Archive of Our Own

Hiding his sub-vocalizations comes to him more naturally than one would think. It’s not unlike learning a language - tones, pitches, a whole slew of vocabulary. Singers can raise their soft palettes, men can use falsetto, nearly everyone can whistle; it just takes training and time.

Time is something that Akechi has had plenty of up until this point and training isn’t too difficult when you never really grew out of the chirps and trills of childhood calls. Pathetic little self-soothing noises hummed to oneself in an empty apartment.

I'm alone. I'm sad. Is anyone there?

Later used as a shield against bullying, playing up innocence and desperately begging for affection of any kind. Not that it ever rewarded him with any.

I’m alone, I’m small. Don’t hurt me.

An Alpha who can sub-vocalize as an Omega isn’t completely unheard of, plenty of medical studies have been done which show it as an uncommon, but not impossible situation, most common in neglected children regardless of typing. “Juvenile Vocal Regression Syndrome” is the official name.

For most it tapers out into a complete lack of vocalizations with late puberty and on into adulthood. The inner voice just gives up so to speak; the abandoned baby ceases to cry. It’s a rare situation to overcome.

Akechi is lucky though; he spends almost a year completely silent in the midst of the group foster home before a fight breaks out, bad enough that his voice finally cracks and brings forth a sharp, biting Alpha rumble.

Touch me again and I'll rip you apart.

Suddenly his subtones are back in a newfound, growling Alpha glory, but so are the sweet, needy trills of childhood, close enough to a natural Omega that it only takes a little practice to pass off as the latter.

He uses the latter often.

Watch me! I’ll do my best!

It's part of his polished Detective Prince image. He's just flirty enough to be something like a pop-idol. Earnest and sincere and everything he can throw into the pot to make himself a perfect little present for the public. Clean and shiny, very lovable, a perfect example for sons, an innocent crush for daughters. At night he lies in bed, listening to Omega ASMRs, quietly practicing their subtle blends of coquettishness and wide-eyed optimism.

Heaven forbid his Alpha subtones ever slip through. They are rough, uneven, and more aggressive than most Alphas. More honest about how angry he feels all the time and people don't need to be hearing that roll out of him. Especially not these new acquaintances of his, one growl and he's sure the leader of the Phantom Thieves would shut him out immediately from their burgeoning friendship. One miscontained growl and everyone would know his secrets.

Mementos makes a good outlet for his frustrations though.

Down amongst the depraved shadows of humanity Akechi finds it freeing to growl, snarl, rumble with his full chest, as much as he likes. It’s cathartic in a way that few things get to be for him nowadays, so he doesn’t shy away from it. He laughs with full abandon, stomps a pathetic shadow to dust, hackles raised, fully embodying his power.

Fall down, I’m stronger than you. I'm powerful, this is my territory.

It’s been a hot summer and everyone from Shido to his classmates to strangers on the streets have been on his case. Everywhere he turns there’s someone bad mouthing him for his views on the Phantom Thieves and while he knows it's necessary to Shido’s plan it doesn’t ease the sting of rejection. So now he’s sweating it out down here in the subway to relieve some stress that’s accumulated over the day. He tries not to let his mind wander back to an encounter he had at the cafe earlier, but it creeps back unbidden.

The proprietor, Sakura-san, takes his leave after Akechi needles him a little too sharply about Sae. The woman is a rather aggressive Alpha herself; no wonder she got into it with the old man. Akechi now sits in the presence of Wakaba Ishikii’s daughter and more interestingly the leader of the Phantom Thieves Akira Kurusu.

“It seems I'm unwelcome no matter where I go…” he finds himself sighing, perhaps laying it on a bit thick. I’m so alone slips out as a small whine before he can stop himself, smothering the more juvenile noises with a cough. No need to let too much vulnerability slip through, he thinks as the tips of his ears begin to burn, thankfully hidden by his hair.

The gray-eyed Kurusu observes him keenly, statue still for a moment before answering a brief and quiet, “That’s surprising.”

He leans to place Akechi’s coffee in front of him, a barely audible tone sounding in the back of his throat, “You’re welcome here.” The sound is gentle - deep and reassuring, planting a pesky warmth in Akechi’s chest that he quickly tries to snuff out to no avail. That’s a problem with this man’s vocalizations, they’re like a warm blanket fresh from a dryer, draping over him, warming him down to his bones.

Akechi finds himself quickly changing the topic to his mother. Why that topic, he can’t say, perhaps his mind is distracted by the presence of Ishikii’s daughter. It mortifies him on the inside to speak the words aloud, but he can’t seem to hold them back before finally finding an escape route by bringing up fate. Kurusu listens attentively, a low rumble encouraging him along the entire way before responding in the affirmative - fate has brought them together somehow.

Akechi grins, titters, says some pretty words and quickly makes his exit. It’s an utterly embarrassing display. So to Mementos he goes.

Don’t look down on me, he now growls at a particularly pesky Nue before lunging for it with his sword, “Do yourself a favor. Die.”

He’s taken care of some of Okumura’s requests - they’ve been ratcheting up these days, but slaughtering regular shadows is satisfying as well, perhaps more so. The monstrous shadows don’t tend to drag out a conversation for minutes before engaging in a fight. They don’t whine about secret affairs or how much money they have. No, these shadows are animalistic, not bound to human thoughts and emotions and Akechi can rip through them as he pleases.

His blood races through his ears leaving him pleasantly lightheaded and tired as he makes his way back to the surface. The roar of subway cars and howling wind is a balm compared to the Shibuya streets above, but Akechi keeps an open ear for the rattling of chains all the same. The last thing he needs today is a run-in with that reaper-like creature, a conglomeration of death manifested by mass cognition so strong it roams the subway freely.

Akechi crests another set of stairs, nearing the upper floors, when he hears something faintly.

Poor me, poor me. I’m all alone.

