Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3447368.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Durarara!!
  Relationship:
      Kida_Masaomi/Orihara_Izaya, Kida_Masaomi/Ryuugamine_Mikado, Heiwajima
      Shizuo/Orihara_Izaya
  Character:
      Orihara_Izaya, Kida_Masaomi, Ryuugamine_Mikado, Heiwajima_Shizuo
  Additional Tags:
      Hand_Jobs, Blow_Jobs, Established_Relationship, Developing_Relationship,
      Secret_Crush, Love_Confessions, Best_Friends, Hate_Sex, Rape, Rape
      Aftermath, Threats_of_Violence, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, Denial_of_Feelings,
      Heavy_Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-11 Completed: 2015-03-23 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 8595
****** Influence ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Masaomi should have known better than to let his guard down just
     because Izaya was quiet." Kida has a request to make of Izaya. Things
     go very much not as he expects; the fallout goes very much not as
     Izaya expects.
***** Kida-kun *****
Masaomi should have known better than to let his guard down just because Izaya
was quiet.
It’s not like he doesn’t know to be on-edge. He has thought through this entire
conversation more than once, has delayed even having it because the idea of
being in the same room as Izaya Orihara sounds like a risk too great to
possibly make up for the payout. But Ikebukuro is getting more dangerous by the
day, and Mikado keeps getting more and more involved in it, and Masaomi has to
try something.
So it came to this, laughing off Mikado’s invitation to go downtown together on
a Saturday so Masaomi could catch the train out of the district instead,
following text-message directions to a remarkably ordinary-looking apartment
complex. There was really no reason that Izaya should live in the dark looming
castle Masaomi had always half-imagined, but it was still strange to have the
building look so normal, the lobby unremarkable right down to the vending
machine next to the elevator. Masaomi took the elevator up to the top floor,
nerves rising higher in time with his own ascent until the doors opened to an
airy expanse more like a museum than an apartment.
It was easier once he started talking. Izaya had barely spoken, for once, had
leaned back against the desk in front of the window and watched as Masaomi
worked through the entirety of his planned speech about how Mikado isn’t
related to anything important, and how he won’t be of any use in any plots, how
Izaya has nothing at all to gain from communicating with him.
He’s on a roll, has hit his stride between planned statements and
improvisation, is satisfied even with the put-on resonance of his own voice
when Izaya does move, all at once. He straightens from the desk, reaching up to
stretch his arms above his head, and all Masaomi’s self-satisfaction evaporates
into panicked silence so there’s a pause into which Izaya can speak.
“You’re a very helpful person to have around,” he says, consideringly, like
he’s appreciating the words on his tongue, and Masaomi feels a chill slide down
his spine. “You don’t even realize how much you give away with every sentence
you speak. You’re just throwing information at me; you should be more
thoughtful, it’s hard to keep up.”
Masaomi takes a step back even though Izaya hasn’t moved; the distance between
them suddenly feels like not-enough, dangerously near under the circumstances.
He tries a laugh, though it falls flat even in his throat, sounds like more of
a whimper of desperation before he can manage, “I’m not telling you anything.”
Izaya’s smile feels like a knife held to Masaomi’s throat even from across the
room. “My mistake.” It’s a taunt, Masaomi can hear it clear; his flight
response pushes him back, sends him stumbling towards the door and out of the
pool of light spilling through the window behind Izaya. “Is that all you had to
tell me? You made it sound like it was something important.”
Masaomi shakes his head, reaches behind him for the door handle so he can turn
and escape. “That’s everything.” His voice is cracking, fear of something he
can’t frame, but the handle is turning under his grip and he’s nearly out, very
nearly free from the pressure of oncoming danger creeping up his spine.
Then “I’ll make sure to tell your boyfriend you were worried about him,” Izaya
purrs, and Masaomi’s hand freezes on the door.
He can’t even attempt a laugh, this time. “What?” There’s cold silence from
behind him; Masaomi can’t hear anything but the desperate catch of his
breathing speeding in his throat. “Mikado’s not my boyfriend.”
Izaya’s laugh is so close Masaomi jumps, flinches away from the rush of air
against the back of his neck. When he twists Izaya is leaning in, pushing him
cringing back against the wall with all thought of escape forgotten in utterly
cold fright.
“Liar,” Izaya says, the word hissing over his teeth like a threat, and Masaomi
whimpers, tries to duck away with nowhere to go as Izaya leans in. “You came
all the way out here to talk to someone you’re terrified of in defense of
a friend?”
“Best friend,” Masaomi manages, self-preservation trying to satisfy Izaya’s
rhetorical question so he can escape. “I like girls.”
Izaya’s eyebrows come up, his mouth falling into the shape of put-upon sympathy
twisted over amusement. “And?” He takes another step, so close now his knee is
bumping against Masaomi’s thigh. “That’s got nothing to do with what we’re
talking about, Kida-kun.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Masaomi attempts in the moment before Izaya’s
fingers land against the side of his neck and his throat closes up on sound
completely.
“There’s no attraction between you at all,” Izaya says, sounding like he’s
fighting back laughter as his fingertips slide along the edge of Masaomi’s
shirt. “You’ve never thought of him while you jerked off?” His knee comes in
sideways, slides between Masaomi’s, and he’s way too close now but Masaomi
can’t get his hands up, can’t move or breathe or do anything but freeze like a
deer in headlights. “I bet you never pictured him while you were taking a
shower, never thought about the way the water would trail across his bare skin
or splash off the curve of his back where it --”
“Shut up,” and Masaomi’s hand comes up, defensiveness of this his last secret
making him desperate for silence. Izaya catches it without even looking, shoves
it flat to the wall above Masaomi’s head. The impact is jarring, the angle of
his arm painful, but Izaya’s leaning in closer and all Masaomi can focus on are
the sharp white edges of his teeth.
