Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11447532.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Persona_5
  Relationship:
      Akechi_Goro/Kurusu_Akira
  Character:
      Akechi_Goro, Kurusu_Akira
  Additional Tags:
      Necrophilia, Bloodplay, Physical_Abuse, Riding, Blow_Jobs, spoilers_for
      the_sixth_palace_obv, so_p_much_endgame_spoilers, rigor_mortis_cockblocks
      again
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-09 Words: 3143
****** contempt ******
by monomu
Summary
     Even as Akechi moves to point the gun at his temple, Akira doesn’t
     drop the act of listlessness. He remains still, true to his morals,
     and it’s so sickening that Akechi can’t help the way his arm swings
     up and crashes back down with a swift motion.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
He makes sure to keep everything intact. The lilt of his voice, the sweetness
in his eyes, the openness of his stance; Akechi plays up his honor roll act,
set on seeing it out through to the end. He asks for the guard to accompany him
into the interrogation room, a smile never leaving his face.
It stays there even as he shoots the man in the back.
“Honey, I’m home,” Akechi mocks. The door shuts behind him, clicking into place
as he steps closer to the steel table, closer to Akira, closer to retribution.
The fear in the boy’s eyes is enough to send him into a fit of laughter, though
void it may sound. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asks through a wide grin,
eyes dazed. “I came all this way for you, after all.”
Akira, so beaten and bruised, says nothing—doesnothing. He only peers down at
the guard who now lays dead, following him with his eyes. He’s so painstakingly
barren and unresponsive, and it makes Akechi’s stomach cave in on itself.
“I wish I could see the surprise on your face,” he drones on, eye twitching.
“But for an idiot, you certainly are perceptive.” Akechi steps over the corpse,
shoes clacking in the silence of the room. “It almost ruins the fun.”
Still no response. No sign of understanding, no hints of aggravation, no
lingering traces of betrayal. Kurusu Akira is unfazed and he stares up into
Akechi’s eyes, gaze dead and detached as they lock sights. His hands, uncuffed
from his previous interrogation, make no move to defend himself. They rest on
the cold of the table, exhausted.
“At least say something!” He shouts with a force that is foreign to him, his
free hand slamming down mere centimeters away from battered hands. He takes
pride in the way Akira clenches his jaw. “Aren’t you angry? Don’t you hate me?
Won’t you give me anything to work with?” The silence is suffocating. “I put on
quite the show for you, y’know. It’s only fair that you do the same for me.”
Even as Akechi moves to point the gun at his temple, Akira doesn’t drop the act
of listlessness. He remains still, true to his morals, and it’s so sickening
that Akechi can’t help the way his arm swings up and crashes back down with a
swift motion. Akira’s head whips to the side, jaw reddening as Akechi clutches
the gun even harder in his hand, holding it close. He can see the boy roll
something around in his mouth.
“What do you have?” Akechi grimaces. “Spit it out.” Akira makes no moves to do
so. “I said spit it out.” His chest heaves as he watches the trickster look his
way once more, his eyes gloss over as he sees him purse his lips, and his mouth
forms a snarl as the boy spits blood onto his shoe.
A scoff. “You’re just so charming,” Akechi grits through his teeth. Taking a
step forward, he leans back and presses his weight onto the table, jumping up
to sit on its surface. “Now, we’re going to stop playing your childish games,
yeah?” He brings his foot up, moving his bloodied shoe to press against Akira’s
chest.
“Throwing a tantrum already?” Akira points out with a smug grin. His pupils are
like an abyss, sucking up what measly light is present in the room. He doesn’t
move, save for the way he places his hands in his lap.
Akechi only raises his foot, moving the tip to rest at the edge of Akira’s
mouth. “I think it’d be best if you cleaned up your mess,” he quips, voice
level. “A clean home is a happy environment, after all.” At the sight of Akira
pointedly looking away, Akechi kicks his foot into his jaw. It’s not enough to
draw blood, but it’s enough to spark pain in the sore spot. “The next time I
have to repeat an order is when a bullet is going to make permanent residence
in your head. Now: open your mouth and clean up this mess, Kurusu.”