He instantly freezes. Shadows don't subvocalize, they have no need to, being manifestations of desires and thoughts incarnate, but the sound is clearly a call and not words. The thought doesn’t connect at first and then it hits him, there's an Omega somewhere on this floor and they're human. People don’t go stumbling randomly into this world, in all likelihood there's a phantom thief here.

Loki’s armor lets him hide in shadows, silently, as he tracks the source of the voice. There are no other response calls to the pitiful cries this Omega makes. They must be alone then.

The cries are a little rusty from disuse, sad noises that speak of loneliness, wanting comfort, wanting attention. One of them got lost, separated from the others then. Akechi pauses around the corner, as the next set of calls turn suggestive.

Touch me? Won’t someone touch me? Take me?

It’s a mating vocalization, meant for partners and yet this thief is standing down in the middle of Mementos crying their horny little heart out. It’s enough to make Akechi blush, adjusting his stance as a rush of goosebumps rise over his arms.

Who the hell is this? It is male in quality, but to Akechi’s knowledge there are no Omegas among the phantom thief boys. Joker demonstrated his own Alpha vocalizations earlier that day, Skull was a beta to his best knowledge, and even the artist Fox could be heard purring up an Alpha storm the last time Akechi had spied on them.

A new member perhaps? The suggestive calls continue, desperately plaintive and Akechi is struck by the thought that maybe they are waiting for someone to arrive. How shocking, he thinks, for them to come to Mementos for a little tryst. It's hardly the place for a romantic encounter, fucking in this dark subway is utterly depraved.

Still the thought intrigues him and the calls rattle around his brain scratching at an itch Akechi didn't know he had. The high whines prickle his skin and flood warmth down his body.

I'm so good, sweet lover. Where is my sweet lover?

He should probably retreat down a few floors and wait things out, though the thought of charging this lonely thief sits temptingly in front of him. They are alone after all and Akechi knows without doubt that he’s stronger, faster. Maybe he could scare them out of the metaverse entirely with a well placed strike, though the potential of them returning with the group is the more likely result of such an action.

His curiosity is aflame though, another hearty cry for attention breaking him out of his spiral. The noise is so heartfelt, so needy it makes Akechi’s heart flutter and nearly causes him to call back in response. He clamps down, holding his breath willing the subtone to cease as he finally takes the last few steps to peek around the corner to see what kind of temptor is making such a racket.

In shock he gasps and freezes once again.

Despite the lurid nature of the calls, the thief is draped somewhere between casual and comically off one of the seats of the platform, feet in the chair, back on the floor, arms stretched above him like he's conducting his stupid horny calls as an orchestra.

Nothing about the posture suggests that the thief is awaiting anyone, nor that they are doing much more than simply practicing their vocalizations for their own amusement. Akechi's brain is able to latch onto that small observation and it gives him some clarity to breathe again as he aligns the sounds with the man on the ground - the leader of the Phantom Thieves and barista to his new favorite cafe - Akira Kurusu - Joker.

–

Akira Kurusu first suspected he might be an Omega at the tender age of 12 when his school had sent home a colorful packet entitled “Discovering You! A Guide to your growing body!” to share with his parents. Bodily functions and, heaven forbid, puberty were scant discussed topics in the Kurusu home, his parents being hardly able to discuss the need to empty one’s bladder let alone the growing concerns of an adolescent boy who was discovering that he suddenly had hair in new places or the other incoming changes. Instinctively knowing the packet would be gawked at and completely ignored, Akira took it upon himself to simply read the thing alone and call it good.

It wasn’t the best, written as only a partial conversation in obvious need of an adult’s input to fill in the gaps, but it was more than Akira had known before. On the subject of Typing it spoke briefly of oncoming heats and scents, things Akira had no conception of beyond the bounds of his mother’s late afternoon soap operas. Typing issues were always ongoing on those shows, but Akira paid it little attention finding not much interesting in the way that leads were always swooning, fainting, and purchasing large amounts of pillows. Akira had two pillows on his own bed and that seemed to be excessive at times so he found little sympathy with the lead who had filled her home with them, though the new plot line where she found herself in love with the pillow delivery man did hold his attention more than his math homework.

The thing in the packet that Akira found most interesting was the section on subvocalizations. It spoke of the little thing that thrummed in his chest, in his throat like an awakening bird. Childhood calls would change, deepen perhaps, or rise to more subtle, silky tones. His ears would begin to pick up on the subtleties in inflection and nuance.

He was deeply curious about it. Akira had been a quiet sort of child for a long time, he knew his calls were vague. That this little part of him was growing and changing into something else left him up at night gently humming calls to himself, trying to see if he could determine the difference.

I luv you…I luv you-u

It was strange to hear, he suddenly sounded like a baby to his own ears when he tried to let the rumble drone on. His classmates were beginning to differentiate and he could hear it happening in real time. A greeting call amongst his friends suddenly took on a flirty lilt, another more commanding.

The soap operas were suddenly more interesting too when he could finally hear all the thoughts and drama everyone had to say in full. Secret messages passing between characters that he had scoffed as poor acting was suddenly a symphony of yearning and desire. It was like his ears had been unstoppered and all this language that lived on the periphery of his mind came to the forefront.

He wondered if he might be an Alpha, his speaking voice was actively dropping to the point that even his parents had made joking comments on it. Still, his sub-vocalizations remained high.

Discreetly listening to books on his phone tapped into a part of his brain that was ready for stimulation and it wasn't terribly surprising to him that powerful growls of the Alpha protagonists left his heart fluttering in shy delight. He'd practice quiet sounds in his room when his parents were gone and it felt nice though a bit embarrassing to chirp and trill into nothingness.

A few weeks before his 13th birthday Akira got a definite answer to the typing question. He'd been slightly feverish for a few days, chalking it up to a cold, when he went downstairs to find a note from his mother and a packet of patches.