“Aww,” Izaya pouts. “You don’t like to hear the truth?” He’s leaning in, his
hip digging bruises into Masaomi’s skin from the pressure, the fingers of his
free hand trailing over Masaomi’s hip. He’s still over the other’s clothing but
the threat is clear without him putting words to it, until Masaomi’s push at
Izaya’s shoulder is too shaky to effect any motion at all. It just makes Izaya
laugh, bright and white in Masaomi’s periphery, and then his hand is dipping
down, fingers digging sharp pressure in against the other’s zipper. Masaomi
flinches, more from the telltale heat of his body than from the push itself,
and Izaya pulls back by an inch, far enough that he can slide his thumb over
and across to push at the button of Masaomi’s jeans.
“Don’t you want help with that?” He’s sliding the zipper down, Masaomi’s head
is ringing with panic and inopportune arousal and he can’t clear away the
images formed by Izaya’s words, the bright of Mikado’s smile and the shape of
his shoulders under his school uniform, the way his hands go warm and soft when
Masaomi touches his fingers. But Izaya keeps talking, the images going dark in
the shadow of his voice, Masaomi cringing back like he can protect his
fledgling fantasies from Izaya’s contamination. “You could pretend I’m him.
Shut your eyes and call me Mikado and I’ll suck you off, you’ll never know the
difference.”
Masaomi blinks hard, forces his eyes as wide open as they’ll go. “No way,” he
spits, vicious with stubbornness at this last final point, and Izaya laughs in
his face.
“Suit yourself,” and he’s reaching past Masaomi’s boxers, fingers skimming
across sensitive skin, and Masaomi is jerking, not sure if he’s trying to
flinch away as his brain is desperate for him to do or rock forward as his
traitorous body suggests. It doesn’t matter much anyway; he can’t get away, not
with his arm twisted up over his head like it is, and Izaya’s touch is steady
in spite of Masaomi’s reflexive motion, his fingers settling into a hold on the
other’s half-hard cock.
“Think about Mikado,” Izaya purrs, and Masaomi wishes he didn’t flush harder at
the very sound of the other’s name but he does, any lingering denial of his own
interest long since melted away. He wishes he could shut his eyes, wishes he
could give in to the suggestion of this fantasy, but there’s no way he’s going
to let Izaya have that, no way he’s going to let that part of his life -- the
best part of his life -- get tarred with the same darkness as everything else.
So he keeps his eyes open, stares Izaya down when all he wants to do is flinch
away.
There’s a flicker behind Izaya’s eyes, something that might be respect
underneath a heavy layer of amusement. “No?” His grip tightens, his fingers
twist sideways. “Fine.” His hand jerks, dragging unwanted heat into Masaomi’s
veins, and Izaya hums, “Think about me, instead.”
It’s harder to do. Even with the real thing right in front of him, there’s no
surge of warmth in Masaomi’s blood at the thought that it’s Izaya’s fingers on
him instead of his own, nothing but far-off appreciation of the other’s
technique too minor to override the chill of panic running over his skin. But
that’s all inside Masaomi’s head; his body is torn for a minute, but then the
steady friction of Izaya’s fingers becomes too much to resist, the burn over
him starts to melt into physical pleasure in complete disregard of his
thoughts. Masaomi is starting to shiver against the wall, pushing harder at
Izaya’s shoulder to cover up the reflexive reaction, but with the other’s
fingers pressing in against him he’s hardly likely to miss the heat.
“I knew you’d come around,” Izaya purrs, his thumb slipping slick against the
head of Masaomi’s cock. It makes Masaomi jerk, brings his breathing tightening
into a moan before he can stop the sound, and then Izaya is laughing in truth,
a high uncontrolled burst of amusement to match the sudden speed of his
fingers. It’s too much sensation, the burn aching under Masaomi’s skin, but his
body is desperate to keep up, his cock spilling pre-come against the other’s
fingers so his strokes go smoother with the lubrication. There’s no chance,
now, of Masaomi losing track of where he is to a fantasy; this is too real,
this shuddering revulsion in the back of his head and this trembling heat under
his skin at all odds with his thoughts. He’s leaning hard against the wall,
feeling the sensation rise in his blood almost like nausea, and then Izaya
jerks his hand up and tightens his grip and the inevitable hits Masaomi all at
once.
There’s no real pleasure in the orgasm; it’s just heat, distant from any kind
of psychological satisfaction, until Masaomi feels more dizzy from the pool of
warmth in the pit of his stomach than anything else. The strange sense of free-
fall vertigo lingers for a moment; then Izaya slides his hand free and wipes
his sticky fingers across Masaomi’s hip.
“You’ll always think of me, now,” he says, and Masaomi feels suddenly,
violently ill. Izaya lets his arm go and Masaomi reaches for his jeans, the
need to drag the protection of his clothes back around him far more important
now than attempting to get any sort of physical revenge. Izaya watches him, his
mouth twisting on a smile like he can see right through Masaomi’s futile
attempt at protection, like it’s useless from the start. “Good luck with your
romance,” he drawls, and Masaomi turns away, faces the door so Izaya won’t see
the way his expression crumples into trembling horror. “I’ll leave you two
alone to work that out. You have more than enough to deal with, now, without me
getting in the way.”
Masaomi doesn’t answer. His throat is tight, on a scream or tears he’s not sure
which, and all he knows is that after he leaves this place no power on earth
will induce him to come back. His skin is cold, clammy with chilled sweat, his
palm slipping on the handle before he can twist it open.
Even when he shuts the door behind him, he can hear Izaya’s laughter through
the frame.
***** Tanaka Taro *****
It takes Mikado a moment to react to the knock on his door.
