[fic] the only way out is to give in

[rhodochrosite]

the only way out is to give in
fandom: detective conan

ship: akai/amuro (okiya/amuro)

rating: e

word count: 4.6k
additional tags: porn without plot, porn with feelings (unclear which ones), unnegotiated d/s undertones, light masochism, attempted hatesex, overstimulation, mildly dubious consent, literal identity porn, canon-typical death threats, ambiguous relationships

a/n: tonight's virgo season special program is sponsored by beloved mich to whom this is dedicated (thank you for cheerleading me thru my death throes <3) and also by chase atlantic (thank you ellen's feminism card declined playlist)

set after the scarlet truth but before the unsolved cocktail case. it's mainly okiya/amuro but all of their identities come up... such is the nature of akam. icb this is the longest pwp i've ever written in my life. 🥲

--

The tea set Okiya brings out from the kitchen is the same one he used the last time Amuro was in this house, porcelain cups and glossy lacquered tray. Like a gracious host, Okiya pours Amuro’s cup before pouring his own. Steam billows from the surface of the tea, clean vegetal scent, briefly obscuring the line of Okiya’s fingers on the handle of the pot, then clearing again.

“You have an interesting pattern of calluses on your hands for an ordinary graduate student, Okiya-san,” Amuro comments.

“Engineering requires quite a lot of manual work,” Okiya says. “Please drink while the tea is hot, Amuro-san.”

If Okiya were a real civilian, Amuro would be concerned about this apparent habit of allowing strange men loitering across the road into his house in the middle of the night. Amuro had been driving back from a meeting with Vermouth and figured he might as well spend a bit of time staking out the Kudo mansion before heading home, in case Vermouth called him back out for something else. He’d just settled in for a watchful hour or so when Okiya knocked on his car window, expressed worry about the prospect of Amuro catching a cold, and invited him in for tea. Normally Amuro would have declined, but matching Vermouth’s sweetly poisonous languor as Bourbon earlier had left him restless, antagonistic in no particular direction; it was close to a relief to have an excuse to focus it on its most familiar target again. So here they are, once again moving through the farce of pretending to be people they both know they aren’t.

“Do you do a lot of repetitive pulling motions with your left forefinger in your particular field of specialisation?” Amuro inquires.

“Yes,” Okiya says pleasantly, and doesn’t elaborate.

Amuro could push the charade further, test the limits of what Okiya considers a lie within the bounds of believability, but there’s only so many times he can retrace the steps of this particular dance before he tires of the veneer of increasingly implausible deniability that Okiya seems to feel no shame in maintaining. Okiya Subaru is an infuriating conversational partner, vastly worse than Rye had been. Out of all of Akai’s faces Amuro hates this one the most. Artifice ill-suits Akai. Amuro hadn’t known Akai had this much acting capacity in him.

But of course he does. He’d gone to such lengths to preserve his cover as Rye, after all. Amuro takes a sip of tea from the cup in front of him. It’s excellent quality, certainly bitter enough to disguise the taste of an alkaloid like strychnine, though he doubts that if Akai were planning to make an attempt on his life here it would be via poison. He sets the cup back down and stands up, moving to inspect one of the cabinets where he’d noticed the near-imperceptible red flash of a hidden camera the last time he was here. It’s no longer there; whoever was watching then is not watching now.

Instead of making some inane comment on Amuro’s total lack of attempt to disguise his behaviour as something innocuous, Okiya says, still in the tones of polite conversation, “A while ago, I thought I saw someone I recognised, but it turned out I was mistaken. At the Beika Department Store.”

Countermeasures? “I’m sorry to hear that,” Amuro says. He pivots to face Okiya again.

“I did know who he was, though,” Okiya says. He stands up, too. His voice is light as always, but something about it has Amuro’s fingers twitching towards the gun concealed at his hip. “As soon as I saw him properly, I knew.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No,” Okiya says. He takes one step forward towards Amuro, and then another. The action slow, calculated, daring Amuro to back down first. “But no matter. I knew I would see him again soon.”

“Is that so,” Amuro murmurs.

