Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10665015.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Durarara!!
  Relationship:
      Heiwajima_Shizuo/Orihara_Izaya
  Character:
      Heiwajima_Shizuo, Orihara_Izaya, Orihara_Mairu, Orihara_Kururi
  Additional Tags:
      Pining, Best_Friends, Friends_to_Lovers, Missing_Scene, Repression, Light
      Angst, Denial_of_Feelings, Sexual_Fantasy, Developing_Relationship,
      Masturbation, Light_Masochism, Bruises, Established_Relationship, Anal
      Fingering, Anal_Sex, Love_Confessions, Teasing, Exhibitionism, Living
      Together, Light_Bondage, Spit_As_Lube
  Series:
      Part 6 of Nothing_in_the_World
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-22 Completed: 2017-05-04 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 13340
****** Trespass Sweetly Urged ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "It’s more comfortable with less on, Izaya thinks, and everyone else
     in the house is asleep; and if he lets his fingertips trail against
     the line of his hip and wander over the tension at his stomach, well,
     it’s as good a way to get himself to sleep as anything else." Izaya's
     coping methods are convoluted and entrenched, but in the end, he
     always comes back to the same thing.
***** Distance *****
It’s late by the time Izaya lets himself back into the dark of his silent
house. His clothes took longer to dry at Shizuo’s place than he expected them
to; the denim of his jeans especially, even now it’s still uncomfortably damp
against the weight of the seams at his hips and the inside of his thighs. But
the sun set some hours ago, and even the cleanup after dinner only spanned a
half hour, and Izaya can’t justify spending the night at the Heiwajima house
when he only intended to linger for the afternoon. Besides, Shizuo had offered
to walk him home, and there are few things Izaya likes more, he thinks, than
pacing out the night-dark streets of the city with Shizuo at his elbow to huff
laughter at his teasing and tip in to bump at his shoulder whenever Izaya
scores a particularly good hit. Shizuo’s newly-dyed hair looks paler at night,
Izaya finds, it glows like moonlight in the illumination of the occasional
streetlight; even when they arrive at the front of Izaya’s home Izaya has to
take a moment to look at Shizuo all over again, to accustom himself to the new
color of the other’s hair to go with the absolute familiarity of his dark eyes,
of his curving smile.
“Are your sisters home?” Shizuo asks as they pause at the front step of the
house, frowning as he considers the darkened windows in front of them. “They
should be in bed by now, shouldn’t they?”
“I’m sure they are,” Izaya says, though he’s sure of nothing of the sort.
“Don’t worry, I’ll tiptoe going up the stairs.”
“Mm,” Shizuo hums, though he sounds distracted; he’s still looking at the front
of the house, his forehead creasing on the concern that hasn’t lessened even
over those years it’s had the time to become as familiar to Izaya as the shape
of the other’s face. “You sure you’ll be alright?”
“This is my home, senpai,” Izaya points out with as much condescending drawl as
he can fit on the words. “If I’m not safe from muggings here then I’ll just
have to take my chances.” Shizuo looks away from the windows and back to Izaya
next to him, still frowning uncertainty; Izaya wonders if he knows how much
more intimidating the expression is with his much-lightened hair. It’s easy for
Izaya to let the corner of his mouth curve up, easy to let his head tip to the
side; when he speaks his voice lilts over amusement he doesn’t have to reach
for. “With the way you look right now, anyone who saw us would think you were a
bully trying to force me to let you into my home.”
Shizuo’s forehead creases on confusion for a breath; Izaya can see the exact
moment he remembers the change to his appearance, can see the flush that hits
the other’s cheeks before he lifts a hand to shove against his hair. “Shut up,
I do not.”
“I’m the one who can see you,” Izaya points out as he pulls the door of his
house open without looking away from the smile he’s giving Shizuo. “But of
course you’re right, if you say so, senpai.”
“Brat,” Shizuo tells him, his frown breaking into laughter, and he pulls his
hand from his own hair to rumple through Izaya’s instead. Izaya grins and ducks
his head, going through only the barest motions of trying to pull away while
actually succeeding at nothing of the sort.
“Quiet,” he tells Shizuo in the loudest stage-whisper he can manage. “Some
people in this house are trying to sleep. Shouldn’t you be in bed yourself?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shizuo says, sounding completely unapologetic as his hand slides
over Izaya’s hair, landing for a heartbeat of time at the other’s shoulder
before he lets it fall. “I’m going. Are you actually going to go to sleep at a
reasonable hour?”
“I’ll be in bed before you get home,” Izaya promises, still holding to the
handle of the door and smiling around the edge of the frame at Shizuo.
“Promise.”
“Uh huh.” Shizuo sounds unconvinced but he doesn’t push the issue; he’s moving
away instead, walking down the steps to head back towards the main street as he
lifts a hand to wave farewell. “We’ll see how tired you look tomorrow.”
Izaya tips his shoulder in against the inside of the door as he watches Shizuo
leave and pitches his voice loud to call after him. “You’d better apologize
when I’m glowing with a good night’s sleep in the morning.”
Shizuo laughs. “I will,” he promises. “‘Night, Izaya.”
“Bye, senpai.” Izaya stays where he is just inside the open door of his home
while he watches Shizuo turn to stride away towards the street, his newly
bleached hair glowing white-gold in the pale illumination of the nighttime
city; and then he ducks his head, and turns away, and slips into the house so
he can let the door swing shut behind him.
He doesn’t bother turning on a light. He knows the entry and hallway well
enough to navigate by touch alone, and it’s easy enough to turn the lock on the
front door and slip his shoes off at one corner of the tile. From there the
stairway is to the right, a pair of steps diagonally across the smooth polish
of the floor as he reaches to catch at the banister with one hand; and then up,
counting steps as he goes so he knows when he’s reached the top without needing
to rely on the angle of the railing changing under his hand. He pauses at the
doorway to the twins’ room, turning the handle so he can ease the door open
silently and look in on them; they’re asleep as promised, turned in towards
each other in the bottom bunk they end up sharing more often than not and with
the soft rise and fall of their breathing illuminated by the computer screen
still playing over some muted cartoon. Izaya retreats back out of the room as
silently as he entered, pulling the door shut with barely a whisper of the wood
sliding against the frame; and then he turns back down the darkened hallway,
trailing his fingers idly against the wall as he counts out the steps to his
shut door of his own bedroom at the end of the hall.