Begrudgingly, Akira does as he’s told. Akechi looks on with fascinated eyes,
gaze hungry and wanting like he’s watching a porno for the first time. His
tongue is long, slowly lapping up the blood that stains Akechi’s footwear. His
eyes are lidded, borderline closed, but he has to see where the damage is in
order to fix anything. His breath mingles in the air, huffs coming out in
spurts and lips trembling with every exhale. He looks absolutely divine. Blood
stains the edges of his mouth, lingers on his muzzle and leaks down his chin.
Akechi can see the way his nose curls up, stimulated by the smell of iron.
“I don’t think that was too hard,” Akechi comments. “Now tell me, did you
swallow it?” Akira blanches, throat bobbing as he hurries to fulfill his next
command. He threatens to gasp aloud from the mere idea of doing such a thing,
but the thought of blood spilling past his lips backs him into a corner,
sealing his mouth shut. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Akechi chuckles, low and
breathy as he slides off the table, face edging closer to Akira’s. “It’s a
simple yes or no.” Seconds tick by before Akira shakes his head, gaze averting.
“Perfect.”
Akechi presses the barrel of the gun against Akira’s stomach, making his
position known before grabbing onto the teen’s shitty, tousled excuse of a
hairstyle with a gloved hand. He persuades his neck to lift up, chins bumping
as Akechi arranges himself. He prods at Akira with an open mouth, tongue
snaking through his lips to catch a taste of crimson. They glide together for a
quick moment, Akechi sighing into the intimacy of it all. He grows a bit
lightheaded at the act, gun losing its pressure against Akira’s torso. Blood is
pushed into his mouth, overwhelming his tastebuds as he struggles to keep up
with the flow.
Two hands pull at his jacket, holding him close and keeping him steady, the
threat of homicide doing nothing to dissuade Akira from finding purchase.
Akechi keeps his eyes open, watches as Akira begins pressing into their sloppy
embrace, watches as the teen’s breath hitches in his throat. He can feel
himself grow closer and closer to Akira, chests flush against one another as
Akechi ambles into his lap. The gun rests forgotten, barely a presence at the
juvenile’s side.
“Someone’s eager,” Akechi pants, breathless as he breaks away. A smile tugs at
his eyes, lips curling as he grinds down strongly. There’s an ache in his
chest, a feeling of emptiness that consumes him and backs him into a corner. He
feels like a mess, certain he looks like one as well. Pupils dilated and face
smeared with blood, Akechi has never felt more connected to another human
being.
A sharp intake of breath can be heard, along with the image of Akira holding
his breath before releasing shakily. He dares to press his hands against
Akechi’s clothed stomach, palms travelling upward as he grows braver. He
receives no backlash, but instead small encouragement in the form of slow nods.
Akechi allows himself to grow used to his touch for a few more moments,
drinking up the contact with a lustful shiver.
After a while, he rises, legs quivering as he takes a few steps away from
Akira. He draws his gun once more, pointing it lazily for the sake of being
able to say that he is the one in control. Nobody else.
“I’d like to try a little something,” Akechi states. “Would you mind?” There’s
a rumble to his voice and as he gestures for Akira to kneel down next to him,
there’s no hesitance in the leader’s eyes. He slides off his seat and walks on
his knees, opposite of Akechi from where he sits next to the dead guard. Blood
pools around the two, staining their trousers, and the warmth feels foreign.
Motioning to help him flip the man on his back, Akira does so with a nod. He’s
much stronger than Akechi, even while swayed by the final traces of whatever
drug they pumped through his system. Akira turns the man over with ease,
needing little assistance, and he sits back on his knees while he waits for the
events to come.
Moving south, Akechi begins his ministrations of working on the belt buckle of
the guard. There’s traces of red all along the front of his shirt and partway
onto his slacks. He sets the gun down next to himself, but it’s too far away
from Akira to grab without being blocked. Akechi supposes Akira could pull it
off if he were feeling brave enough, but one look at the stupefied boy gives
him all the confirmation he needs.