It’s not that he’s asleep; he’s been awake for an hour, is showered and dressed
and halfway through a cup of instant ramen as a stand-in for a more reasonable
breakfast. But he’s not expecting any visitors this morning or in fact
this day, and it takes him a few seconds to pull together the recollection of
how to behave with others. Then he has to set his cup down, lock his computer
screen, and by the time he’s reaching for the door handle there’s another
knock, a little faster and a little louder.
“Sorry,” Mikado offers as he unfastens the lock and pulls the door open. “I was
--” Then he sees who it is on the other side of the door, and the worst of his
public-persona tension flickers out again. “Masaomi!”
Masaomi offers a smile, a little lopsided and not touching as much of his eyes
as usual, but when Mikado steps unthinking out of the doorway he takes the
offer without any hesitation.
“Sorry for dropping by unannounced,” he says as he moves past the other. Mikado
pushes the door shut, refastens the lock, and by the time he turns back around
all he can see of Masaomi are his shoulders, hunched in under the line of his
open coat. “But you’re always ready to see your best friend, right, Mikado?”
Mikado hesitates, not because Masaomi is wrong in his assumption but-- “Are you
okay?” He steps forward, reaches out to touch Masaomi’s shoulder gently. “You
sound a little weird.”
“Ah, it’s nothing!” Masaomi declares, pivoting on his heel to face Mikado.
They’re a lot closer now, the other boy’s hunch tipping him forward into
Mikado’s space, and whatever unusual tension may be visible on his features is
impossible to see under the blaze of his smile. “But Mikado.” His hand comes
out, drops heavy on the other’s shoulder as his face falls into lines of
intensity. Mikado can feel himself starting to smile, amusement at Masaomi’s
usual melodrama insisting on expression before the other has even spoken.
“There is something I must tell you.” Masaomi shuts his eyes, heaves a sigh,
lifts his free hand to his heart. Mikado grins wider, waits without speaking
for whatever high dramatics are about to ensue.
“I apologize,” Masaomi starts. “I have kept a secret from you for months,
nay, years now, something that has the potential to tear our very friendship
out by the roots!” His fingers tighten on his shirtfront, his shoulders hunch
in; he’s leaning on Mikado’s shoulder, now, as if he can’t keep his footing
steady. “But it seems my secret is becoming widely known, and I must tell you
before others do. The truth is…” A deep breath, like he’s bracing himself. The
hand at Mikado’s shoulder is clenching tighter, pressing so hard Mikado nearly
flinches from the pressure. “I’m in love with you.”
There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation while Mikado waits for the second half
of the sentence, or the laugh of entertainment declaring it to be a joke. He
takes a breath, lets it out, takes another, and Masaomi still has his head
bowed, his fingers actually pressing bruises into Mikado’s shoulder with no
sign of laughter. The only thing left is for Mikado to form his throat around a
laugh of his own, though it falls shaky and uncertain without Masaomi there to
lead it.
“You’ve really outdone yourself,” he says, reaches up to close his fingers
gently around Masaomi’s hand at his shoulder. “I almost believed you that time,
your acting is getting better.” He doesn’t mention that the possibility makes
his stomach swoop, that the very idea knocks him breathless with hope before he
falls back into the comfortable reality of disbelief.
Masaomi does laugh, then, but the sound is so short and sharp Mikado hears it
as more of a sob for a minute. “You think I’m joking.” He sounds a little more
amused as he speaks, the words coming with some shape of his usual
entertainment as his fingers go gentle at Mikado’s shoulder. He sighs, looks
up. His mouth is curved around a smile, but it’s weaker than Mikado expects,
catching stronger at one side of his lips than the other and not making it up
the distance to his eyes. “Mikado.” That’s almost chastising, a sigh of
resignation under the word. “When will you learn I’m never joking with you?”
And then he leans in over the gap between them, and presses his mouth to
Mikado’s.
Even with the heat of Masaomi’s lips against his, there is a part of Mikado
that still hesitates to believe. It’s like he can feel the burn of adrenaline
behind a glass wall, surging higher as Masaomi doesn’t move away, as the
contact lingers into unmistakable deliberation. But that disbelief is too
strong, self-defense too ingrained to come down all at once, and in the
hesitation Mikado can calmly and rationally see that of all the weird things to
have happened to him in Ikebukuro, this might end up being the weirdest.
Then Masaomi makes a sound, a whimper or an almost-sob, far in the back of his
throat, and Mikado closes his eyes as the wall shatters apart and the wave of
heat hits him. His free hand comes up, brushes against Masaomi’s hip as he
tries to ground himself, and apparently this is enough encouragement for
Masaomi. The hand at his shoulder lets go, fingers dig in against his hair, and
Masaomi isn’t offering the gentle contact of lips anymore; now
he’s kissing Mikado, dragging his hands into the other’s hair and moving so
fast Mikado can’t keep up, pressing in hard and opening his mouth like he’s
trying to breathe the other boy into his veins directly. Mikado stumbles back a
step at the force, reflex telling him to give ground under the onslaught, but
Masaomi’s balance is leaning on his shoulder, and when he tries to brace his
foot it comes down too far forward, sends their combined weight sliding into
freefall.
Mikado shouts wordless shock as they fall, his hand at Masaomi’s hip turning
into a desperate fist as if the hold will somehow save him from impact with the
floor. Masaomi’s mouth falls back from his, the hands in his hair dragging
painfully, and then they land heavy on the floor and every clear thought is
knocked out of Mikado’s head under the white-flash of the impact. He can’t
breathe for a moment, can’t do anything but blink unseeing at the ceiling, and
then Masaomi gasps, “Sorry” and leans in to set his lips against Mikado’s
throat instead of his mouth.