“He can’t seem to stay away for too long,” Okiya muses. One more step, and he’s right in front of Amuro, forcing Amuro to tip his head back to maintain eye contact. Too much proximity. Amuro tenses, breathes deep and steady from the diaphragm, though there’s not much he can do about the way his heartbeat’s kicked up two gears, battering so loud at his throat he's sure Okiya can hear it too. “I think he’s looking for me.”

Okiya leans in, crowding him up against the wall next to the cabinet, one arm braced beside his head and caging him in. He smells like soap, and underneath that, the faint and telling trace of tobacco. Their faces almost close enough to touch. It is a flawless disguise; almost Vermouth's calibre of work. Okiya is smiling, just barely, a sickeningly familiar expression. A minute shift in posture; Amuro’s hand darts instantly to his gun, but Okiya’s fingers are already at Amuro’s waistband, one step quicker, flipping the gun out of its holster and out of his reach.

“You won’t be needing this,” Okiya says, tossing the gun onto the table behind them.

Amuro tries to murder him with his eyes. Predictably, this doesn’t work. He assesses his options: Okiya has the upper hand in height and build and strength, but if Amuro times it right he could still incapacitate him long enough to escape, or at least to get the gun back. He has exit strategies. The probability of their success is not zero. He glances at Okiya’s dislocatable shoulder and shatterable knee and then, deliberately, relaxes his stance, letting a bit of Bourbon’s nonchalance bleed through.

“Oh…?” Okiya drawls, different voice but precisely the same tone Amuro has heard so many times.

Amuro knows, a truth that resonates through him on a level deeper than rationality. The proof is there, too. The calluses. The scent of cigarette smoke. Amuro does not believe in coincidences. Face, voice, speech patterns, bearing—these can all be changed. Amuro’s seen Vermouth slip in and out of identities with the perfection of water filling the shape of its vessel; he’s done the process himself. If Okiya is only a construct, anybody else could inhabit him for a night as a diversionary tactic while Akai moved elsewhere.

“You’re not a difficult person to find,” Amuro says lightly.

Okiya tips his head forward. “Amuro-san,” he says, breath warm against the shell of Amuro’s ear. “Are you familiar with the concept of confirmation bias?”

“Of course,” Amuro says. He rolls his eyes. “It isn’t confirmation bias if I’m correct, though.”

“Confirmation bias,” Okiya continues, as if Amuro hadn’t spoken, “is a tendency to search for and interpret evidence in ways conducive to supporting pre-existing beliefs. It leads to a flawed reasoning process. By focusing only on one hypothetical of which you have already convinced yourself, you may become blinded to the optimal solution, or the most truthful reconstruction. You have to understand the entirety of a mechanism before you can troubleshoot it. Any engineer knows this.”

Like Okiya actually knows anything about engineering. “Fascinating as this discussion is, I didn’t come here for a psychology lesson,” Amuro snaps, and makes the mistake of turning his head to look at Okiya.

The knowing upwards tilt to Okiya’s mouth is obvious now. Completely against his will, Amuro flushes. “Oh? Then what?”

It might be worth punching Okiya in the face just for the sake of it. Since they’re too close for Amuro to get any real momentum behind a blow there’s nothing else he can do except fist his hands in the front of Okiya’s ridiculous turtleneck shirt and smash their mouths together. Okiya adjusts easily to the shift in weight distribution, hand coming to rest at the small of Amuro’s back while Amuro bites unhappily at Okiya’s bottom lip. The frames of Okiya’s glasses bump against his cheekbones and he pulls back to knock them off Okiya’s face, impatient; it’s not like he actually needs them anyway. Okiya huffs out an amused sound, and then the negligible distance between them disappears as Okiya shoves Amuro back against the wall and swallows down the sharp noise the motion startles out of Amuro.

Trapped between Okiya and the wall he can feel every line of Okiya’s body pressed up against his, heat suffocating even through the barrier of their clothes, Okiya’s mouth warm and insistent. He can’t help parting his lips for Okiya’s tongue, sliding his hands into Okiya’s hair, as well-made a fake as the rest of him, to pull him closer. Okiya’s thumb firm on Amuro’s chin, angling his face up to kiss him more deeply, and Amuro’s fingers lose grip, skidding down to Okiya’s shoulders.