He was experiencing his first ever heat and stinking up the house apparently, to his embarrassment. Heats weren't dangerous or even particularly distracting at his age of development, for which he was thankful.

The thing that mortified him most of all was a line from his mother that stated he had begun making calls in his sleep, Omega calls. He was to see the doctor later that afternoon to discuss his changing body.

It had seemed like the greatest drama of his life at the time, the mortification of puberty.

-

It hardly compares to the things he’s been through over the last few months.

Between the arrest, the police, and hearing - his subvocalizations had disappeared. Trauma, his lawyer had suggested to the court, though the opposing council had ignored it. Instead, without a voice, Akira found himself being labeled an “aggressive” and “violent” delinquent. They had statements of witnesses saying so and in the face of the case stacked against him, his parents had remained silent.

He’d mostly been scared.

Things moved so quickly then and it wasn’t long before he was packing his bags for Tokyo. He felt like he was going insane, everyone had been calling him an Alpha. Sojiro had implied it the night he arrived and even the school seemed to think it - maybe it was a sloppy notation on his files or maybe it had been a new addition from his trial.

It was hard to tell when the thing in his throat was so quiet and he hadn’t had a heat in so long. Disconnected from his body, from himself, and from his beliefs about both he was silent and alone.

It didn’t last as long as he was afraid it might, but the change that occurred surprised him. Reaching into his deepest self, finding his anger, finding his persona, finding his voice - he found a new sound too. It was commanding, almost Alpha-like and that shocked him. Yet, that evening as he laid in bed, reviewing the sights he’d seen in that crazy castle, he found a soft fluttering returning as well.

I’m lonely.

The man in the blue prison soon laughed at him - calling him a wildcard - embodying the power of adaptability and change and it felt like a good enough explanation for the weird expansions to his voice. Strange though it might be, Akira could hear all sounds, imitate all subvocalizations.

Now everyone, attack!

It came to him naturally, that leading, commanding voice. The reassuring rumble. It filled him with vigor and it energized his teammates.

And yet, he was unsure how to present in public. People had been treating him like an Alpha for the last few months and he was sounding like one too, quite often. Occasionally though, he’d let an Omega call slip out around his new friends and they encouraged him, reassured him. It was a relief to find companionship with them.

It did create some awkwardness with his living situation though.

Sojiro obviously thought of him as an Alpha and between that and the phantom thief business, Akira found himself disinclined to try to explain. It didn’t help one embarrassing morning, Sojiro tossed him a packet of condoms and with a serious expression explained to Akira that he’d over-heard some faint Omega calls the evening before and that Akira shouldn’t be fooling around while living under Sojiro’s roof. At least, not while the cafe was potentially open.

Akira didn’t have the heart to tell him that it had just been him, babbling absentmindedly as he did homework.

So now he’s down here in Mementos.

He keeps to the upper levels. It’s less dangerous staying on the platform. Less chance of hearing that tell-tale clinking of chains. Morgana has foregone joining him tonight, citing alternative plans, but Akira knows that he’s keeping an eye on their new recruit, Futaba. The cat is a little gentleman that way sometimes. As for Akira, he has a specific reason to be down here tonight, trilling and chirping and making a real racket. The reason has a face and a lovely voice and soft, pretty eyes that Akira could stare into all afternoon and happens to go by the name Akechi Goro.

He’d been in LeBlanc earlier that day and Akira couldn’t help being a bit smitten when the detective had turned those sad eyes on him and it had been cute when his subvocalization broke out involuntarily in the middle of conversation.

It was interesting, Akechi was normally quite controlled with his trills. Akira could hear them plain as day in the interviews he gave, an absolute golden boy in all his charms, but his rival rarely let it slip through when they were together. Likewise, Akira kept a lid on his own voice, though he was glad for his new Alpha-like rumbles. He hoped it had soothed his new friend’s worries a little.

Akechi had been so very pretty as he left in a rush, flushed at the topic of conversation - fated meetings. Akechi had to have been embarrassed bringing up his childhood so unprompted and then to switch to a rather romantic topic like fate? Akira got the feeling that such confessions were rare.

Sweet, sweet lover. Where is my sweet lover?

Akira knew that Akechi was an Omega, but that didn’t stop the fluttering feeling in his stomach whenever their gazes met for long. The man had been flirting with him for several weeks now as well with his innuendo-like text messages as well. I’m alone right now. What was Akira supposed to do? Not be charmed? Especially when the softness of the Detective Prince slipped ever so slightly, showing a glimmer of something sharp and wild below.

Akira wondered if it was on purpose. It was hard to exorcize the way it made him feel though, not at LeBlanc at least. He was already having dreams of the detective pressing him into the corner of the coffee shop, teeth on his neck, just a little meaner than he’d let just anyone see.

So here he was, feeling unusually pent up. Back on the ground, legs propped up on one of the benches as he let his somewhat dormant Omega vocalizations warm up and take off. It felt like stretching after sitting for a long time, a little uncomfortable, but incredibly satisfying the longer he worked at it. Here in Mementos he could be as loud as he wanted, sing a full symphony of calls, serenade an absent lover, practice the calls that lived still on the edges of his mind - things for heat. There was something addicting about it. They weren’t calls he usually felt so drawn to but tonight it was all he wanted, like an ember that was burning low inside him, ready to catch flame.

I’m soft. I’m ready. Won’t someone fill me?

Things he’d never let loose in public, let alone LeBlanc. No, these calls were for mates only. The kinds of calls that made Alphas go dizzy when listening to romance novels, made Akira a little dizzy to release. A little pornagraphic, definitely too intimate to let off around his friends.

Akira closes his eyes, letting his hands drop from the air where he’d been holding an invisible lover, to rest lightly on his ribs, trailing down his own sides. Trilling in a mumble.

Hold me down. Love me?

-

What do we have here then?