Mikado considers offering protest. In the hazy drift of not-yet pain from his
landing it’s easier to focus on what’s happening, easier to piece together the
separate possible explanations for what is happening right now. Masaomi is
kissing him, that is undeniable, and with enough enthusiasm to leave no doubt
at all of his sincerity. Why is a harder question to answer -- did he finally
start to suspect the reason behind Mikado’s move to Ikebukuro? was the heat on
Mikado’s tongue when they spoke finally obvious enough for even Masaomi to
notice? But that doesn’t make sense, when Masaomi had framed this like a
confession, or maybe that was just more of Masaomi’s dramatics, consistent even
in the wildly unfamiliar situation they are in.
Then fingers brush Mikado’s hip, Masaomi’s hands fitting up under the loose
fabric of his t-shirt, and hypotheticals fall away in favor of immediate
attention to the situation.
“Masaomi.” It sounds like a plea and a shout at once, almost-protest falling
into line with near-desperate encouragement. “Wait, slow down, what are you
doing?”
The hand pushing up under Mikado’s shirt slows, stills; Masaomi draws back from
the other’s throat, takes a breath so strained Mikado can hear the effort on
the sound. “Sorry,” he says again, the word coming a little slower and a little
less overheated. He’s staring at Mikado’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes,
his voice trembling until Mikado has the horrible sensation he might be about
to cry. “I didn’t expect you to --” Another pause, Masaomi’s head tipping down
so his hair falls in front of his face, and Mikado has the dark sinking
sensation of having accidentally ruined something beautiful.
“I’ll go,” and Masaomi’s pulling away, and this might just be an act but it’s a
good one if it is, and Mikado has never been able to resist Masaomi’s
dramatics.
“No, wait!” He pushes up off the floor, reaches for Masaomi’s coat as the other
starts to turn away. Mikado’s head is aching from his impact with the floor,
his hands shaky with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, but Masaomi
looks up at the touch at his jacket and Mikado just has time, as he’s leaning
in, to see the shine of real tears in the other’s eyes. But it’s too late to
call back his motion, he’s already turning his head and shutting his eyes, and
as their mouths come together Masaomi makes a sound of raw satisfaction that
blows all other concerns clear out of Mikado’s head. He reaches up, fits his
fingers carefully against the soft gold of Masaomi’s hair, and this time when
Masaomi opens his mouth Mikado does the same, carefully parting his lips under
the pressure of Masaomi’s tongue.
Mikado’s never kissed anyone before. He’s never had the chance to, never even
come close to it; the possibility that his first kiss would be with Masaomi is
something he’s only considered in daydreams, hazy imagination too absurd to be
believed for a moment. It’s bizarre to have it happening to him now, to have
Masaomi purring little noises of encouragement when Mikado carefully licks
against the roof of his mouth and to have Masaomi’s quick fingers sliding back
up under the hem of his t-shirt. The touch burns as if Masaomi is made of fire,
his fingers leaving paths of shuddering heat across Mikado’s skin that linger
without leaving the pain of a burn. Masaomi is shaking too, trembling against
Mikado’s stalling-out touch on his hair like he’s a chord humming with sound,
and Mikado can feel the breath he takes as he pulls back for a moment, the deep
anxious inhale like he’s bracing himself for something.
Then the hand at Mikado’s chest slides down, over his stomach and down against
the front of his jeans, and for a minute Mikado can’t think at all. His
breathing sticks in his throat, his head drops forward until his forehead bumps
the bridge of Masaomi’s nose, and he’s arching up off the floor, pushing up
against the resistance of Masaomi’s fingers without any thought at all. His
cheeks are heating, embarrassment and arousal in equal parts, but the contact
of Masaomi’s fingers against him is too much to resist, when he’s never before
had anything but the familiar friction of his own hand against himself.
“Masaomi,” and it comes out like a moan, the sound catching embarrassingly at
the back of Mikado’s throat. “Wh--what are you doing?”
Masaomi’s eyes are very dark and very close. When he blinks Mikado can see his
eyelashes catch together, can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“I’m.” He looks down, ducks his head; Mikado can feel the huff of his breath as
the pressure of his hand eases, his motion going still and hesitant. “Do you
want me to stop?”
Mikado can feel the thud of his heart in his chest, every heartbeat like an
echo at the back of his head. The question is too much to parse, too layered
over with should and can and will to pull apart in the flooding heat in his
blood. He ought to stop them, ought to take this slower, ought to think about
this when he’s calm and not pressed hard against the promised friction of
Masaomi’s palm, but there’s a recklessness in the back of his mind, impulsive
desire whiting out his logic like it does, sometimes, the promise of something
interesting enough to override safety.
“No,” he hears himself saying, and when he lifts his head to meet Masaomi’s
incoming kiss he doesn’t realize he’s smiling until their lips meet, the shape
of the expression making the contact awkward and lopsided. But Masaomi just
laughs, the sound bright and warm and more sincere than any other he has made
since he arrived, and he’s pressing in with his hand again. Mikado’s thoughts
are short-circuiting, flickering into white-hot pleasure like sparks are
invading his bloodstream, and he’s clinging to Masaomi’s arm, pressing his
fingers hard against the other’s forearm like he’s trying to keep himself from
floating away.
“Slow down, Mikado,” Masaomi is saying, his voice coming warm and familiar and
echoing like it’s at the end of a tunnel. “I don’t even have your jeans open
yet” and the words bring an image crystal-clear into Mikado’s head, the
impression of hot fingers directly against him, and he’s gone, control slipping
through his fingers like ice melted to water. His hand tightens at Masaomi’s
arm, his throat twists on a groan, and when he arches up he’s coming before he
can think about it, before he can even attempt to hold it back, satisfaction
coursing through his veins like all his blood has evaporated into steam.