He waits until he’s inside with the door shut behind him before he turns the
light on. The illumination is blinding, it burns against his dark-adjusted eyes
and makes him squint against the ache of involuntary tears that start at the
brilliant glow; but he leaves it on, blinking the blur of moisture back from
his vision as he makes his way across the clutter on his floor and towards the
desk and bed in the corner. He strips his shirt off as he approaches, has the
clothing loose in his hands to toss towards the laundry hamper in the corner as
he steps closer; he pauses by the chair in front of the desk so he can balance
himself with one hand while he slips his socks off first one and then the other
foot, layering them together before sending them in an arc to follow his shirt.
That just leaves his jeans, the damp weight of them dragging at his hips as he
reaches to unfasten the front; and then they’re free too, sliding down to his
ankles so he can step out of them and drape them over the back of his chair to
finish drying, and he’s left in just his briefs and the summer-warm humidity of
the room around him.
The sheets of his bed are unmade from this morning still, the weight of the
fabric rumpled in on itself from the marks of Izaya’s ever-restless sleep the
night before. Izaya takes a moment to tug them straight, to smooth the lines of
the blankets across the bed into the appearance of order; only for a moment,
after all, before he drops to sprawl across them and fix his gaze on the glow
of the light overhead. The brilliance of the illumination makes him think of
the streetlights outside, of the gold catching to glow against Shizuo’s
bleached hair; and Izaya smiles without thinking of the expression at all.
Shizuo really is easy to predict, he reflects; it’s easy to push him into the
right reactions, easy to draw irritation or amusement or a smile from him with
the right kind of stimulus. There’s always some measure of uncertainty after
that, of course -- it’s hard to say exactly how far his irritation will
stretch, or how much of his amusement will take the form of physical force and
how much verbal teasing -- but Izaya’s sure, by now, he has the basic reaction
settled. Like bleaching his hair. Izaya wasn’t completely sure he could talk
Shizuo around to that one; but Shizuo is the one who had asked him to do it, in
the end, after the months of silence that always seem to come before Shizuo
committing to some major change. The thought makes Izaya smile wider; he thinks
he would be pleased just with the knowledge that he’s been able to convince
Shizuo into changing this aspect of himself, even if he hadn’t been able to
help with the process itself. As it is he got to see the shift of Shizuo’s hair
lightening to gold from its original brown, got to fit his fingers into the
soft wet of the yellow as he rinsed the chemicals free of the strands; he
thinks he can still smell the faint traces of the bleach on his hands if he
tries, imagines the chemical tang is yet clinging to his dried shirt and the
damp of his jeans from when Shizuo shoved him down against the wet floor of the
bathroom and turned the spray of the showerhead on him to soak him to skin.
The air in the room is hot. Izaya can feel the cling of humidity sticking to
the back of his neck and pinning the thin of his sheets against the inside of
his knees; he thinks vaguely of opening the window, of turning the light off
and drawing the curtains open to billow in what wind he can catch from the
summertime warmth pressing against him. Or a shower, maybe, with the water
turned cool to rinse over the back of his neck and wash that lingering hint of
chemical smell from his skin; and it’s while he’s thinking about it that Izaya
is reaching for the top edge of his briefs, and pushing the catch of the
elastic down and free of his body. It’s more comfortable with less on, he
thinks, and everyone else in the house is asleep; and if he lets his fingertips
trail against the line of his hip and wander over the tension at his stomach,
well, it’s as good a way to get himself to sleep as anything else. He fixes his
gaze on the glow of the light overhead, and draws his fingers into a hold
against himself, and lets his wrist fall into the steady stroke of a familiar
rhythm while his mind wanders over thoughts as vague and unformed as the drift
of his fingers a moment ago.
He liked bleaching Shizuo’s hair, he thinks. There was something satisfying to
the feel of his fingers working the harsh tang of the chemicals in against the
other’s scalp, something pleasing to seeing the color of the strands fade from
brown to wheat-gold yellow as a way of measuring the passage of time better
than Shizuo’s habitual impatience. Even the rinsing was more fun than
otherwise; with the air as warm as it is Izaya doesn’t even mind that he came
out more wet than he had intended, doesn’t mind that his teasing ended up with
him on his back on the tile of Shizuo’s bathroom with the other pinning him
down for the splash of the spray against his face. Izaya deserved it, he’s
sure; and there was something thrilling about it, about blinking water from his
eyes to look up at that familiar grin framed with the hair of a stranger, with
the appearance of some unknown delinquent leaning in over Izaya to hold him
down for whatever he chose to do to him. There was no question of wiggling
free; Shizuo had caught Izaya’s hips tight between the press of his legs, even
Izaya’s instinctive struggle to escape from the splash of the water had run up
against that resistance as if against a wall. He might as well have had an
unshakeable weight crushing him to the bathroom floor in place of Shizuo’s lean
frame; it would have made no real difference to his ability to get free.
Izaya’s hand is moving faster, the rhythm of his motion gaining speed as his
breathing catches, as his skin prickles into heat greater even than that
carried by the warmth of the air around him. He’s not thinking about the
tension forming to a knot low in his stomach, or the strain flexing in against
the tops of his thighs; he’s watching the bright glow of the light overhead,
and thinking about the spray of water against yellow hair, and the slide of his
fingers through washed-clean strands, and the warm damp of bare shoulders
tipping back against his shirt. Shizuo’s hair had parted over the back of his
neck when he ducked his head to the water; Izaya had watched the shift of
muscle across the other’s shoulders as he leaned forward, as he bowed his head
down into unthinking surrender to Izaya standing behind him. Shizuo’s voice had
sounded odd under the rush of the shower, echoed off the walls of the bathroom
and the wet of the tile until it sounded lower and warmer than usual, like it
was taking on the same heavy humidity that so fills the summer air; and Izaya’s
breathing catches, the spike of heat in his body startling for how little
attention he’s been paying to it. It’s like it’s someone else’s body, like it’s
someone else’s reactions; his own thoughts are far away and distant, caught in
retracing memories that have nothing at all to do with the pleasure unfolding
from the drag of his hand over himself. He’s just letting off tension, just
answering the demands of his body while occupying his mind elsewhere; but it’s
hard to tell himself that with his breathing catching hot in his chest and his
thoughts fracturing at the edges, like he’s watching his plausible deniability
shudder and crumble under his hold even as he reaches for it.