The growl freezes Akira’s breath in his lungs, his eyes snapping open only for a body to tackle him, casting his dagger away and crushing his arm under a sharp and heavy heel.

He cries out at the pain, trying to wrestle away but his attacker is on him instantly, immobilizing him, catching and twisting his leg so he’s shoved onto his stomach, arms flailing wildly behind his back. Akira reaches for his mask to summon a persona, any persona, but the rumble that echoes above him freezes him in place.

Surrender or perish. I won’t ask again.

It’s powerful. It makes the hairs rise on the back of his neck. This foe is truly dangerous and completely serious in his threat. Akira’s never heard anything like it and it makes his heart race like the trapped animal he is to hear it.

Good. Be still and I might not kill you.

That gets Akira’s hackles up, a low Alpha growl snarls in the back of his throat. Don’t underestimate me, it says, Release me.

This gets his attacker actually laughing aloud. A black-clawed glove plucks his mask from his face, throwing it to the tracks.

“How interesting,” the attacker continues airily, “and here I thought I’d just found a little whore crying out for attention, but you can make those noises too? You’re a surprising man, Joker.” And so, so pretty too, the rumble continues, coloring his words.

Akira sweats, turning his head slightly, only to see the figure above him is entirely garbed in black, a helmet obscuring his face. This must be the Black Mask that Kaneshiro and Madarame had made reference to. The fact that he knows Akira’s code name is chilling. He’s been watching them, stalking them then. Akira wonders for how long. Did he know that Akira had come to Mementos alone, followed him from the outside? Did he know who Akira actually was?

The man adjusts his stance, and something binds Akira’s wrists together. He’s well and truly trapped. Please, have mercy. The subvocals are acting up, betraying the hard front he tries to put forth.

“What’s a little mouse like you doing in Mementos all alone, huh? Waiting for friends?” Waiting to be torn apart?

There’s something about the Black Mask’s voice that verges on the familiar but Akira can do so little to analyze it as the man grips him by his hair with a firm hand. “Well?” he asks.

Poor me. All alone. That hurts. Be nice.

Akira could die of embarrassment as his subtones kick into high gear.

The Black Mask laughs. Poor, poor thing. He grips Akira’s hair tighter and much to his own embarrassment, Akira moans at the sensation.

Be nice to me. That feels good. Let me go. I’m sorry.

Akira cannot get a hold of his subtones as they jump from submissive to pleading, his heart racing in his throat. The Black Mask simply laughs, scraping clawed fingers down the back of his head before taking him by the scruff of his neck and pressing him into the ground.

The man steps back a foot. Pathetic. “I’m not sure if you’re incredibly brave or incomprehensibly stupid coming here alone.” Sweet, pretty little thing.

He stalks around in front of Akira, kneeling as he takes in Akira’s face.“You should know that this place is mine and you’re intruding. I’m feeling rather generous today though, so you might just walk out of this place alive.”

It’s really unfair that this guy is likely an enemy, Akira is finding the man’s combination of threatening him, degrading him, and suggestive subtones to be an absolutely devastating cocktail to his brain. He had been aware that a little danger was a turn-on but this was more than just a little and it was having major effects on him. He could feel himself twitch, a heartbeat of arousal moving through him.

“You should be glad I’m the one who found you and not a shadow. Those things will rip you to pieces, y’know.” But now you’re all mine.

The last subtone slips from the man and he seems shocked as he suddenly jerks back, a number of similar tones bubble up too quickly to hear distinctly, Akira watching all the while. He shivers at the sounds.

They’re incredibly possessive, laced with a familiarity that edges more sincere than Akira thinks the man means to give off. It’s less of a threat to his person and more like the sweet tones of a real lover.

It’s a curious combination and as he swallows, Akira is struck by a passing thought. This man knows him, if he’s followed him in palaces or Mementos, if he’s followed Akira in the real world, then maybe, just maybe, Akira knows this man as well. The little apparatus in his own chest flutters at the thought.

Be sweet to me, nice to me. Don’t you want me?

-

Akechi feels victorious. He has Joker, leader of the Phantom Thieves, Akira Kurusu laid out on the floor of Mementos. What’s more than that, he’s found the man is something like him, hiding his typing yet capable of mimicking both. It was truly right that Akechi had chosen him as a rival. Truly interesting, adaptable, a challenge for Akechi to keep up. A challenge for him to conquer, he could only smile.

So full of sweet sounds and tones as Akechi yanks at his hair. Sounds Akechi wishes he could draw out further.

“-rip you to pieces, y’know.”

He wonders what type the thief was originally when a scent hits him with a force that nearly bowls him over. Subvocals going crazy as it overwhelms him. It’s delicious, it’s beautiful. It makes his heart race. Kurusu stares up at him, lips parted in shock.

He shifts back to take it in, holding his breath. It’s unmistakable, the scent of an oncoming heat, heady and powerful and rising fast. Kurusu is absolutely an Omega.

“What is this?” he asks, real curiosity spoiling his attempts at intimidation. What the hell are you doing?

I’m sorry, please stay. Don’t be mad. I’ll be good.

A tirade of soft pitiful noises trill from Kurusu’s chest as he tries to cover for himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go.” Let me go. Let me go, please.

Akechi would laugh at the contrast of sounds, but he’s genuinely confused now, bracing himself as Kurusu’s scent flares up between them. “You’re in heat.” he accuses petulantly.

“No, I’m not.” Kurusu argues back equally petulant, twisting on the ground, sending fresh waves at Akechi. Akechi balks at the flood of scent, but his mouth waters all the same. So delicious, so perfect. For me?

He reaches back down, a little hesitantly, before flipping Kurusu to his back.

Kurusu plants his feet on the ground, bucking up against air, a snarl in his throat, arms still restrained by the belts. His storm-gray eyes appear conflicted. Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, I’m soft. I’m so soft, don’t hurt me.