He flinches when Okiya’s palm finds its way under the hem of his shirt and slides up the flat of his stomach, undiluted heat searing a path across his bare skin. It’s too much. Amuro wrenches free from Okiya’s grasp, gasping for breath, so dizzy with want it’s like he’s been punched. He swallows, hard. “You,” he manages, low. “Akai—”

Okiya cuts him off with another kiss, then draws back just slightly, hand curving around the back of Amuro’s neck. “I don’t know who that is,” he says, breath fanning over Amuro’s lips, “but your preoccupation with that man is concerning. Focus on me, Amuro-san.”

The sheer audacity of this astounds. But any complaint Amuro might have voiced is swiftly smothered when Okiya works a knee between Amuro’s and their mouths collide again, all of it blurring into a kaleidoscope of sensation, the heady curl of Okiya’s tongue against his own, the incidental pressure of Okiya’s thigh where their legs tangle together, the bright ache of every point of contact between them. Heat needling all over his skin almost enough to drown out the old and bitter conviction already unfurling inside him, the feeling of something seen in hindsight. Like Okiya had known from the start. Like everything’s only tipping forward towards the inevitable.

//

But first: Amuro finds himself sprawled naked on Okiya's bed while Okiya looms above him, still fully dressed, to Amuro's displeasure. The imbalance in their conditions is all the more grating for the anticipatory pulse of arousal Amuro’s hyperawareness of it sends fluttering through his stomach.

“That must be hot,” Amuro says, gesturing to Okiya’s neck. “Don’t you want to take your shirt off?”

Okiya hums. “I think I can manage for now,” he says.

Amuro scowls. Mostly to see what Okiya will do, he reaches up towards the turtleneck, and in the next breath Okiya’s got his wrist pinned to the mattress. He flexes his fingers lightly, testing Okiya’s grip, which doesn’t relent. He scowls harder.

“No need to make that face,” Okiya says. He kisses the side of Amuro’s mouth, then his pulse point.

“No marks,” Amuro warns, even as he can’t help tilting his head to the side to give Okiya better access to his neck. “I don’t suit suspiciously high collars.”

He can feel Okiya smiling, which is annoying enough that he has to tangle his fingers into Okiya’s hair and drag him back up to kiss him properly. This is another mistake, because it means he is kissing Okiya, and as he should have learned five minutes ago it’s difficult to leverage his way into the upper hand when Okiya is licking into his mouth and he’s lost in the superheated pressure against his already kiss-bruised lips, grasp on coherent thought splintering apart. No matter what he does, Akai finds a way to outmanoeuvre him. But Amuro doesn’t believe in futile struggles; he’ll keep trying until he wins. Akai is neither invincible, nor unkillable. Amuro will prove it.

When Okiya pulls back, a deeply pathetic noise escapes Amuro like it’s been tugged out of him by Okiya’s movement. Amuro stares reproachfully at him as he sits up, puts a thumb to the tender swell of Amuro’s lower lip. “I’ll take good care of you,” Okiya promises, reaching towards the nightstand, and there’s absolutely no reason for him to sound that sincere about it.

A vicious upswell of longing seals Amuro’s throat shut. To dislodge it, Amuro shifts onto his knees and turns around, bracing himself on his forearms, ass in the air. It's an intrinsically humiliating position, but at least Okiya can't see his face like this. "Well?" Amuro calls. "Get on with it."

"Demanding, aren't we?" Okiya smooths a hand down the dip of Amuro's spine. "Arch your back a little more," Okiya directs. Face burning and thankfully hidden in his arms, Amuro shoves his hips up further. "That's it. That's good. Stay like that."

At the sound of Okiya slicking up his fingers behind him, Amuro's cock jerks towards his stomach. Embarrassing enough that he’s been hard basically since Okiya pinned him to the wall, but he can barely feign token reluctance in the face of how badly he wants Okiya's dextrous sniper’s fingers inside him. His breathing stutters into a whine at the first press of Okiya's finger into him, the curve of his back flexing harshly. Choking rush of heat as Okiya turns his wrist and sinks deeper, strain collecting all down his thighs through the painstakingly slow slide inside.