Izaya sets his jaw, focuses his gaze with intention on the light overhead. He’s
not pressing his eyes shut, he’s not imagining anyone at all; there’s no
structure of a fantasy in his mind, he tells himself, there’s no connection
between the catch of his breathing and the idle recollection of the day in his
thoughts. He’s just remembering the events of the day, drifting through his own
memory without any real goal in calling up the wet of the shower splashing
against his hands, and the edge of Shizuo’s smile cutting up at him, and the
weight of Shizuo’s body pinning his hips to the floor with such casual--
Izaya gasps a lungful of air, shakes his head hard to clear it. He’s losing his
grip on his defensive walls, he can feel them coming down; he has to retreat,
has to pull back from that trembling edge in his thoughts before he slips and
goes over. He’s just thinking about his day, he tells himself, feeling the
insistence take on a desperate edge in spite of his best attempts to hold it
calm and steady; it has nothing to do with the heat pooling in his stomach,
nothing at all to do with the electricity surging up his spine. He went to
visit a friend, to have Shizuo greet him at the door with that smile he always
has for Izaya and the morning sunlight catching to shine at the dark of his
unbleached hair; it’s just friendship, it has nothing at all to do with the
speeding movement of Izaya’s hand and the pace of his breathing rushing to
greater heights in his chest. There’s no weight to the way Shizuo touched the
back of his elbow to lead him through the hallways as familiar to Izaya as
those in his own home, no meaning to the way Shizuo’s eyelashes dipped when he
ducked his head into a laugh at Izaya’s easy teasing. The fit of borrowed
clothes sitting too-large on Izaya’s shoulders, the weight of Shizuo’s knee
pressing against Izaya’s while they ate the dinner Shizuo’s mother is always
happy to provide; the walk home through the falling shadows of night, with
Shizuo’s newly pale hair to catch and glow startlingly bright with each hint of
illumination. It doesn’t matter, Izaya tells himself, that’s not what’s pushing
his breathing fast in his chest, his physical reaction is completely separate
from--and he remembers fingers in his hair, the touch of a too-strong hand gone
gentle to ruffle against the dark weight of the strands, and Izaya’s back
arches, his throat tenses, and he’s coming in a sharp, almost-painful rush of
relief through all his tight-locked muscles. Each surge of heat rushes through
his whole body, from the angled-back line of his throat down to the straining
curl of his toes against the sheets under him; and for a brief, blessed
eternity, Izaya’s not thinking about anything at all.
The mental distance lingers, at least, after the pleasure has released him to
leave him panting and shaky against his bed. The sheets cling to the damp of
sweat at his shoulderblades and along the curve of his spine; Izaya can feel
them shifting when he moves, can feel the weight like an embodiment of the
humidity that is so burdening the air against him and making his breathing come
with such strain in his chest. He stares up at the light overhead, breathes
deep, deliberate inhales of the summer-hot air to fill the need of his
desperate lungs; and he carefully, consciously, doesn’t think about what he’s
just done, doesn’t reach to make any kind of a connection between the
satisfaction that has knocked him so languid and heavy against his bed and the
easy affection in his memories of the day.
If he doesn’t admit to seeing the link, there’s no one to know to call him out
on the lie.
***** Unfocused *****
Izaya’s chest hurts.
This isn’t anything new. It’s been hurting for days, now, aching dully with
every breath he takes as the air filling his lungs strains against the deep-
down bruise laid into his side from the weight of the kick that knocked him
back against the side of an isolated alley. If anything it’s less bad now than
it has been, as slow healing finally eases the sharpest edge of hurt from his
attention; or he’s become accustomed to it, at least, has learned to ignore it
most of the time at school and through the evenings of study or conversation.
But it’s been aching all evening, today, throbbing a dull hurt into the whole
of his body until he can barely keep his mind on the patter of conversation
around him, can barely keep up even the appearance of attention for his sisters
and the regular addition of Shizuo to their company, until he’s more relieved
than otherwise when Shizuo leaves, and Mairu and Kururi go to their evening
bath, and Izaya can retreat to the safety of his room.
It takes some effort to pull his shirt up and free. The bruising against his
side makes any motion tentative, forces him to move carefully if he doesn’t
want to be knocked breathless by a surge of pain; but Izaya doesn’t hesitate,
once he gets the door shut and locked behind him. He just moves at once,
quickly, before he has time to flinch or brace himself against the hurt, and
the action of stripping his shirt up over his head leaves him gasping and shaky
as the clothing drops to the floor from his uncaring fingers. His whole side is
ablaze, dark-bruised skin and damaged muscles alike protesting this sudden
motion; and in the pit of his stomach there’s heat, curling to a tight coil
around itself at the surge of sensation, until Izaya is more than half-hard
even as he moves to drop to sit on the floor alongside his bed.
He doesn’t bother stripping himself down entirely. He’s been shaky with barely-
restrained hurt all day, has felt the edge of this hovering in the back of his
awareness with every deep breath or unwary motion he makes; the satisfaction
here will be in the roughness, in the vicious speed of his hand against himself
and the ache he can pull from his injuries with every shift of his shoulder. He
angles his knees open, drags at his zipper to pull open the fly of his jeans;
and then he’s reaching down, and curling his fingers around himself, and
letting his head drop back against the bed behind him with the anticipation of
relief even before he’s started stroking.
He’s aching for it already. His black eye is fading, more color than pain at
this point; even pressing his fingers against the hurt doesn’t more than twinge
sensation into his body, doesn’t offer more than a flutter of reaction against
the inside of his chest. But the injury over his ribs is worse, deeper and far
more expansive, until all Izaya has to do is lift his free arm up to lie across
the bed to pull all the aching injury taut with straining pain enough to jolt
his breathing, to white-out his thoughts, to flush his cock fully hard against
his grip.
He shuts his eyes to the distraction of the room around him. There’s nothing
worth looking at anyway, no fixed point on which to pin his gaze; and his
imagination is already stepping in, is already forming out the beginnings of a
fantasy clear enough to fill in the whole of the gap left by Izaya’s cut-off
vision. His arm angles up over his head, his fingers catch into a fist at his
hair; and his imagination purrs into life, shifting the familiar angle of his
own fingers into someone else’s, into the weight of a strong hand bracing close
against the back of Izaya’s head with something between stability and threat.
Izaya shifts his knees wider, imagines the shadow of someone else fitting
between them, of a hand sliding down against the bruise marring his side to
grip hard against his hip; and in his hand, against his sliding fingers, his
cock twitches with heat, surging itself to sharper arousal as his breathing
catches on the ache of mingled pain and desire in his chest.
