.

“—heart?” Kurusu says, “open your eyes for me?” His voice weaves in and out sluggishly, Goro’s not sure when he shut his eyes, but it’s so dark in the alleyway that it hardly makes a difference. He shivers.

Leather hands suddenly grip onto his waist, leaning him upright and startling him into alertness. “Goro.” Kurusu says again, voice terribly low. Promising. He drops Goro unceremoniously onto the asphalt, forcing his legs to start working again. It feels like a slap in the face from his earlier sweetness. It’s good, it’s commanding. Goro can rely on this.

A hand digs into his throat, it feels familiar. “Do you want to come?” Kurusu asks, “need my permission?” He squeezes, deliberately hard. Right against Goro’s trachea. “Is this what you want? What you need?”

The hand around his throat loosens, enough for him to speak. “Is that—” Goro flashes an eye open, “your worst?”

Kurusu slaps him. Hard. Goro’s breath is knocked out of him, the strike barely registering to his skin before his other hand is fisting his cock. It’s completely unlike the wet slide of his own, the leather pulls against his skin, it hurts. Goro drools all over himself trying to stop his moans. There’s a certain air to Kurusu, like he’s been struck with lightning. Dragging his fist up to Goro’s sensitive head, and grinding against his slit. “—That’s what you need. Right?” Kurusu lifts his hand off Goro’s cock, and slaps his other cheek. Steadying his face with the hand around his throat, before slapping him again.

Kurusu hits him, and it’s perfect. Goro wails through another slap, the sting doing something to his insides, curling around his head, twisting, and pulling and wrenching out. It hurts, it’s violent. Goro sobs against the pleasure, his head a haze of pain and want. Kurusu swims in his vision, dark. Black and red all over. He looks hopeless. He’s everything Goro’s ever wanted.

The pain feels endless, warming him from inside out. Goro hates him. Goro loves him. His head is fogging up between Kurusu’s rough hand on his cock, and the sting of his face. ‘Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me,’ he thinks, flatfooted and desperate, needy.

Kurusu slaps him again, and this time, his hand comes away with blood. It feels like the end of something. Goro nearly wails with it, “hurt me, hurt me, hurt me.” He slurs out, eyes half-lidded, hazy. Grinding himself against Kurusu’s thigh. He tastes salt again, but his mouth is pressed against Kurusu’s.

“I’m hurting you baby, I’m hurting—” Kurusu chokes. His hand tightens around Goro’s neck, and then he’s coming. Sobbing with it, wailing into the alleyway. Kurusu drags his hand up to muffle Goro’s sounds, but it only makes him scream louder. He feels his knees buckle underneath him, but it’s fine. Kurusu catches him. Goro’s screams bleed into wet moans, until he’s finally silent.

Panting into the familiar touch of leather, his eyes slide shut.

Cleaning themselves up is a sordidly affair.

Goro’s shirt is beyond repair, Kurusu manages to locate three buttons, two of which are snapped in half completely, before giving up. He shrugs off his Shujin blazer onto Goro’s shoulders, and Goro tries his utmost not to think about how warm it feels.

“Keep it.” Kurusu mutters, dabbing at his lip like it stung. Goro hoped it did.

His throat still hurt, but like hell would he reveal that. “And have the public think I’m affiliated with Shujin? I have enough scandals on my plate.” He digs his shoe into the ground, avoiding Kurusu’s look. Trying to fix himself into a modicum of dignity.

Kurusu gives him a look. “Aren’t you?” He takes a step towards him, “affiliated with us I mean.” Like this, without his glasses, he’s horribly handsome. Even in this dark alleyway, even with kiss-swollen lips, smelling like sex.

Goro assumes he doesn’t look any better. His jaw is sore, and they’ll be bruises everywhere come tomorrow, but he’s not worried about that right now. “We have an arrangement,” he says, staring straight at Kurusu’s forehead. His bangs are haphazardly placed, at least, more than usual. He keeps his voice as straight as it’ll go, practiced. Though, Kurusu looks like he sees right through him.

It's silent, for a moment. Kurusu brings his hand up to tug at his gloves in comforting motion, before stopping. Goro bites his tongue to stave off the snark, managing himself into a polite smile. It feels fake.

The alleyway is all neon now, sunlight come and gone. There’s a pink sign around the corner, giving the whole street a romantic wash of colour. Akira’s eyes glint from the light, pretty. Goro doubts his own eyes reflect anything at all.

Kurusu exhales, enough that you’d expect smoke to come out of the end of it, and looks at him. “Come to Leblanc with me.”

Goro blinks, a thousand questions festering at the surface of his tongue, and dying. “You have school in the morning.” And more importantly, he still had to contact Shido. Probably after drinking a soothing tea for his throat.

Kurusu flexes his hands, like he’s annoyed. “Then I’ll skip classes.” There’s a determined look in his eyes, and Goro is reminded of Featherman reruns and horrible overconfidence blowing up in the hero’s face.

Aside from Kurusu’s willingness to disrupt his academic record, Goro has other concerns. “I’ll have to go to the station in the morning, and I need my files for that.”

“We can stop by your apartment; Leblanc is closer anyways.” Kurusu says, cocking his head back. “Stay with me.”

Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever?

How Kurusu says these maddening things with a straight face, Goro will never know, “…everything about you is infuriating.” He opts for, but Kurusu’s answering smile means it’s landed flat.

“I’ll get you an ice-pack for those bruises.”

Goro scoffs, “and who’s fault is that?”

Kurusu’s eyes line with something dark, despite the glow of pink behind them. “It’s my fault. My responsibility. If we go to Leblanc now I can warm up the house blend for you before it settles. And I’ll give you something for the pain,” he leans forward, whispering now, “—and you won’t have to muffle yourself in my bed.”

Goro stares at him, shocked into silence for once. “What—” he pauses, tipping into Kurusu’s side. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Anything. Everything. Whatever you want.” Kurusu says, his lips are still lined with red, fit burst to spill at the corner, but Goro licks it off.

He looks at Kurusu, his beautiful eyes, his curved smile. The scar on his lips. The shine of pink neon reflected in his gloves. “Alright,” Goro says. “Lead the way.”