Okiya’s other hand closes loosely around his cock, only a vague promise that’s almost worse than not touching him at all, and pushes another finger into Amuro, a more forceful thrust. Involuntarily Amuro’s body tightens around Okiya’s fingers, seeking out the pressure, some relief for the ache coiling low in his belly. His mouth parts on a half-formed moan muffled into his arms. With the same methodical rhythm Okiya works him open until he's squirming and flushed all over, simultaneously trying to buck forward into the friction Okiya is offering and rock back against Okiya's hand.

“You’re the worst,” Amuro pants, lifting his head to glare over his shoulder, then dropping his cheek back to the pillow of his forearms. “Enough… already.”

Behind Amuro there's the clink of a belt buckle, followed by a zipper coming down, a rustle of cloth. Amuro swallows, mouth gone dry. He's expecting Okiya to push him down by the back of his neck and fuck him like this, but instead Okiya grabs his shoulder and flips him over. Amuro's back hits the mattress. His eyes fly wide open.

"It's better like this," Okiya says by way of explanation, and before Amuro can disparage this baseless assertion Okiya is pushing into him. The stretch of fullness knocks everything else clean out of his mind, tension trembling up his spine into waves of heat, exothermic reaction. When Okiya bottoms out Amuro’s breath is coming in short and shallow bursts, fingers twitching at the sheets, seeking a grip they can't maintain, and then Okiya starts to move.

Okiya has a hand casually pressing Amuro's thigh back, keeping him spread open so he can fuck into him more easily. On display like this there’s no way he can hide that the knowledge of Okiya’s gaze is only flushing him harder, driving the upwards bow of his body straining to meet Okiya with every thrust.

Amuro throws an arm over his face, tipping his head back against the pillow. Almost immediately, there are fingers circling his wrist, tugging his arm back down. “Don’t hide, Amuro-san,” Okiya says, steel underneath the mildness. He eclipses Amuro’s field of vision. “Won’t you look at me? I’d like to see your face.”

“Have you considered that I don’t want to see yours?” Amuro bites out, but the edge is dulled by the breathless hitch Okiya fucks into them.

“You came to me,” Okiya reminds him.

“No I didn’t,” Amuro mutters, just on principle.

A laugh. “Your body’s more honest than you are,” Okiya says. His fingers dig into Amuro's hip, anchor points of pressure just skirting the edge of pain, and he smiles at the answering twitch of Amuro’s cock. "I see you."

Amuro despises how easily Okiya can keep him still, the unrelenting fact of Okiya's superior strength. Back during their shared Black Organisation tenure Rye rarely agreed to spar no matter how much Bourbon pressed, but every time he did Rye would win, which only made Bourbon angrier, more determined to challenge him over and over again. It was a galling experience. All through his academy years, his meteoric escalation through the PSB ranks, he’d never lost a hand-to-hand fight and now here was someone he couldn’t beat at all, someone he could throw himself against, holding nothing back, who wouldn’t yield an inch.

And if there had been some tiny irrepressible part of him stupid with longing for that absolute and overwhelming certainty it was now definitively stamped out. He’ll never forget. Over and over again, looping back to that windswept night on the roof. Gunshot, blood. Rye’s impassive face. The smoking weapon in the hand, the corroborating confession, an open-and-shut case, and—Hiro. And Hiro.

Okiya's fingers close around Amuro’s cock, dragging out another open noise of want from Amuro’s chest. “Stay with me, Amuro-kun,” he says.

Caught in the act, but Okiya is doing a professional job of distracting him from triumph. “I’m—older than you,” Amuro manages, hips jerking up into Okiya’s grip.

“So you are,” Okiya agrees, smile pulling the corners of his mouth sharp as a knife. “Amuro-san.”

The relaxed torque of Okiya’s wrist working Amuro’s cock even as he fucks Amuro open draws Amuro’s whole body taut, increments of tension winching closer and closer to the snapping point, the inevitable freefall. It only takes a few more strokes before he’s arching forward, spilling all over Okiya’s hand. He has to bite down on the meat of his palm to stifle himself as his orgasm shudders through him, flashes of heat toppling into each other.

He’s barely caught his breath when Okiya says, “One more?” already starting to move again, so it’s hardly a question of permission.

Amuro turns a baleful eye on him. “You talk like a gentleman, but you don't fuck much like one,” he says, all in one rush. His head lolls to the side.