It’s easy to find the shape of the fantasy. It’s like it was there waiting for
Izaya, like the back of his mind had been forming it through the long hours of
the day he’s been spending trying to look aside from the whisper of pain at his
side. Wide-braced knees, hands at his hips, casual strength lifting him up and
off the floor to pull in against the taut promise at the front of dark jeans;
and Izaya groans far in the back of his throat and angles his elbow up higher
so the angle will pull harder against his side. He can imagine it, can feel the
ache against the inside of his thighs as he spreads his legs as wide as they
will go, wider, as he imagines a careless hand at his side and slick fingers
pushing down between his thighs, as his body tightens with the thought of a
finger thrusting into him, a touch working him open as his back arches, as his
breathing catches into a moan of desire. The flash of teeth, the low purr of a
laugh deep enough Izaya can feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the weight of
his balls; and motion, that touch shoving up into him to stretch him open, to
work his straining body warm and ready for the use of the unspecified partner
he pictures pushing him up against the edge of his bed. Another finger, slick
with lube and textured into calluses from years of fighting, from scars long-
healed into smooth stripes of skin across knuckles and palm alike; and Izaya
has to let his grip tighten at the base of his cock, has to stop moving for a
moment while he pants and shudders his way through the tremors of arousal that
follow from the heat of his fantasy. There’s no face to go with the partner in
his imagination, no name to set free from the tension of want in his chest; but
it’s enough to imagine the sensation, to fantasize a pair of fingers pressing
inside his body with strokes that come smoother with every motion, thrusts that
sink a little bit deeper with each repetition.
Izaya lets his hand in his hair go and twists his palm down to clutch at the
sheets behind him instead as he resumes the deliberate stroke of his grip over
himself. That’s the same between his imagination and reality, the friction of
his own hand urging himself closer towards satisfaction; but he barely thinks
of it, barely notes the actual experience of the sensation. He’s lost in his
own imagination, his attention scattered by the illusion of fingers slipping
back and free of his body, of a hand coming to settle against his hip instead
to pull him up and onto the other’s lap. Izaya’s back arches, his body
straining up against the pull of the bruise aching at his side; and in his head
the ache is from the drift of fingers, from the weight of a palm settling in
warm and steady against the injury staining his skin with color. Izaya shudders
with the sensation, with the imagined electricity of contact spilling out into
his veins from the press of that hand at his side, and in his head the hold at
his hip tightens, fingers dragging his weight forward without hesitation to
pull him against the resistance of a hard cock, to press the thick-swollen head
in against his slick entrance. Izaya whimpers at the back of his throat, his
fingers tightening harder in the strokes he’s taking over himself; and in his
imagination there’s a huff of an exhale, a breath easing into intention, and
thighs flexing, hips rocking up, and heat sliding up and into the strain of his
body.
Izaya’s panting for air, now. His cock is slick under his touch, the head going
damp with droplets of pre-come; but all he’s hearing is the voice of his
imagined partner, the low groan as the other’s cock sinks deep into Izaya over
him. Izaya’s shuddering, trembling just with the imagination of the tension, of
the overwhelming pressure driving into him; but that hand would still be at his
hip, those fingers still braced at his side in a hold no less inescapable for
how gentle it would be. Izaya would be fixed in place, as good as motionless
under the careful grip of those hands on him; and “Izaya,” the other would
groan, his voice breaking over the sound with too much heat to hold to his
usual honorifics. Izaya’s hand would be against the flex of a shoulder, his
fingers would clutch for traction against bleached-blond hair; and then his
imagination lets the last inch of the other’s length sink into him, and Izaya
groans something sharp and short and helpless as his cock twitches in his grip
and spills into heat across his bruised stomach. He’s shuddering through the
whole of his body, his whole self trembling with each jolt of pleasure that
runs through him, each quiver of pain that follows the involuntary motion;
until finally the last of the aftershocks fade, and Izaya is left panting
against the edge of his bed with his hand still tight against his cock, his
come drying sticky over his bruised stomach, and his whole body too shaky with
exhaustion for him to do anything but lie back against the support behind him.
By the time he moves to clean himself up, he’s let all the details of his
fantasy except his own satisfaction fade from his memory.
***** Involuntary *****
Izaya barely makes it up the stairs to his bedroom.
He ought to make for the kitchen, he knows. Shizuo had told him to ice the
swelling rising to a sharp ache against Izaya’s hip, had coupled the order with
the frown that says he’s serious, that says he’ll ask tomorrow if Izaya did as
he told him to today; and Izaya does intend to take Shizuo’s advice in this if
in nothing else. But his hands are shaking when he pulls the door to the house
shut, his fingers trembling with so much heat it’s hard to manage the lock at
the door, and Izaya knows absolutely that he lacks the willpower to get the
promised ice before he goes upstairs. So he turns his back on the door, and
holds to the wall for balance while he toes his shoes off in the entryway; and
then he limps towards the stairs, feeling every step jolt pain through the
whole of his body and barely even noticing it for the heat.
He has to get to his room. It would be easier to stay downstairs, to collect
ice from the kitchen and sleep on the couch without bothering with the struggle
of going up the flight of steps that seems endless when every step brings agony
with it; but Kururi and Mairu are home, if asleep in their room, and Izaya
needs privacy, needs it so badly he feels the ache of desperation climbing high
enough to override even the self-preservation that tells him to stop moving,
that tells him to surrender to the pain and go easy on his injured body. It
doesn’t matter that he’s lost his grasp on denial, doesn’t matter that he’s
going to have to deal with the consequences later; right now all that matters
is that he get behind a locked door and out of his clothes as soon as possible.
He almost falls through the door of his bedroom. He thought he had pulled it
shut when he left; but he was mistaken, or maybe the twins have been meddling
in his things again, because when he grabs at the handle for support the door
swings in under his weight, sending him stumbling forward and hissing against
the pain the precipitous motion brings. He catches himself on his first step,
moves forward for his second; and the bruise rising at his hip robs him of
stability, strips the strength from his leg and sends him toppling forward to
land hard against his knee, with only the desperate hold he has on the handle
of his door to keep him even close to upright. It’s painful, the impact at his
knee and the wrenching force at his arm both; but Izaya doesn’t pause to take
stock of that, because he’s in his room at last, and that means he can shove
the door shut behind him, and turn the lock to guarantee himself privacy, and
drop heavily to sit on the floor before the door and surrender to the need in
him.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been hard. He’s been trying to not think about
it, trying to not let his attention dip down to the ache in his stomach, to the
strain of his cock against the front of his pants; he has years of experience
in turning away, uncounted episodes to practice ignoring what he wants, to
polish his ability to find satisfaction for himself without thinking at all
about the origin. But even he can’t avoid this, can’t turn aside from the
immediate reality of his legs angled open around Shizuo’s body, of the warm
weight of Shizuo’s back pressing close against his chest; and when Izaya drops
his head back against the support of the door behind him it’s with a whimpered
exhale that is as much terrified surrender as it is anticipation of the
pleasure to come.