“Stop denying it. I know what you smell like. What were you even thinking? Were you planning on leaving here like that? Back into the streets?” Akechi’s grip on neutrality is slowly slipping. Beautiful. Kurusu smells so good, his tones so compelling. “Could fuck you and you’d probably thank me at this point.”

Kurusu’s mouth drops open once again and he whines, high and thin. Please, please, please.

“Shut up,” Akechi barks, scrambling back another foot. “Stop making this difficult for me.”

He feels so dizzy, subtones rising so naturally from him, all desiring. Any pretense of violence is gone. Kurusu is so lovely struggling against his binds, cheeks flushed with effort, smelling so good, sounding so good, looking so good. It’s nearly too much, Akechi wants him.

He knows what he’s going to do.

-

Akira’s heart skyrockets with terror as the Black Mask steps further away, picking up Akira’s discarded dagger. Please, please, please. Don’t hurt me, hurt me. Please, please.

Akira’s not sure if he’s dreading what the man will do or desiring it.

Regardless of Akira’s pleas, the Black Mask grips Akira by the hair once again, dragging him until he’s on his knees in front of the man. He whimpers, head forced into a bow.

The dagger flashes in the gloomy light of Mementos and Akira braces himself as the man cuts the straps binding his arms.

What?

-

“I’m giving you ten seconds. Run,” Akechi growls, willing himself to be still.

Kurusu stares at him dumbly for a second.

“10”

His eyes really are so pretty behind the mask, behind his glasses. The color of heavy rainclouds before a flash of lightning strikes across them in realization. He scrambles up, looking over his shoulder once before stumbling towards the stairs, like he doesn’t trust Akechi to keep his word.

“9”

He really shouldn’t, honestly. Akechi is using so much willpower to not instantly tear into the man. Kurusu looks back again, open hunger on his face.

“8”

He darts up the stairs and out of Akechi’s eyesight.

“7 - 6”

If Kurusu’s smart, he’ll sprint as fast as he can and hopefully put enough distance between them that he can escape into the streets of Shibuya.

“5 - 4”

Or if he’s ambitious, he’ll do his best to ambush Akechi with a persona and they’ll break into a brawl.

“3 - 2”

Akechi grins to himself, feeling a sort of excitement overtake him. A kind of intensity and joy that he’s seldom felt while fighting shadows. Kurusu isn’t going to do either of those two things. Akechi knows it, deep in his gut, down to his bones. No, Joker, Akira is going to do something completely different.

“1”

Akechi takes off.

He flies up the escalator, an absolute blur of darkness. His ears attune to the sounds of footsteps somewhere ahead of him and mementos unfolds itself easily before him. This has always been the place where he’s thrived the most. Loki’s armor wraps around him, bracing his limbs, driving him to sprint faster and faster. He can hear the soft pants of his target ahead of him, slowing intentionally. It thrills him. Where are you? I’m looking.

A soft noise to his left echoes down the tunnels. Here, here. Catch me.

Such a polite request, he certainly can’t refuse that, can he?

-

Akira gasps once again as he’s knocked to the ground, the shadow of the Black Mask upon him. He struggles to right himself. He could use his gun, summon a persona, but this visceral feeling is exactly what he’s been wanting. He groans as they clash, landing a blow to the Black Mask’s gut.

In turn, the man slams Akira to the ground, shredding his coat as he goes. Akira decides he’ll worry about the garment later. He sweeps the man’s legs in return, but the Black Mask falls with more grace than Akira anticipates, landing above him, straddling Akira, blocking him in. He laughs.

“That's all you got? Come on, Joker, I expected more from you. Throw me off.” He leans close to Akira’s ear, a rumbling growl at the back of his throat. Or I’ll fuck you and mark you as my own.

Akira can’t help it, he keens. Please, please, please. “Fuck me, fuck me.” He pants, hands scrabbling at his captor.

At once, his vision is obscured, pieces of his shredded coat tied as a makeshift blindfold. Stay still. “Don’t you dare remove it,” the man hisses. That’s fine with Akira, something more exciting about feeling things out blindly. He feels more in touch with the sensations of the man’s hands on his body, sharp and cold against his heated skin.

Please, more. I’m being so good for you. Touch me, please.

Hooking a clawed finger under a button, the Black Mask slices open his vest one button at a time until the claw comes to rest just under Akira’s throat, pressure heavy against his pulse. Akira’s never felt this exposed, Mementos’ cool air raising goosebumps on his skin.

Suddenly there’s warm, wet heat against his throat and he shudders as he realizes the Black Mask has abandoned his helmet to use his mouth. “Ah -ah!” He gasps in quick little bursts as the man nuzzles against the delicate flesh of a scent gland, scraping his teeth superficially over it in a mock gesture of biting.

Awfully ready for it aren’t you.

The man growls right in Akira’s ear and Akira can’t help but buck upwards, desperately seeking pressure to relieve his growing arousal. Akira’s arms encircle the man, stroking his back, feeling the defined muscle, the strength that resides there.

Bite me, mark me, fuck me.

His trills sound pathetic to his own ears, so needy, so depraved. Hands move over him, scraping, scratching, clawing him until he bleeds as he moans. The man’s mouth too, moves over him, biting along his neck at shoulder, all around the place Akira wishes he’d sink his teeth into.

Akira wonders briefly, hysterically, if the Detective Prince has ever participated in activities like this when the Black Mask pulls back from his embrace and flips him.

-

So pathetic, needy. You just want to be fucking used don’t you?

Akechi’s had Akira beneath him so many times today in ways he never thought possible. Scratch that - he’s certainly thought of things like this before, destroying the man, reducing him to a pathetic mess beneath him, hearing him whimper in surrender - but never quite like this. Not so willingly, not so beautifully. He has to laugh.