“Unfortunately,” Akechi sighs, “It’s a myth that one can get erect once rigor
mortis has set in. Though, he can become stiff and stay flaccid, but it’s still
far too early for any changes to occur.” He lowers the man’s pants and boxers
slowly, not bothering to bring them down lower than mid thigh. “But we’ll just
make do with what we have, won’t we? I’m known to be veryresourceful.” Akira
nods. “Come here.” He waves him over with a simple gesture, bringing him close.
He makes sure to hold the gun in his hand with a strong grip.
Akechi’s breath is warm and the words he whisper sound deafening as they ghost
along Akira’s neck. “You’re going to suck him off,” Akechi purrs. “And you’re
going to be patient while I watch.” Akira nods dumbly and it spurs the
detective on even more, filling him with a false sort of confidence that passes
off well enough to be real.
Slowly, Akechi climbs over to the man’s head, careful to turn the safety on the
gun, and he stares down scornfully at his bland features. He almost feels bad
for killing the man as collateral damage. Almost. Palming himself, Akechi
spares a glance up to witness Akira start to lick a stripe up the man’s length,
obviously inexperienced and unsure of what to do. His eyes dart up to look at
Akechi, but he quickly goes back to focusing on his own task. He’s hesitant,
but shows no sign of stopping.
Nodding to himself, Akechi undoes his own belt, zipping his pants down and
exposing himself to the chill of the interrogation room. He sits up on feeble
legs and positions himself atop the man’s face, opening his mouth to peer
inside. Saliva has already begun to gather in his mouth, something Akechi is
thankful for, and he all but shoves his cock into the guard’s mouth, rocking
into him carefully. Teeth scrape along the length of his shaft, there’s no
tongue to provide suction, and his lips are slack, yet Akechi still finds
himself unbelievably turned on. He fucks into the guard’s mouth, careful not to
go too deep in fear of a working gag reflex. At another time, he supposes he
wouldn’t mind, but he’s got a different motivator today.
Across the lane, Akira grows more confident, mouth bobbing up and down to take
in as much as he can. Tears emerge at the edge of his eyes, threatening to roll
down as he breathes heavily through his nose. From what Akechi can see, Akira’s
legs are squeezed together, feet kicking out every few seconds. He slides off
of the guard’s length with a keen, eyes shut as he pumps the man’s cock with
one hand.
There’s a swelling in Akechi’s chest as he watches, a sort of weight that bears
down on him and leaves him craving for more, more, more. He can feel himself
edge closer to finishing, so he pulls out of the guard’s mouth, hips stuttering
as he pauses his activity. He leans over and crawls toward Akira, guiding his
face away from the guard and toward his own, their lips meeting in an
uneventful mash of incoordination.
“You’re—” ah“Quite proficient, hm?” Akechi breaks away to suck on Akira’s
clavicle, fingers stretching his clothes down so he can get access. After no
sufficient results, he decides to tear his clothing altogether, ripping the
fabric with a moderate struggle.
“We should move,” Akira gasps out, head lolling back at the feel of a tongue
prodding at his skin. Akechi only ponders the idea for a second, realizing that
yes, crouching in front of one another was bound to put an uncomfortable strain
on the two. He gives a nod and yanks the boy down, desperate to keep the
contact.
Shaking his head, Akira flips the two over, allowing Akechi to straddle his
hips as he lays back.
“You’re too kind,” the detective says with an eye roll. He returns to kissing
at Akira’s chest, moving up so he can suck and bite his neck, marring his skin
with bruises to add to his total. He can feel Akira work his way down to grip
his cock, warm hand stroking slowly to work him up. His other hand makes itself
cozy on his scalp, fingers running through the softness of his hair. As Akechi
ruts into Akira’s fist, voice choked while he pants with every stroke, it’s
only then that he realizes the gun is finally within reach of Akira. It rests
no more than two feet away, yet neither have made a move to retrieve it. Akechi
laughs.
“I want you to fuck me,” he breathes out. Akira can only nod once more, hips
lifting as Akechi pulls his pants and briefs down and tosses them away. He
stays there, mute, waiting for Akechi to remove his own clothes. It’s cold in
there, still and drab, but they can’t be bothered by the chill with the way
their breaths intermingle, warming up their already flushed skin.
“Are you going to be okay?” Akira asks, throat closing off as Akechi lowers
himself.