“I don’t think you’re objecting,” Okiya replies, snapping his hips forward. “Are you?”

Amuro bristles and glowers at Okiya’s chin, knowing his silence is just as telling as an outright admission. Okiya’s thumb rubs slow, comforting circles into the curve of Amuro’s hipbone, counterpoint to the rough pace Okiya is setting. “I hate you,” Amuro hisses, reaching up to clutch restlessly at Okiya’s back, wanting more closeness, more everything, “fuck—I hate you so much—”

Okiya says, very tenderly, “I know.” He slows, brushes Amuro’s hair off his forehead, drops a kiss to his temple, and somehow this is worse, the gentleness, as if they were lovers. As if this was something Amuro could ever bring himself to want from him.

Even before the night on the roof, when adrenaline and proximity on a few too many paired missions crossed wires, it was Rye’s cleanly disinterested brutality he sometimes dreamt of, Rye holding him down hard enough to bruise, Rye’s hands cinching tight around his throat until he went limp and unresisting. But it doesn’t matter what he’s looking for now, Rye’s cold violence or Okiya’s solicitous courtesy or the man at the core of both, the shadow he’s been chasing for years and years, all his grief and his fury crushed into an adamantine clarity of purpose. He will kill Akai Shuichi. It always threatens to overwhelm him, the desperate intensity of how much he wants it, wrecking-ball to the ribs from the inside. The raw wound of it.

Sometimes Amuro thinks nobody in the world could possibly feel as strongly about anyone else as he does about Akai. So much of him has warped around the memory and the hunger for vengeance spiralling out from it that he doesn’t know what would be left of him after it’s carved out. Rye, Okiya, Akai, he will be the last thing any of them see.

Okiya slides an arm around his waist to gather him up and pull him onto his lap, his cock shifting inside Amuro with the motion, and Amuro barely has the presence of mind to loop his arms around Okiya’s neck in response. His forehead drops onto Okiya’s shoulder as he tries to remember how to breathe. The hot press of Okiya’s cock into him at this angle, filling him up, is almost unbearable, and he’s already hard again, the low and tense hum of desire in his stomach accelerating into car-crash intensity. Moderation is impossible. Something about Akai pushes him into maximum setting all the time. Okiya’s fingers thread through his hair to cup the nape of his neck, coax his head up into a kiss, sweet as a bruise.

“Don’t touch yourself, Amuro-kun,” Okiya whispers. His shirt is damp with both of their sweat. “Think you can do that for me?”

Amuro growls, childish vocalisation of even more childish frustration, but he doesn’t unwind his arms from their position, rocking forward in pursuit of whatever friction he can gain from the catch of his cock between their bodies. Soon he’s grinding sloppily against Okiya, making desperate broken sounds against Okiya’s mouth, and then he’s coming again, helpless, whole-body ache of tension giving way to perfect white heat.

With the last of his energy he sinks his teeth as hard as he can into Okiya’s shoulder, right through his shirt, and Okiya’s laugh ripples through them both. He lowers Amuro back down to the bed. “Bear with me a little longer,” he says, dipping his head to mouth at Amuro's throat, the barest hint of teeth scraping against the skin, and Amuro has just enough pride still intact to stop himself from begging Okiya to bite down properly, leave a mark that will bruise, a beautiful hurt. “Good boy. You’re doing so well,” and eases back into him.

Amuro jolts, mouth falling open around the shape of a soundless cry. The sensation of Okiya moving in him when he’s still shivering through the aftermath of a second orgasm shocks every abraded nerve in his body alight at the same time. Blurred through involuntary tears the man above him loses definition, distorts like an optical illusion. “—Akai,” Amuro gasps, hoarse. "Akai, please—I can’t, please, ah—” His voice breaks into a whine high at the back of his throat. Dimly he knows the mortifying picture he must be making, the mess of come on his stomach, the whimpers falling out of his lips, but Akai’s smashed every last pillar of his self-control and he’s well past the point of caring about it.

The whole world telescopes down to the slickly excruciating drag of Akai’s cock inside him, teetering on the precipice of too much, the furthest brink of the right kind of pain. Warring instincts want him to arch forward, twist away, both, neither, but the choice is, as it always is when it comes to Akai, out of his hands. Overwhelmed, he can’t do much else but squeeze his eyes shut and take whatever Akai gives him, trembling in place, limbs liquid and useless. All of him incandescent with desperation.