Izaya wonders, as he drags his jeans open and pushes the clothing off his hips,
if Shizuo noticed, wondered if Shizuo was paying attention to the strain in
Izaya’s body against him, to the heat pressing close against the dip of his
spine. It’s an intoxicating thought, as arousing as it is terrifying; that
Shizuo might know, that Shizuo might have felt the evidence of Izaya’s desire
and known absolutely how entirely he holds Izaya in the palm of his hand, known
how helplessly desperate Izaya is for his touch. Izaya’s spent years trying to
disguise that fact, trying to turn away from the reality and close his eyes to
the fact of his own want; and now it could all be undone as easily as that,
with the betrayal of his traitorous body to unveil all his lies as what they
are. Shizuo could have realized, maybe already has realized, maybe knows, now,
that he could have followed Izaya into his house and up those too-long stairs
and into his bedroom to -- and Izaya wraps his fingers hard around the heat of
his cock, and strokes up fast, and gives himself up to the fantasy.
Shizuo would have carried him up the stairs, Izaya thinks, would have taken the
whole flight without so much as hesitating over the effort. He wasn’t even
breathing hard on the front step, even after carrying Izaya for what must have
been a mile or more, he would hardly be dissuaded by the few strides up a
familiar staircase. Into Izaya’s bedroom, through the cracked-open door; and
down, onto the floor, dropping Izaya to collapse against the door as quickly as
Shizuo turned to catch him, to hold him, to brace him back against the support
behind him and crush the heat of his mouth down against Izaya’s. He would be
desperate, Izaya thinks, too certain in himself and in Izaya’s too-obvious
desire to wait for unnecessary permission; his hand at the back of Izaya’s neck
to brace the other steady against the force of his mouth, his fingers gripping
against the angle of Izaya’s hip. Izaya reaches across his body to fit his own
fingers there, to dig in with fingernails that are the closest approximation he
can find for the overwhelming, shattering force of Shizuo’s hands on his body;
and he’s hissing, his cock jerking in his hold until he thinks he might come
just from that, just from the thought of Shizuo holding him back motionless
against his door. It would be easy to let himself go, to bring himself over the
edge and into satisfaction right now; but he doesn’t want to let this fantasy
go so soon, not now that he’s already given in to the dangers of the
indulgence. So he eases his grip on his hip, and slows the motion of his
stroking hand, and tips his knees open wide as he tries to regain the details
of his fantasy, as he loses himself to the hazy allure of desire and
imagination together.
Shizuo’s hands would be steady at Izaya’s body. Izaya can imagine it perfectly,
with all the clarity of recent memory to print Shizuo’s fingerprints against
his skin, to press Shizuo’s hands in under his legs. Izaya could cling to
Shizuo’s shoulders, could give himself up to the force of the other’s presence,
that same all-encompassing reality Shizuo carries with him wherever he goes,
could let Shizuo drop to a knee and strip Izaya’s jeans down and off him to
bare the shake of his unsteady legs, to expose the hard heat of the arousal
Izaya couldn’t help but press in against the small of Shizuo’s back as the
other carried him home. Izaya can picture the way Shizuo’s lashes would dip,
the way his mouth would quirk on amusement at Izaya’s obvious want; the way he
would lean in, maybe, to press his nose to the crease of Izaya’s hip, to gust a
warm breath hot over Izaya’s length and into the gap between his shaking
thighs. Izaya groans in the back of his throat, his hips rocking up in reality
to match the arc of motion he would take in the space of his imagination; but
Shizuo wouldn’t give in to the suggestion of that helpless thrust, would just
purr over a laugh in the back of his throat before getting to his feet again to
pin Izaya back against the door with his hands framing the other’s hips and his
mouth pressing heat to Izaya’s lips.
Izaya shudders with the thought of it, with the imagined taste of Shizuo’s
tongue sliding against his mouth and the weight of Shizuo’s hands lifting him
up, urging his feet off the floor while Izaya clings to his shoulders and
struggles to catch his legs to a hold around Shizuo’s hips. That’s clear too,
he knows how wide his knees would be, knows how much strain he’d have against
the inside of his thighs; and he’s canting his knees open, sliding his feet
wide against the floor of his room while he tries to call up the exact feel of
Shizuo’s body against his, the flex of muscle underneath his legs and the press
of fingers bracing at the inside of his knee. Shizuo could hold him up against
the support of the door easily, without so much as straining himself; and Izaya
trembles again, helpless to the heat that rushes through him. He’d be pinned in
place, braced between the angle of Shizuo’s shoulders and the grip of the
other’s hand at his knee holding him steady, spreading his legs wide to make an
open offering of the heat of his body for the raw edge of Shizuo’s desire.
Izaya imagines Shizuo’s head ducked down, his pale hair falling in front of his
expression as his gaze slides down Izaya’s body, over the rush of his breathing
and the flush of his cock and down to the tension of his entrance, to the flex
of strain in the shadows between his legs; and Izaya whimpers, the sound
humming in his throat as his body arches forward off the door behind him like
it’s giving itself up for the force of Shizuo’s stare, baring all Izaya’s years
of want at once in the tremor of heat tensing all through his body.
Izaya lets his hand at his hip go and brings his fingers to his mouth instead.