“Y-you think I came here just to kill you?” Akechi asks through gritted teeth.
“I had time to kill while Sae-san was interrogating you.” He grimaces as he
feels Akira’s length press into him, slowing his movements so as not to rush
too much. He’d prepared himself before heading over to kill the boy, but that’d
been some time ago. “Haha, do you want to know something?”
Staring up into unfocused eyes, Akira nods.
“I thought I loved you, once,” Akechi admits. “I thought we were meant to be.
How stupid.” He sinks lower, ignoring the stinging that comes with it, and
begins to rock back and forth on Akira’s cock.
“I did, too,” Akira reveals. “Before you betrayed us.” He steadies Akechi with
his hands, gripping onto his sides to keep him close.
“What a foolish idea. I was leading you on the whole time. There was no
before,” Akechi scoffs. “Not my fault that you and your band of idiots were too
blind to notice anything.” He tries to sit up a bit more so he can lower
himself down with a flourish, but he’s interrupted by Akira’s words. It was
interesting, at first, to hear him respond. Now, it’s only clouding his
thoughts.
“We wanted to help you,” he laments. “We still do. If only you’ll let us.” His
face has grown softer, eyes significantly more tired, and Akechi wants to punch
that demeaning expression off of his face.
“I don’t need your pity,” Akechi spits out. He leans down, rolling his hips
with ease, and plants his lips next to Akira’s ear. “Unlike yourself, I’m fully
capable of getting what I want.”
“We can make things right,” Akira persists.
At that, Akechi stops himself and sits up, back straight as he stares down
coldly. “Do you feel sorry for me? Is that what this is? You’re looking down on
me?” His voice rises in pitch, throat straining as he crumbles. “Is that why
we’re like this, now? Why I’m riding you and why you haven’t picked up my
fucking gun!?” His breaths come out labored, shallow and fast paced, and he
can’t focus on the face in front of him, on the body next to him, on the ground
below him.
“It’s because you don’t deserve this,” Akira explains. “I still care about you.
And if fucking on the floor of this goddamn interrogation room is the way to
show you my feelings—my guilt—then so be it. You’ve been dealt a shitty hand,
Akechi.”
Without warning, Akechi grips the sides of Akira’s head, fingers tangled in
dark hair and lungs screaming as he bangs his head into the concrete floor. He
only needs to do it once to feel satisfied—to feel content—with the sound of
his skull thudding against the ground. The look of shock on Akira’s face drives
him closer to the edge, gives him the push he needs to separate himself with
gritted teeth and reach for the gun.
“I’m doing what I need to do! I’m making a name for myself! You don’t give your
cards back to the dealer, and you most definitely don’t get help from the other
players. You fucking play your cardsand you win or you lose.” He presses the
gun to his temple, clicking off the safety before he rests a quivering finger
above the trigger. “And it would seem that you’ve lost, Kurusu Akira.”
Akechi pulls the trigger with a snarl, eyes wide as blood and brain matter
shoot out from both the front and back of Akira’s head. More blood stains the
floor, creeping ever so slowly toward nothingness. The thick liquid warms his
bare legs as Akechi continues to straddle Akira, tears slipping out in
frustration.
Nobody respected him. Nobody thought he was fine on his own. They all looked
down on him. They all see him for the bastard child he is—see him for the
worthless, helpless brat that he is.
Ignoring his insecurities, Akechi mounts Akira once more, fucking himself on
his cock with harsh bounces and exaggerated moans. He drowns out his heartbeat.
He mutes the sound of his hiccups. He focuses on the feeling of fullness,
drawing out cry after cry as he reaches the release he had originally planned
for. Even as he cums, viscous stripes painting Akira’s chest, he continues to
ride the boy. His legs hurt, his ass feels raw, and the gun in his hand
relieves itself of five more bullets, landing square in Akira’s chest.
Gingerly removing himself once more, Akechi stands on wobbly legs, walking much
like a newborn fawn. His hair is matted with blood, his legs are crusting over
with red, and his eyes are blinded as he screws them shut.
“I already lost a long time ago,” Akechi shudders.
End Notes
     [akechi voice] if you give your cards back youre a pussy
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