Masaomi is laughing when Mikado can focus on his hearing again, breathless
little gasps of surprise and delight like bubbles on his tongue. “You were even
faster than I expected,” he’s saying, and it would be insulting if he weren’t
smiling like he’s pleased with himself, if he weren’t drawing his hand away
from Mikado’s damp jeans to press his fingers against the other’s hair. “Was
that your first time?”
“Shut up,” Mikado protests, and Masaomi laughs again, giggling over his lips as
Mikado shoves at the other’s shoulders. He’s smiling too, pleasure heavy in his
limbs more than enough to counteract the embarrassment of the situation, and
Masaomi falls back with complete willingness, leaning back to lie across the
floor so Mikado can lean in over him.
“I didn’t expect to be your first,” Masaomi teases as Mikado pushes at the edge
of his shirt, trying to restrain the worst of his blush at the taut-stretched
fabric of the other’s jeans speaking to his interest. “I’m sorry I didn’t save
myself for you, Mikado, I’m afraid I’ll take a little more than just grinding
against your hand.”
“Shut up,” Mikado protests, his flush now radiant under his whole face. “I
didn’t even know you liked guys.”
“I like you,” Masaomi says, his voice weirdly soft all at once, and Mikado
looks up from Masaomi’s half-undone jeans to catch unexpected softness in the
other’s eyes. It’s startling, to see that sincere warmth in the familiar
shadows of Masaomi’s gaze, the corners of his eyes gone soft with affection.
For a moment Mikado can’t breathe at all, can’t think straight enough to
remember what he was doing; then Masaomi grins, chases away the gentle
expression into more ordinary amusement, and Mikado can look down again, can
take a breath and blush darker as he gets the other boy’s zipper down.
It’s as he’s reaching for Masaomi’s boxers, his hands moving with that same
impetuous excitement that brought him here in the first place, that he can see
the other flinch. It’s a tiny thing, barely a flicker of a movement across his
body, but with his jeans half-off the tremor is clearly visible as it jolts up
the other’s stomach. Mikado looks up but Masaomi isn’t looking at him at all;
he’s lying back on the floor now, staring at the ceiling with his lip between
his teeth like he’s forgotten he’s chewing against it.
“Masaomi?” Mikado asks, his voice sounding higher and younger than it usually
does. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Masaomi says, a little fast and a little loud. “Keep going.”
Mikado can’t quite get his bearings. Something’s wrong, he can hear it in
Masaomi’s voice and see it tightening across the line of his stomach, but the
other boy is still hard, dampening the front of his boxers in a patch that is
as reassuring as it is embarrassing. Mikado reaches out carefully, catches his
fingers against the edge of Masaomi’s boxers, and when he draws them down he’s
looking at the shape of the other boy’s cock instead of his face, doesn’t see
the way Masaomi’s forehead creases as his clothes slide down.
Mikado lets all his breath out in a rush. It’s not like he’s seeing anything
all that surprising, really, but there’s still a rush of heat under his skin at
the incontrovertible evidence that Masaomi does want him, actually, that his
interest hasn’t failed or even slipped as a result of Mikado’s too-fast
response. It’s thrilling, it rushes through his mind on a wave of delighted
power, and when he reaches out to wrap his fingers around the shape of the
other boy Mikado’s flushed and thrilled with the possibility of Masaomi’s
reaction.
He’s not at all expecting what happens. Masaomi’s hand snaps out, closes hard
on his wrist to hold him still, and he’s sitting up all at once, a rush of
motion more whip-quick defensive than graceful. His shoulders are hunched, his
head tipped forward to cast his face in the shadow of his hair, and he’s
breathing hard with panic instead of the pleasure Mikado was expecting.
“Stop” he blurts, as if Mikado had kept moving, as if the other boy hadn’t let
his hold go immediately at Masaomi’s reaction. Masaomi’s voice is shaking, his
hold is trembling desperation against Mikado’s wrist, and for a minute Mikado’s
stomach is plummeting into free-fall, panic and certainty of having done
something wrong arcing through him like he’s being electrocuted.
“I’m sorry!” he says, loud and too-fast, but Masaomi is talking over him,
managing, “Sorry, sorry, not your hands, please, anything else is fine just not
your hand.” He’s not looking up, his voice is cracking over the words, and
Mikado has that same sense from before, that there’s something here he’s not
seeing, some logic in the back of Masaomi’s mind he’s missing. But his heart is
pounding in fear of doing something wrong, of having done something wrong
already, and what he says is “Yeah, sure, okay, I’m so sorry,” even though he’s
not sure what exactly he’s apologizing for.
Masaomi shakes his head, still with his chin dipped so Mikado can’t see his
face. “It’s not your fault,” he says, and the words are sincere, resonant with
some second meaning Mikado can’t parse. “Can you try your mouth, instead?”
“Sure,” Mikado says. He’s sure he’d agree to anything, at this point, to take
the strain out of Masaomi’s voice, has offered compliance before realizing the
ramifications of that. “Uh. I’m not actually sure --”
“It’s okay.” Masaomi takes a breath, lifts his chin. There’s something behind
his eyes, a shadow still lingering in his gaze, but his smile is warm and
apologetic, his voice an attempt at normalcy again. “I’m a pro at getting
blowjobs, I’ll talk you through it.”
Mikado laughs, because he’s supposed to, and if it’s a little weak Masaomi
doesn’t comment on it. It’s easier to duck his head than he expected, easier to
take on the unknown than the uncanny almost-familiarity of Masaomi’s
expression, and then he’s at eye-level with Masaomi’s hips, the top of his head
bumping against the other boy’s stomach as fingers curl gently into his hair.