Akai’s rhythm stutters, his breath coming audibly faster, more uneven, the closest to off-kilter Amuro has ever known him. He tilts forward, lips to Amuro’s carotid, and groans out a curse into Amuro’s throat as he comes, the force of it pulsing through Amuro where they’re joined like a second heartbeat.

At some point Akai must slip out of him, but all Amuro’s aware of is the frantic slam of his own pulse gradually evening out, leaving him exhausted, dazed, and just starting to regain enough rationality to tip over into despairing rage, partly at himself but mostly at Akai. The task of piecing his shattered composure back together seems insurmountable. He needs—something, a direct threat to snap his reflexes back into functionality; his body keeps acclimatising too fast to the constant danger Akai poses.

Tense sixth-sense prickle of surveillance awareness. He opens his eyes to a face hovering over his. He blinks for clarity.

“Amuro-san,” Okiya says. “Was it too much?”

Amuro can’t manage anything more eloquent than a heartfelt, “Die.”

“I could’ve sworn you were enjoying yourself,” Okiya says, sounding altogether too amused. “You seem the kind of person who likes being pushed past their limits.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Okiya hums. “Maybe,” he says. “You know, you didn’t let me finish what I was saying, earlier.”

Tracking this non-sequitur is slightly beyond Amuro’s current processing capabilities. “Huh?”

“When we were discussing confirmation bias,” Okiya says. “There isn’t necessarily anything wrong with searching for the familiar. Sometimes it can be useful, even.”

“... I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Amuro says flatly.

“I’m not a detective like you, so I don’t know if I can explain it in a way you can understand. I’m only an engineer,” Okiya says. Moonlight and shadow. He looks so unlike himself he’s almost recognisable again. “I think in terms of systems. Which parts are built to bear which loads, and which are not.” He touches Amuro’s cheek. Abrupt and inexplicable yearning to turn his face into Okiya’s hold; Amuro nearly comes undone. “There are some weights that even an extraordinary cafe waiter may not be so suited to carrying. But I don’t think I could stop you from trying.”

Amuro grits his teeth, then shoves Okiya down and swings a leg over his hips to keep him in place. Okiya’s back hits the mattress with a quiet thud. He does not have the grace to even look surprised. His hands move to Amuro’s waist, steadying him even though Amuro didn’t ask, before falling away again, and it rankles that it’s only because Okiya is letting him, but the objective fact of the situation is that now he has Okiya pinned down.

He reaches for the high collar of Okiya’s turtleneck. This time Okiya makes no move to stop him from tugging it down. Under the fabric there is bare skin, then a strip of black ringing the base of Okiya’s throat. Amuro clicks the voice modulator off.

The man underneath him opens his eyes. The creases evening out into distinctive lines. That unmistakeable green. Barriers to the true self falling away. Against his will Furuya’s breath catches, the sound too loud in the quiet lull of the night. His head reels, a vertiginous dizziness cresting. He curls his fingers around the column of Akai’s neck, thumb digging into the soft hollow right underneath his jaw, and Akai just lets him, inert in the way that a live mine is inert, that infinite sniper’s patience that Furuya has always, always hated about him. Watching him with an intent light in his eyes that Furuya doesn’t know how to read.

What he does know: Akai’s heartbeat under his thumb, mockingly even. Incontrovertible proof of life. Furuya tightens his grip. Bourbon killed someone like this, once; pinned the target to his own bed and strangled him to death while Rye and Scotch kept watch over the exits. He could crush Akai’s trachea now, before Akai could even lift a hand. One sharp blow to the throat and it would be over. The sense of vertigo crescendos. Again he can’t shake the nauseous doomed feeling that everything he’s done, everything he will do, has been seen through already. Fate closing in around all of his selves like a garrotte.

“I’m going to kill you,” Furuya says. Unsteady thunder of blood in his ears. His hands are shaking. “I swear it, I’m going to kill you. Akai Shuichi.”

Akai smiles. In the voice Furuya would know anywhere, he says, gently, “I’ll be waiting.”