Akira - he’s going to fuck him so why not call him by his name - is shaking below him. Blindfolded, grinding against the dirty tracks of Mementos for some stimulation. Please, his subvocals whine. Touch me more.

Akechi abandons his gauntlets, tossing them carelessly away, to feel the heat and texture of Akira’s back. He loves the way the muscles jump below his fingers, the way his own blunt nails still elicit greedy moans as he scrapes. He swallows, leaning back, trying to control himself.

“Take those off.” he says, tugging once at Akira’s pants, voice thick with arousal. His voice is less distorted without the mask on and a stray thought crosses his mind that Akira might actually be able to piece out who he is from it. It seems near impossible with the state of mind the Omega is in, eagerly scrambling to undo his belt and pull them off. He gets a surge of heady power, with one quick movement his rival, his enemy could learn so much, discover his identity, uncover so many of his secrets and yet Akira puts aside that opportunity to be blinded by him, fucked into the ground by him.

He should reward such good behavior.

Reaching under Akira’s chest, he yanks him upwards into a kneeling position, right hand resting at the base of the man’s throat. Akira’s breath hitches as his pants fall away and he presses his face into Akechi’s neck, whimpering softly. From this position, Akechi can finally see the state of Akira’s arousal, dick erect and curving back towards his stomach.

“Oh.”

Akechi has seen a few dicks in his life, mostly in art or passing by in a bathhouse, but he’s never been this close to one other than his own. It’s cute, if he had to call it anything, flushed and twitching and about the size of his own. A bead of fluid is gathered at the tip and when Akechi draws his thumb over it, Akira shakes in his arms.

Please, please, please, the Omega whimpers. Akechi’s ear is so close to the place where all those sounds originate and feeling them vibrate against his skin and into his ear is maddening. He takes Akira in hand, stroking slowly. Akira makes a noise like a wounded animal, grasping Akechi’s wrists for support. So desperate aren’t you?

“How many people have had their way with you like this, huh, Joker?” He hisses into the shell of Akira’s ear, voice husky, trying not to let too much jealousy slip through. Akechi wouldn’t be surprised at all if others thought so as well, wanted him like this.And you’ve been a good little whore to them too, haven’t you?

It burns like fire to play like this, Akira full in his hand, wrapped up in his arms, knowing how beloved he is by all of his little friends. He wonders who was the first to have him, taste him.

No one, none. So good. I’m good. Good for you.

The subvocals chirp sweetly as Akira’s own wrecked voice chokes out a pathetic whine. Sweet lover, my lover. I’m good.

Fuck. Little lights burst behind Akechi’s eyes at that and he grinds his own erection into the man in front of him. So perfect. He mouths at Akira’s neck, nuzzles the scent glands, and strokes him even harder. All mine, no one else, just for me.

-

Akira feels close to coming, as the Black Mask wrings him for all he’s worth. His subtones whine and trill, exposing him for the virgin that he is. Akira should be protesting this treatment. He should’ve run as fast and far as he could, but he wants it. Wants the Alpha who has a hold of him, growling like a jealous lover.

The man’s hand leaves the base of his throat, thumb pushing at Akira’s lips and he parts them easily. There’s a slightly metallic tang - perhaps a bit of blood - and sweat to it as it invades his mouth, pressing against his tongue and Akira laps at it eagerly. You take it so well, made for it.

“Joker, I bet you’d be happy to have something in your mouth, always,” the Black Mask whispers with a groan, “So good.”

Akira licks greedily, drool pooling and dripping from him as the Alpha forces his mouth to remain open, petting his tongue as he cradles his jaw. Akira whimpers.

Just as quick as it came, the hand drops from his face back to his chest. The Alpha uses the wetted thumb to draw circles around one of Akira’s nipples, before using his nail to flick against it, sending little electric shocks down Akira’s spine. “More, that’s - ah, please,” he manages to get out. He never knew he was this sensitive there but the attention paid to the bud turns it hot and swollen. The Black Mask flicks in time with his strokes and Akira can hardly stand it, bucking forward to match him, desperate for more. Need more, need you inside, need you inside me.

“Please - I want,” he cries out, “to come, I want to come. I need -”

Akira doesn’t even know the man’s face, know the man’s name, as he begs to be fucked. He can imagine though and that’s probably the most dangerous thing of all. This man is going to fuck him into the floor and all Akira can think of are pretty red eyes and soft caramel locks. It’s so easy being blindfolded to imagine that he’s begging Akechi to fuck him, mark him. God, the Black Mask said he’s going to mark him, claim him and Akira wants it. Is he actually going to go through with it? Would he really lay a claim on a nobody Omega? On an enemy?

Before he can get the chance to ask, to beg for mercy, the Alpha shoves him back onto his hands.

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

Akira’s throat trills. Fuck me, fill me. His heart beats in his ears, straining to hear anything else, the rustle of clothing and their combined panting. The Black Mask lays a hand on Akira, pulling the flesh away to inspect him. Cool air hits the slick that’s been gathering at Akira’s opening. He shivers.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” For me, mine.

The Black Mask sounds wrecked and so familiar that Akira knows, blindfolded and beaten, who is about to fuck him. Maybe it’s a falsehood created by his addled brain, but it fills him with pleasure, his subtones letting out a long pleased rumble.

-

Akechi stares at the tantalizing wetness, absolutely captivated by it. Akira shudders below him as he brushes a hesitant finger along the delicate skin. This is it, isn’t it? The moment he’s been waiting for, craving. Joker completely at his mercy, completely ready for him.

He’d wanted this the moment they locked eyes at the television studio. Wanted this the moment Akira had leaned over to try his hand at billiards. Wanted this in the dark of the jazz club, in the cafe today.

Unable to resist the temptation, he sinks a finger in, pressing not unkindly, but with purpose, testing him.

“Ah - oh god.” Stretch me, fuck me, fuck me.