“Just lick,” Masaomi says over his head, his voice nearly normal again. “Or
suck, or both. Careful with your teeth.”
Mikado swallows. “Okay.” He’s close enough that he can feel how hot Masaomi has
gone, can see the damp catching at the flushed head of the other boy’s cock.
His heart is pounding, his thoughts whirling too fast to process, so he does
the easiest thing, and shuts his eyes as he stretches to lick against the hot
skin.
Masaomi groans over him, a burst of sound so low and trembling there’s no
question of his appreciation. The sound burns down Mikado’s spine, far more
effective encouragement than the bitter on his tongue, and he tries again,
pushing aside the salty stickiness against his lips to focus on the sound of
Masaomi breathing harder over him and the tension at the fingers in his hair.
“Perfect,” Masaomi’s voice gasps. “You can suck, too, if you want.”
Mikado opens his eyes to orient himself, to steady out his surroundings against
the dizzying rush of blood to his head. He has to open his mouth wider than he
expected, to get Masaomi past the edge of his teeth and back over his tongue,
but the other boy whines appreciation over him, tilts his hips up in a tiny
motion of encouragement.
Mikado has no idea what it was he did wrong to begin with; in the end, this
feels more awkward, his movements clumsy with inexperience and sloppy with the
damp of his tongue and the occasional slick salt off Masaomi’s cock. But
Masaomi is shuddering pleasure, his fingers smoothing gently through Mikado’s
hair, and his panicked tension of before is gone like it never existed. The
only strain in him now is the pull of anticipation in his legs, the flutter of
pleasure across the edge of his stomach that Mikado can see, and Mikado’s jaw
is just starting to ache with the angle he’s holding it at when Masaomi
whimpers low in his throat and jerks up against his mouth. The hot stickiness
of him coming is bitter on Mikado’s tongue, burns against his throat when he
swallows the liquid back, but when he pulls away to look up Masaomi is looking
at him with so much softness in his eyes that Mikado forgets all about the salt
on his tongue and the ache in his jaw.
Masaomi is the one to reach out for Mikado’s shoulders, to maintain his hold as
he leans back so he drags the other boy down on top of him. Mikado tries to
offer protest: “Masaomi, I need to change my jeans!” but it doesn’t stop him
from leaning in when urged, setting aside his concern for the sticky mess
against his skin in favor of falling atop the other’s shoulder.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Masaomi declares to the top of Mikado’s head, his voice
loud to fill the room with its presence. “You can’t run away after we’ve
consummated our undying love for each other, Mikado. Don’t you want to bask in
my presence?”
Mikado laughs against Masaomi’s shirt, submits to the weight of the other’s arm
falling across his shoulders. It’s true that there’s not a rush for clean
clothes, true that he’d rather be here, sticky lips and dirty clothes and all,
than tidy and clean and alone in his room.
He doesn’t know why he doesn’t ask about the other’s reaction, when the silence
forms long enough to give him ample opportunity. The question is clear on his
tongue, curiosity burning in the back of his head. But he doesn’t speak, turns
his head in to press his lips to Masaomi’s shoulder instead, and when the other
relaxes into relief against the floor he thinks he might have found a good
enough reason.
Intuition whispers that he might not want to know the answer to this particular
question, anyway.
***** Shizu-chan *****
Izaya is leaning against the couch when Shizuo comes home.
It’s not a complete surprise; the lack of resistance when the blond turned the
key in the lock was a tip-off, telltale given that he never leaves the door
unlocked and that only one person he knows would bother to pick it. It’s still
enough to set his teeth on edge, even more so than Izaya usually manages alone,
brings him seething into the apartment as he slams the door shut behind him
with more force than he intended.
“Izaya-kun.” The syllables feel like a curse on his tongue, carrying the weight
of a threat as they hiss past his teeth. “What are you doing here?”
Izaya’s mouth falls into a pout, his eyes going wide in the worst imitation of
innocence Shizuo has ever seen. “Shizu-chan.” That’s supposed to be hurt,
probably; it would sound sincere, on someone else’s tongue. “Is that any way to
greet a visitor? It’s no wonder you never have guests, if this is the state of
your manners.”
Shizuo growls, threats sliding incoherent in his throat, takes a step forward
to close the distance between the two of them. Izaya laughs, hold his hands up
palm-out in a show of capitulation Shizuo believes no more than his smile.
“Come on, Shizu-chan,” and at least that purr is sincere, that tone has all the
danger of true Izaya under it. “You know I only ever come here for one reason.”
Shizuo’s eyes drop from the threat of Izaya’s eyes to the front of his jeans,
pulled there inexorably by the suggestion under his words, and Izaya laughs,
tips his hips forward so the tension against the zipper becomes transparently
obvious.
“I knew you could figure it out,” he says, and Shizuo wants to hit him, wants
to shove him out the door and slam the weight of it in his face, but his body
is betraying him, heat rising in his blood like it’s being drawn magnetic to
Izaya’s, and when he lunges in to grab at Izaya’s shoulder it’s his mouth that
hits Izaya’s smile instead of his knuckles. He can feel the scrape of teeth at
his lip, Izaya’s laugh cut short by the friction of his mouth before he bites
at Shizuo’s skin, and this is all familiar, this is a game Shizuo knows all the
rules to.
Then he takes a breath, sucking air hard through his nose, and everything
twists sideways, goes uncanny and wrong even as Izaya is opening his mouth to
purr encouragement and slide his tongue in against Shizuo’s. It’s enough to
pull the blond back, to bring his hand up to a fist on dark hair so he can
twist Izaya away, arch his neck back to keep his mouth free.