His lips are parted, his breathing catching rough in his chest; he presses his
touch in against his tongue to lick wet against the skin. He has lube by the
bed, he knows, it would be easy to pause long enough to make use of it; but he
can imagine Shizuo’s eyes dark with heated want, with desire too overwhelming
to pause for even a few moments of hesitation, and so when he brings his hand
down between his legs it’s with his skin slick with saliva to match the image
in his head, of Shizuo’s spit-wet fingers sliding between his thighs to push
against the tension of his entrance. Izaya takes a breath, feels himself
flexing tighter in involuntary reaction; and then pushes in hard, forcing both
fingers inside himself at once as his imagination tightens Shizuo’s hold at his
knee and strains his body open against Shizuo’s fingers. Izaya’s breath rushes
out of his lungs, spilling into a moan he can’t try to restrain any more than
he can help the flex of his cock in his hand; and in his mind Shizuo’s lashes
dip, Shizuo’s breathing rushes hot against his skin. The fingers in him are
moving hard, stroking him open with haste born of desperation, of need too long
repressed to now be held back; and Izaya is giving way to them, surrendering to
the demands of those driving thrusts as inevitably as he gave way to the force
of Shizuo’s hands on him. There’s no denial left in him, no chance at
repressing the gasping inhales pulling hard in his chest; he’s working deep
into himself with his fingers, pressing friction into the space of his body
while the hand he had stroking over himself stills to the distraction, pausing
to stave off the inevitable rise of pleasure in him. He doesn’t want to come
yet, not when he’s so close, not with Shizuo’s fingers in him instead of--and
in his head Shizuo draws his touch back with a low sound of impatient want, and
in his hand Izaya’s cock jerks hard against his hold.
Izaya can see it behind his shut eyes, can picture it with the absolute clarity
of attention he wouldn’t admit to giving to this subject, at most times of his
life. Shizuo dragging at the fly of his slacks one-handed, forcing the zipper
down without bothering with removing any of the rest of his clothing; his
fingers dipping into the shadows of the fabric to draw out the hard heat of his
cock, swollen stiff with want even before he spits against his palm to stroke
up over himself. Izaya can imagine it too well, the dark curve of Shizuo’s
length weighting against the grip of his fingers, the proof of the other’s
desire jutting out from the familiar lines of his work uniform; and then Shizuo
letting himself go, and reaching out for Izaya instead as preparation gives way
to intention. Izaya tips his legs wider, imagines Shizuo’s hands pressing his
knees back and up, until they’re almost flush with the wall, until Izaya is
panting with the tension against the inside of his thighs; but Shizuo is
looking down instead of at his face, his attention fixed on the angle of his
cock straining towards Izaya’s body and the taut heat of Izaya’s entrance slick
and open from the force of his wet fingers. Izaya’s breathing catches, his
shoulders flex against the wall behind him; and in his head Shizuo rocks
forward hard, his cock driving deep into Izaya’s body as in reality Izaya’s
fingers thrust as far into himself as he can reach, and Izaya can feel
everything in him go tense with inevitability.
He tries to fight it off. He’s not ready, he wants more, wants to imagine
Shizuo pinning him to the wall and fucking him with all the pent-up desperation
of years, wants to imagine the rattle of the door in the frame and the gasp of
Shizuo’s breathing at his neck, wants to imagine the pressure of Shizuo’s cock
swelling inside him and the sudden rush of heat filling his body as Shizuo
groans into orgasm against him; but there’s no time, there’s no holding himself
back, and all he can do is arch against his door and groan in helpless, broken
surrender as his whole body seizes tight on the premonition of orgasm. He can
feel Shizuo’s grip tighten at his knees, can hear the sharp inhale of shock as
the other feels Izaya clench around him; and then Izaya moans, “Shizuo”
spilling from his lips on the first rush of heat, and in his head there’s a
last glimpse of Shizuo’s mouth curving on a grin of satisfied delight before
even Izaya’s imagination gives way to the convulsions of sensation that sweep
through him.
He comes in long, helpless tremors, his whole body wringing tight against the
strain of pleasure rushing through him until he’s left breathless, and shaking,
and with his eyes burning in spite of the darkness of his tight-shut lids.
Izaya stays still for a long moment, letting the last of the heat run through
him until his sweat-warm skin has gone clammy with chill and his pleasure-
roughened breathing is catching on the start of panic instead; and then he
moves all at once, shoving up hard from his position at the floor and stumbling
forward to drop alongside his bed with so much speed that even the quiver of
his bruised hip doesn’t have time to get traction enough to topple him forward.
He fumbles for the box of tissues slid under the edge of the bed, cleaning his
hand and stomach with hasty, unthinking speed before tossing the tissues away
and refastening his pants with shaking fingers. It’s only once his clothes are
back in place and the evidence of his indulgence is gone that Izaya draws his
knees up towards his chest, and leans forward to press his forehead against
them, and curls his arms in over his head to block out any distraction at all
while he does his best to forget what he’s just done, to strip the pressure of
Shizuo’s mouth and the grip of Shizuo’s fingers and the heat of Shizuo’s cock
from his imagination like they were never there at all.
His hip is brittle with pain by the time he pushes to his feet again to venture
downstairs in pursuit of the promised ice, but Izaya doesn’t flinch from it,
just sets his mouth and clenches his teeth and bears the pain as he makes his
way down the stairs and along the hallway towards the kitchen.
If nothing else, he’s good at ignoring things he doesn’t want to face.
***** Face to Face *****
Izaya has just pushed his pants over the edge of the bed when he hears the
sound of the shower shutting off.
He’s been coordinating his timing in the back of his head for the last several
minutes, waiting through the sound of Shizuo washing his hair and counting on
the few minutes the other always spends lingering under the warm spray of the
water for those nights that he takes his shower just before coming in to bed.
Izaya sprawled out across the bed as soon as the splash of the water said
Shizuo was safely distracted for at least a few minutes and let his fingers
wander against the waistband of his jeans as his thoughts wandered over
possible fantasies; but it’s only once he can hear the sound of Shizuo moving
to finish rinsing his hair clean that he finally lets his touch fall to the
button of his jeans and the weight of the fly, pulled taut now over the arousal
Izaya has been slowly stirring himself to with the half-formed images in his
head. He pushes his jeans off his hips along with his briefs, sitting up so he
can drop them over the edge of the mattress and to the floor; and it’s then
that the water turns off, and Izaya can feel his heartrate speed with the surge
of anticipation that hits him just from that.
He doesn’t rush. He listens to Shizuo pulling back the curtain of the shower as
he strips his shirt up over his head and lets it drop to the floor atop his
forgotten pants; he listens to the rustle of fabric as Shizuo dries his hair to
the tousled damp that is as much work as he’s ever willing to put into the
effort before leaving the yellow locks to air-dry. Izaya settles himself in the
middle of the bed, with a leg thrown out onto his side of the mattress but his
head resting at the edge of Shizuo’s pillow; and then he lies back, and angles
one arm up over his head, and lets his fingertips drag in against the line of
his hip.