It’s delightful. Akira yields to him easily, quickly and Akechi completely forgets to speak, to disparage him, cut him down. He can’t say anything cruel for a moment because it’s perfect, Akira’s perfect and he’s getting to touch him like this.

It isn’t until he adds another finger, stretching Akira, driving deeper into him that Akechi realizes that while his words have been silent, his subvocals have been chattering away the entire time. Good slut, perfect slut. Going to fill you up. Going to keep you. All mine.

He wonders faintly if he should be embarrassed by such noise, reaching down to palm at his own aching cock as he drives deeper into Akira with his fingers. Akira whines, back arching like a cat, before going completely silent in a shock of overstimulation. Akechi brushes his fingers to the spot again, harder this time and Akira nearly collapses forward as his dick twitches, coming untouched. He sobs once loudly before dropping his head forward in a long, low groan.

Fuck, that’s…

Akechi pulls his fingers out quick enough to make Akira yelp, pulls away at his own stupid pants. Palming his bare cock once, the stimulation aches, he lines himself up with Akira, pressing the cockhead just against his entrance.

“Ready.” It’s not a question or a request, just a warning.

“Wait, I just came, I’m not - aah!”

Akechi presses in, taking Akira by the hips and sheathing himself completely inside. Akira howls with a mixture of yes, yes, yes and hurts, slow, good. Akechi rumbles back soothing noises in return, running a hand along the Omega’s back.

“You’re in heat, you’ll be fine in a moment.” Akira pants below him, twitching against his dick. The heat of it all is amazing, better than any hand, any toy Akechi might’ve tried. He’s so smooth on the inside, almost silky and it clings to him even as he begins to move slowly.

He really wants to last, to make Akira come again, not entirely sure why. He could just press Akira down to the floor, make him scream and bleed while he comes inside of him, and while that does hold a certain appeal, there’s something like a sense of pride in fucking him like this. Like a lover, like he wants him to really enjoy this experience.

It’s going to be difficult, the heat, the sweetness, the sounds are all doing their best to overwhelm him. They fall into a rhythm. He knows it won’t last much longer, either of them. Akira has already filled out once again, reaching a hand under himself to help things along.

Don’t stop, please don’t stop.

Why can’t Akechi have him like this always? He could if he tried, just drag him into an alley the next time they meet and fuck him senseless, just like this. It’s a ridiculous thought. This is only happening by chance, with blindfolds and little games of chase to make things acceptable. The Akira he knows in the everyday is an “Alpha” and he is an “Omega” and surely getting into a heated situation would end that little charade quicker than anything.

He could mark him. Actually mark him for real. Akira’s spent the last half hour begging for it, and in the throes of this intoxicating heat, who could blame Akechi for actually going for it. But what would it even mean? It’s not like Akira’s going to live long enough for it to matter and…maybe that makes it even more appealing. His, Akechi’s, for the rest of his short little life.

If it ever got back to him, how would he explain? What good would it do even to mark him if he can’t have him ever again.

-

Akira knows that his partner is going to come soon, he can feel it in the way the man grips his hips, drives into him with a greater intensity. There’s something there like hesitance though, Akira can hear it in the way the man’s subtones go quiet. He’s holding something back. Akira’s not sure what, but it irritates him. This man attacked him, chased him down, is fucking him. He doesn’t get to hold back now, to shy away from what he’s doing.

And if this man is who Akira thinks he might be, hopes he might be, there’s only one option for him to force his hand.

“Come on, Alpha,” he chokes out. Come for me.

The man stutters for a second before adjusting his grip with a snarl. “What was that?” Telling me what to do? Who do you think you are? He fucks more forcefully, leaning over Akira, pressing him forward onto his arms.

“You forget your place, Joker. You’re nothing more than a useful whore - don’t try that Alpha bullshit on me.” Whatever hesitation the man had been feeling, ruminating on is gone. Submit.

Akira’s not done yet though. Make me. He twists forcefully, breaking the contact, throwing them to the side. The Black Mask releases his hips to steady himself as he tumbles and Akira, still working blind, reaches, pushing until he’s now the one straddling.

“What are yo-”

Akira lines himself up as best as he can and in a stroke of pure luck, sinks back down on the Black Mask’s dick. He sees stars behind his blindfold as the change of position hits deeper and more intensely. He struggles to breathe, forcing his soft trills into silence and doing his best to lean forward. Good Boy, he rumbles, smug as can be.

The man below him snarls again in protest, but grips his hips in a thrust that has him folding in half. “Fuck you, I’ll show you ‘good boy’.”

-

The phantom thief loses his balance quickly, collapsing onto Akechi’s chest as Akechi does his best to make Akira regret his insubordinate behavior. The position and his aggression must do it because Akira quiets once again to a tightly coiled mess. His chest rests against Akechi’s and Akechi watches as his mouth forms silent words, lips flushed red.

All mine, he growls.

He slips one hand around Akira’s dick to push him over the edge, burying himself deeply inside.

“Ah - Ak-” Akira begins to groan when Akechi silences him with a kiss, their first, perhaps their only. Lips soft and sweet as Akechi fucks Akira through his final orgasm.

Akira trills once, low and sweet. I’m yours.

And with that Akechi comes as well, filling Akira up, feeling the way he collapses into Akechi’s embrace. So perfect. It’s bliss, better than killing shadows or feeling every eye in a room adore him. It’s better than anything Akechi has known and, for a second as the two of them lay on the dirty floor of Mementos, Akechi wonders if he could throw everything away to keep this feeling from fleeing.

Akira is soft and pliant above him, almost purring, conspicuously displaying his neck. Akechi could mark him, his teeth feel sharp in his mouth and Akira would accept it. Akechi’s been threatening it, promising it since this began. Akira could actually be his for a little while longer.