“You smell wrong” and he does, there’s the usual burn of oil-slick heat in
Shizuo’s nose but it’s layered over, some less heated scent catching against
the top like a transparent veil drawn over a familiar scene. Shizuo ducks his
head, presses his nose to the shoulder of Izaya’s shirt, and when he breathes
in it’s like it’s someone else pressed against him, like there’s a second
person fitting into the gaps between their bodies.
Shizuo doesn’t process the heat that tears through him as jealousy. It doesn’t
feel like any emotion that can be restrained with something like words; it’s a
feral force, as vicious and full-bodied as the rage that sometimes takes his
body from his mind and moves his muscles without his permission.
“You let someone else touch you” and he’s shoving Izaya off-balance, tightening
his fingers hard at the back of the other’s neck to shove him across the room
towards the bedroom. Shizuo can feel the flutter of Izaya’s pulse pounding
under the pressure of his fingertips, can feel the tension of Izaya trying to
catch his balance as Shizuo propels them forward fast enough to keep the other
stumbling. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care that Izaya is laughing instead of
whimpering, barely recognizes his own voice under the growl in his throat.
“How dare you.”
“I didn’t think you were possessive, Shizu-chan,” Izaya pouts, but he’s
laughing, there’s amused delight belying his claim. Shizuo shoves at the
other’s neck, sends his feet stuttering in a barely-controlled fall across the
room while he stalks in the other’s wake. Izaya catches himself at the edge of
the bed, braces a hand against the sheets, and he’s half-turning so Shizuo can
just see the glint of color in his eyes before he closes his hand on Izaya’s
shoulder and shoves him back over the bed.
“I’ll kill you,” he spits. “You come here smelling like someone else and you
expect me to fuck you?”
“Of course,” Izaya smiles, expression showing no sign of concern at the way
Shizuo’s fingers brace against the base of his throat, the way the other’s hand
digs in against his airway. “What better way to reestablish your claim?”
Shizuo wishes he could resist. He wishes he could push away, could kick Izaya
out of his apartment if only to deny the other the satisfaction of being right.
But the suggestion shoots through him like electricity, offers an outlet for
the furious ache of jealousy under his skin, and when he growls it has the low
undercurrent of agreement to it, makes Izaya laugh as Shizuo fists his free
hand in the other’s shirt to shove it high up his chest. Izaya doesn’t resist
at all, doesn’t even offer a protest when Shizuo jerks hard enough on the
zipper of his jeans to jar the metal teeth out of alignment. He just arches his
back, tilts his hips up to make an offering of the heat under his boxers, and
Shizuo hisses incoherent frustration and drags the dark of Izaya’s jeans off
the shape of his legs. He looks fragile without the defensive shadows of his
clothes, satisfyingly vulnerable to the strength of Shizuo’s fingers, and when
the blond shoves sideways to flip Izaya onto his stomach the pressure leaves
red friction printed against the other’s skin.
“Be gentle or you really will kill me,” Izaya croons, rocks his hips down
against the bed like he’s intrigued by the idea. Words notwithstanding he looks
calm, not a flicker of fright visible in his eyes when he glances sideways or
across his face, even when Shizuo shoves futile force against his shoulders.
“Shut up.” With the jeans off it’s easy to strip Izaya’s boxers off one-handed,
to leave the white-pale of his skin running in a smooth line up along the backs
of his legs all the way to the edge of the shirt rumpled against the curve of
his back. Izaya stops talking but he switches to laughing, giggling against the
sheets like he can’t hold back his amusement. Shizuo doesn’t bother trying to
cut off the sound -- he knows from experience that’s a useless attempt. It’s
easier to just suck wet over his fingers, to slide his hand down to shove Izaya
against the bed and hold him steady while Shizuo presses the saliva-slick of
his fingers into the other.
He’s not gentle. He’s never gentle, with Izaya, but that’s never won him so
much as a whimper of pain out of the other’s throat. Today is no exception,
even though Shizuo can feel the force of jealous aggression tightening vicious
under his arm, working his movements faster even than usual. Izaya just groans,
a full-throated sound as much taunting as it is pleasured, his body tightening
around Shizuo’s fingers in a shudder that feels wholly genuine.
The reaction brings another possible explanation to Shizuo’s head, grits fury
into his jaw and thrusts his fingers in deeper, hard enough that Izaya’s back
arches under him and the other’s legs quiver with the force. “Did you let
him fuck you?” The word becomes raw rage on Shizuo’s tongue, heat hissing into
steam in his throat, until the tension of Izaya clenching around his fingers
only serves to add fuel to his suspicious rage.
“No,” Izaya says, still sounding amused until Shizuo draws his hand back and
shoves back in all at once. “Ah. Be gentle, Shizu-chan, I said no.” That sounds
more genuine, sounds like real sincerity, and some of the knot of bitterness in
Shizuo’s chest loosens into the more ordinary heat of desire.
“Good,” Shizuo says. Izaya’s pressing hard against the bed, grinding his hips
down against Shizuo’s sheets in time with the movement of the other’s hand, and
Shizuo is still aching with possessiveness, with the need to mark all Izaya’s
body as his own. Izaya whines when he pulls his hand free, a breathless sound
of protest drawn taut over anticipation, and Shizuo hisses wordless response,
keeps his hold to brace Izaya in place while he pulls his own slacks open and
gets a knee up on the bed alongside Izaya’s hip. The fabric draws tight against
his legs, catching awkward and dangerously close to tearing at the seams, but
Shizuo doesn’t bother to reposition himself. He’s too busy pushing his clothes
half-off his hips, spitting damp against his palm so he can drag his hand over
himself with the uneven lubrication of saliva. It’s better than nothing, at
least, and it’s not like he’s concerned with Izaya; he’s interested in haste,
above all else, interested in fisting a handful of Izaya’s hair and shoving his
face against the sheets, holding the other down between his hip and his hair so
Shizuo can shift his hips into position and rock forward blindly. The movement
is rough, their alignment off for lack of care, but Shizuo hisses and Izaya
tips his hips up, and Shizuo’s cock catches and sinks into the heat of the
other’s body. Izaya makes a sound, the details lost to the sheets, but Shizuo’s
groan of victory is clear in the room, physical satisfaction hitting mental
pleasure until his whole body is humming hot with vicious delight.