He’s already hard. That he doesn’t need any encouragement for; he thinks his
plan for the evening would be enough to manage that all by itself, even without
the fragments of favorite fantasies and half-imagined scenes he’s been playing
over in his head for the last few minutes. But it’ll make for a better impact
like this, with his skin flushed to pale color with heat and his cock slick
with a few drops of precome before he’s even pressed his thumb to himself;
Izaya weights his thumb against the wet as he thinks of it, pressing in against
the resistance of his cock more to draw the slick shine out across his skin
than in immediate pursuit of pleasure. The friction aches low in his stomach
and tenses his legs in involuntary reaction, but Izaya doesn’t wrap his fingers
into a hold on himself, just keeps trailing his touch against the heat of his
skin and considering the way the light is hitting him, considering the picture
he’ll make from the angle of the doorway. It’s not until he hears the footsteps
coming down the hall that he finally wraps his hand around himself, pressing in
hard with his grip, and when he pulls up over the aching heat of his cock the
sensation is overwhelming enough to arch his back, and stutter his breathing,
and leave him gasping unfeigned heat just as the bedroom door comes open and
Shizuo steps through the doorway.
“Izaya, are you in--” he’s saying as he enters, his forehead creasing on
confusion; and Izaya tips his head, and blinks himself into focus just as
Shizuo sees him and his words die on his lips. Izaya can see the way Shizuo’s
expression goes slack with shock, can see the part of the other’s lips on the
rush of his breathing; and he can see the way Shizuo’s gaze drags down across
the other’s bare skin, trailing against Izaya’s body from collarbone to ankle
in immediate, involuntary surrender to the invitation the other is making of
himself.
“Oh,” Izaya says, “Shizu-chan” and he doesn’t have to try to pull his voice
into shadowed want, doesn’t have to put on any kind of an act of arousal;
Shizuo’s stare is enough to do that all on its own, enough to make him glad
he’s exactly as far away from orgasm as he is just to keep him from finishing
right on the spot. The idea strikes him for a moment, the too-much clarity of
Shizuo stepping into the room and looking up just in time to see Izaya
shuddering into pleasure on the bed in front of him, under the weight of his
gaze and nothing else, and Izaya has to still the motion of his hand entirely,
has to swallow hard to regain some moisture for his lips. “I didn’t realize you
were done.”
“You are such a liar,” Shizuo says, but the words are distant and distracted.
He’s still staring at Izaya’s hand fisted around himself, his focus is still on
the heat of the other’s bare skin. Izaya is more than happy to return the
favor; Shizuo only has the damp of his hair dripping onto his shoulders and a
towel around his hips to cover himself, and that balanced somewhat precariously
against the dip of his waist. Izaya wonders what he’ll have to do to work the
soft white of the towel loose of its hold on Shizuo’s body. “Have you been
planning this since I left you alone?”
Izaya lets his lashes dip over his gaze, lets the corner of his mouth tug up.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, senpai,” he says, and lets his knees
shift a little wider on the bed so Shizuo can see the pale inside of his
thighs. “I just thought I’d take advantage of my time alone to relieve some
tension.”
“Yeah,” Shizuo says, that one word bearing an inordinate amount of skepticism.
He shifts his feet and drops a hand to hold the towel closer to his side. His
attention is clinging to Izaya’s hand instead of to the other’s face; Izaya
thinks he can see the front of that obscuring towel shifting into tension over
Shizuo’s hips. “I’m sure you did.”
“You don’t have to believe me,” Izaya tells him. “I’ll just finish up and I’ll
be ready for bed. Unless you have an objection?”
Shizuo shakes his head. The damp at his hair is shining damp in the light
overhead. “No,” he says, and takes a half-step backwards towards the weight of
the door behind him. When he leans against it Izaya can hear the click of the
latch falling into place. “Go right ahead.”
Izaya does. It’s easy to keep doing what he’s doing; the movement is simple,
reflexive, the drag of friction up over himself running shuddering heat out
into all his veins from that point of contact. It’s easier still with Shizuo
standing at the doorway, even out of reach as he is; he’s staring at Izaya as
fixedly as when he came in, with only the tension of his hand still bracing at
the side of the towel around his hips to show that he’s paying the least
attention to anything else. His eyes look very dark from across the distance of
the room; Izaya can feel the focus in them as clearly as if it’s Shizuo’s hands
trailing across his body instead of the shadows of his attention.
He takes a breath and draws his hand up higher over his head, angling it over
him so he can tip his head in against the support of his arm, can draw Shizuo’s
attention back up to his face with the motion. He smiles at the other as soon
as Shizuo’s eyes meet his, lets his mouth curve around the soft heat of
suggestion as he dips his lashes over his eyes.
“You look awkward just standing there,” he observes, letting his hips arch up
to flex the inside of his thighs, to make an open offer of his bare skin for
Shizuo’s attention. “Why don’t you come over here and put yourself to better
use than just staring?”
Shizuo moves instantly by way of response. He still has his towel wrapped
around his hips, still has the knot at the side holding it around himself; but
the front is starting to tent over him, and the twist of fabric at the side
shifts precariously as he steps forward to kneel at the end of the bed. Izaya
wants to lift his foot, or his knee, or his hand, wants to push that soft white
barrier down and away to fall to the sheets and leave Shizuo’s shower-damp skin
as bare as his own; but that’s for later, he thinks, because right now he wants
to make this last.
“I only have two hands,” he says as Shizuo slides up the bed towards him,
holding his free hand up to demonstrate. “And I forgot to get the lube ready.”
Shizuo’s mouth quirks on a barely-repressed laugh. “‘Forgot,’” he repeats. “You
never forget anything, Izaya.”
“What a good thing you’re here to help,” Izaya continues, entirely ignoring
Shizuo’s skeptical response. “Get the bottle for me.”
Shizuo’s gaze drops for a moment, skimming against the shift of Izaya’s body,
the flex of his wrist as he strokes over himself, the open angle of his legs;
but “Okay,” he says, and he does move after only a moment of hesitation,
reaching out to brace himself against the edge of the bed so he can stretch for
the bottle set alongside it. Izaya takes advantage of Shizuo’s movement to let
his attention slide down the other’s shoulder and the flex of his chest,
following the lean line of his waist to the burden of the towel falling
tantalizingly open against the tension of his thigh; and then Shizuo is coming
back and rocking over his heels as he offers the bottle for Izaya.