There are realizations that are beginning to form in his mind as he trails his lips down the man’s neck. The depth of his feelings, the horrifying depth. How easily he forgets himself, his plans. He nuzzles the scent gland hearing Akira sigh contentedly. Kisses the spot that would bind Akira to himself. His heart thrums in his ear, Akira’s soft rumbles encouraging him.

He holds still just to enjoy the sound.

He hears another sound distantly.

Chains.

-

The Black Mask freezes below him. Quiet, stay quiet. Akira stills the questions in his throat, icy dread washing over him as he too hears the sound of distant chains. The two of them fly apart in a scramble to get up, Akira on shaky legs trying to stand.

There’s the sound of rustling fabric and a hand grabs his to steady him. He pulls the blindfold off. The Black Mask stands crouched near him, tongues of blue flame licking the tips of his shoulders, hands, mask firmly in place as his outfit repairs itself. Akira tries not to feel too disappointed at not seeing his face.

The man shuffles them to the closest wall, pressing against it in hiding. “We’ll have to make a run for it,” he whispers.

“What about my clothes?” Akira returns, gesturing to the fragments shredded on the ground. He’s not even going to mention the cum dripping down his leg. The man glances back at him in a double-take before focusing forward.

“Picture them in your mind’s eye. Like you’re calling your persona,” he hisses back. Stay close.

Akira does so, the buttons and piping of his vest, the deep pockets of his pants, the soft sleeves of his coat that he tugs when nervous. It settles like a morning mist over his shoulders. Closing his eyes he reaches a hand into a pocket, finding each of his supplies still in place. That’s encouraging. When he opens his eyes, the Black Mask is looking at him.

“If you value your life, you won’t dawdle.” Follow me.

With that he streaks off, silent as can be. If this is how he normally moves through Mementos, it’s no wonder that Akira’s crew hasn’t ever caught sight of him. Akira darts after him, ignoring the ache of his own body, the sounds of chains drawing closer to where they had previously stood.

Ahead of him, the Alpha occasionally looks back, checking to make sure that Akira’s still following and Akira gets the impression that he’s impressed that Akira’s able to follow so closely. He does his best.

The Black Mask charges ahead, starting down one hallway before taking a hard right, not quite skidding, but losing ground as he makes a quick move away from whatever is down there. Akira hears the firing of a gunshot ricocheting somewhere back in the tunnels and whatever thoughts he has about the man ahead of him fade as he focuses on not dying.

Thankfully it isn't terribly long until they reach the next platform. Akira drops onto one of the benches, panting heavily. Sprinting away from death after getting plowed into the ground, as it turns out, is a really painful sequence of events for his body to handle. He groans, if he didn’t feel like collapsing earlier, he really feels it now. The Black Mask hovers near him, only slightly more composed. Doesn’t he get overheated in an outfit like that? Akira removes his mask to wipe the sweat off his brow.

“Not bad,” the Black Mask wheezes, the deep, muted quality to his voice is back. Suddenly he straightens, looking down at Akira.

Whatever warm softness that had been growing between them moments ago is gone. Akira knew the man had been wanting to mark him, he could feel it in the way he breathed, in the way he held him, kissed his neck. Akira flushes under the scrutiny he now receives. The Black Mask scoffs.

“We’re lucky to not be dead.” He turns slightly away before looking back. “You especially.”

Akira wonders about this sudden wall that’s up between them, even the man’s subtones are suspiciously quiet. The Black Mask speaks again.

“That was fun,” he says with a casual kind of disdain, “However, if I ever catch you down here again, you won’t be walking away so in-tact.” Torn apart, gutted.

Akira wants to laugh in disbelief, but he holds himself back. Hold me his subtones chirp softly and it makes the Black Mask flinch with real effort not to act. Akira raises a skeptical brow in response. So much for talking a big game.

Akira is the type to push his luck, but he does know when a situation is at a stalemate, when to strategically retreat. It’s one of the things that makes him a good leader. He rises from the bench, ignoring the way his body screams at him, the slightly sticky feeling coating his thighs. He’ll need to swing by Takemi’s on the way home for some just-in-case medicine. He wonders faintly if she’ll lecture him.

Clearing his throat he asks, “Am I still obvious?”

The Black Mask regards him carefully. “That you’ve been fucked? Absolutely.”

Akira wonders if his eyes are lingering over the blooming bruises on his neck, how it shows on his face.

“If you’re asking about being in heat…no. It’s faded somewhat.” Covered up, my scent.

Yours.

Akira coughs lightly over that subtone. Well, at least he shouldn’t have any trouble getting home. He meets the Black Mask’s eye. There are a dozen questions he wants to ask him and more than one circles back into ‘can I kiss you again’, but Akira knows that the time for that has passed. He has plans though and questions he can volley at a certain detective.

“Leave, Joker. Before my patience runs out.”

He relents, restoring his mask and turning to the stairs. He’ll sprint this time, aches be damned. He looks one final time at the Black Mask before making his way back up to the streets of Shibuya.

-

Akechi stays where he is for the longest time. The sounds of footsteps fade and even then he makes no move to leave. The idea of running into Akira top-side after all of this is mortifying.

He curses himself, almost throwing away all of his plans just to fuck his rival a little more? Just because his hormones and body wanted that connection, it’s just ridiculous. It had been amazing though. He was going to remember how soft Akira was below him for the rest of his life. How sweet he had tasted. No one else was ever going to have Akira’s first but him and that made the ravenous, jealous beast inside him content.

He should honestly be pleased with this situation. Akira knew the Detective Prince to be an Omega and this villain of the metaverse was an Alpha. Perhaps it would help him in the coming months when he’d eventually join their team. Keep suspicion off him. Perhaps Akira wouldn’t warn the others, too ashamed of his own behavior to discuss how he escaped an encounter with such a person.

Plus it would open up some interesting opportunities to tease the man, press the man to make Omega calls.

Satisfied that enough time had passed that being spotted was no longer a threat, Akechi too made his way out into the now cooling streets of Shibuya.