“Mine,” he says, coherency coming back as the fury of jealous fades, as he
burns his friction into Izaya’s body. “You don’t let anyone but me fuck you,
Izaya-kun, I’ll kill you if you do.” Izaya makes another sound, the meaning
lost to the bed, and the blond pulls at his hair, turns his head sideways so he
can see the tension of sensation creasing Izaya’s forehead and the heat panting
against his lips.
“Okay,” Izaya says, rocks his hips down against the bed. His tongue slides past
his lips, trails damp over them before he flashes a grin and glances sideways.
“You really are an animal, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you,” Shizuo snaps, thrusts forward hard so Izaya’s eyes shut for a
moment and he makes a sharp noise of shock at the impact. There’s a wave of
tension through Izaya’s body, the first outline of satisfaction coming for him,
and Shizuo leans in closer, squeezes tighter to bruise against Izaya’s hip.
“What did you do, then?” Curiosity is burning under his skin, reckless
unconcern for what answer he gets in the reassurance of possession, and he’s
flushing hot, his shirt starting to stick to the sweat forming against his
shoulderblades. “You didn’t let him fuck you. Did you fuck him?”
Izaya rolls his eyes, grinds in against the bed. “Hardly. I didn’t even come,
that’s why I’m here in the first place.” Shizuo shoves into him again, drives
the air out of Izaya’s lungs in an audible rush, and Izaya has to gasp a breath
before he manages a gasping laugh. “Why do you even care?”
Shizuo lets Izaya’s hip go, pushes his hand down between Izaya’s hips and the
bed. The other is hard against the mattress, his cock slick and sticking to the
sheets; he starts to moan satisfaction as Shizuo’s hand closes on him, the
sound cutting off into a whimper of protest as the blond tightens his grip past
the point of friction, presses hard against the base of the other’s length.
“Tell me,” he hisses. “Or you won’t come now either.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Izaya pants. He’s rocking forward, trying to grind against
Shizuo’s grip but not getting any real traction off his movements. “I was just
helping him realize his true feelings.” Shizuo drives forward again, watches
the way Izaya’s expression goes slack with heat for a moment. “You don’t have
any competition to worry about.” A blink, dark lashes sliding over bright eyes,
and Izaya’s looking sideways at Shizuo, his mouth pulling sharp into a laugh
around the gasp of his breathing. “It’s not like he wanted it anyway.”
Shizuo’s rhythm stutters, the cold running down his spine enough to stall his
motions for a moment. They’re both still for a heartbeat, Shizuo still flushed
and aching with anticipation, Izaya breathing hard against the sheets and so
hard Shizuo can feel every heartbeat under his grip against Izaya’s cock.
Then Shizuo shuts his eyes, ducks his head and starts moving again, faster and
harder now like he’s trying to outrun that chill under his skin. Izaya makes a
noise of protest when Shizuo’s hold doesn’t loosen, rocks his hips like he’s
trying to remind the blond of his grip, and then he says something Shizuo
doesn’t listen to. It doesn’t matter. Shizuo’s hold doesn’t falter, his fingers
stay tight even as the heat in his blood crests and rushes over him, granting
him at least physical satisfaction as he comes into Izaya. Izaya’s still
moving, rocking his hips in frustration through the pulses of Shizuo’s orgasm,
hissing threats now as much as encouragement, but with Shizuo’s hands on him he
can’t break free, can’t move at all until Shizuo slides out of him and lets his
hold go, drawing back to put a few steps of distance between them as fast as he
can.
“Fuck you,” Izaya hisses, rolling over to fix Shizuo with a glare and a snarl
more sincerely furious than Shizuo has ever seen from him before. He’s reaching
out to close his fingers around himself, to jerk himself up over the edge into
satisfaction now that Shizuo’s hold on him is gone. “What the fuck, Shizu-chan,
do you think this is a game?”
“Get out.” Shizuo can feel the cold along his spine spreading, pushing aside
the lingering heat of pleasure in his veins until there’s no room for anything
but ice. “Get out of my house.”
Izaya heaves a sigh, rolls his eyes. “You can at least give me the time to
finish myself off since you won’t--”
“Get out.” Colder still, that, heavy on his tongue like it’s made of lead. “If
I can still see you in thirty seconds I will kill you, Orihara.”
Shizuo has never before seen the expression that Izaya makes. His eyes flicker
wide, his mouth going slack until there’s no trace of his usual smirk anywhere.
Shizuo never realized, before, how frightened his eyes look without that smile.
“Shizu--”
“I won’t repeat myself.”
There’s a pause, a moment while Shizuo counts off seconds in his head. Then
Izaya’s moving, sliding off the bed to pick up his abandoned clothes before
making for the door. Shizuo thinks he might hesitate in the entrance to the
other room, might be about to say something, but he doesn’t look to see, and
after a moment the complete lack of sound speaks to Izaya ghosting noiselessly
into the living room.
Shizuo shuts the door to the bedroom without turning, leans his shoulders
against the weight and tips his head back. He can’t hear Izaya moving on the
other side, but after a minute there’s the drag of the front door opening, a
click as it swings shut. Shizuo lets his breath out, reaches into his pocket
for a cigarette from the crumpled pack.
He’s still cold by the time he’s smoked it down to ashes.
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