Izaya doesn’t take it. “You know,” he says, like he’s only just thinking of
this. “I’m really not so good with my right hand.” He lifts his hand to
demonstrate, wiggling his fingers through the air as if to demonstrate his lack
of dexterity. “And I always make such a mess when I try to open the bottle one-
handed.”
Shizuo’s mouth twitches. “And you can’t stop jerking yourself off for any time
at all.”
“Of course not,” Izaya agrees. “I’d have to get resettled all over again, it
would be terrible. And since I have you here…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shizuo says, attaining some very mild attempt at resignation on
his tone. Izaya would be more impressed by this achievement if he couldn’t see
the outline of Shizuo’s cock swelling hard under the fall of the towel over his
hips, the rising heat of it so clear the cover makes it almost more obscene
than otherwise. “You’re just taking advantage of me now.”
“What else is a bodyguard good for?” Izaya teases, and Shizuo does laugh, then,
breaking into sincere amusement for a moment as he opens the lid of the bottle
and spills liquid across his fingers.
“I see how it is,” he says as he reaches for the inside angle of Izaya’s close
knee to brace his fingers in against the skin and tip the other’s legs a little
wider open. “This is what you wanted me for all along, is that it?”
“Of course,” Izaya says. “Don’t you know how long I’ve been thinking of this?”
He’s aiming for teasing; from the way Shizuo’s gaze skips up to his face and
the way the other’s eyes go soft and dark for a moment of heat, he thinks he
may have veered a little too far over into sincerity. He clears his throat and
braces his hand up against the wall again before jerking his chin at Shizuo’s
slick fingers. “Do I need to tell you where to put those too, or…?”
“I think I can figure that out myself,” Shizuo says, and suits actions to words
immediately by pressing his hand down between Izaya’s thighs. His fingertips
slide over Izaya’s entrance, the slick of his touch shudders tension up the
whole of the other’s spine; but he doesn’t press in for a moment, just draws
his touch up and across like he’s mapping out Izaya’s body under his touch,
like he’s gauging the shudder of the other’s reactions to the promising
friction of his fingertips. Izaya takes a breath, frames the beginning of a
command against his tongue as Shizuo hesitates for another moment; but then the
other’s wrist flexes, his touch presses up and in, and Izaya groans instead of
protesting as one of Shizuo’s slick fingers slides into the heat of his body.
“Like that,” he says, and lets his leg fall wide over the sheets next to him,
lets himself relax to the stretch of Shizuo’s touch. He shuts his eyes and lets
his head fall to the side, ostensibly in pursuit of that languid relaxation and
more specifically because he knows the movement will draw Shizuo’s gaze up to
the line of his throat. “That’s better.”
“Good,” Shizuo says, his voice purring into shadows as his touch slides up to
press deep into Izaya with the casual grace of familiarity. “Does it feel good,
Izaya?”
“Mm,” Izaya hums. He can feel the sensation of Shizuo’s movement rippling out
through the whole of his body, uncurling up his spine and humming heat under
his skin; it’s like anticipation spilling out to glow through every inch of his
existence, like his body is reacting as much to the promise of tension to come
as to the immediate friction of Shizuo’s touch working into his body. “It’s not
bad.” He opens his eyes, just barely, so he’s looking sideways through the
weight of his lashes at the other. “I mean I could probably do better myself,
but it’s easier like this, so…”
“Shut up,” Shizuo says, his mouth curving onto a smile that glows warm behind
his eyes. “You could not.”
“I could,” Izaya tells him. “You’re too slow, Shizu-chan, I usually start with
two fingers right off the bat.”
“What’s the rush?” Shizuo asks. “You have the whole evening for this, don’t
you?”
“I thought you wanted to go to bed,” Izaya says. “I’d hate to deprive you of
your beauty sleep just for a little satisfaction for me.”
Shizuo’s laugh is low, sounding almost like a seduction as it spills past his
lips. “I don’t mind,” he says, and leans in towards Izaya’s shoulder to ghost a
kiss against the other’s skin. “It’s more than a fair trade.”
“I’m so glad I’m worth an hour of sleep,” Izaya deadpans. He shifts the leg
Shizuo is kneeling over, drawing it up by an inch to threaten the weight of the
towel clinging to the other’s hips. “Isn’t it a work night? Do you think your
employer will be that understanding when you show up exhausted tomorrow?”
“Mm,” Shizuo hums. “I think I can make my case persuasive enough to convince
him to take the morning off.” His wrist flexes, his touch slides in deeper;
Izaya can feel himself clench reflexively around pressure, can feel the shudder
in his legs as his body tenses on the desire to thrust up harder against the
stroke of his hand over himself. “Maybe the whole day, even.”
“Slacker,” Izaya declares, and lets his hand fall against the back of Shizuo’s
neck to trail towards the line of his shoulders. “Give me another.”
Shizuo draws his hand back without protest, sliding a slick finger back and out
of Izaya so he can shift the angle of his hand to press two together at once
and urge them in against the heat of Izaya’s entrance. Izaya lets the breath
rush out of him as Shizuo’s fingers work into him, feels the strain verging
onto the beginnings of pain as his body struggles to open to the force; but
Shizuo goes slow, easing his touch in with practiced care until he’s deep
enough to draw back carefully before thrusting in to gain an extra half-inch of
motion.
“This isn’t even really masturbation anymore,” Shizuo says into Izaya’s
shoulder, his voice low as his fingers work in deeper between the open strain
of Izaya’s thighs. “When does this become sex, exactly?”
“Please,” Izaya pants, and resumes the stroking drag of the hand he had
entirely lost track of in the first slick heat of Shizuo’s fingers pressing
into him. “You’re just helping me out, there’s no need to make this weird.”
Shizuo snorts amusement at Izaya’s shoulder. “Make it weird?”
“Yes,” Izaya says, and lets his arm loop around Shizuo’s shoulders, lets his
head tip in so his lips are brushing Shizuo’s hair. “You’re just being a good
senpai and seeing to it your cute kouhai is well-looked after.”
“I see,” Shizuo says, and draws his fingers back to take a long, drawn-out
thrust back in. Izaya can feel the pressure ache up the whole of his spine, can
feel the heat of it twitch in his cock under his stroking hand. “So there’s
nothing romantic about this?”
Izaya shakes his head. “Not at all.” His cock is going slick at the head,
spilling droplets of damp against the drag of his fingers; he tightens his hold
and pulls his palm up to work hard against the swollen head. “It’s just
physical relief, it’s perfectly normal.”
“Ah,” Shizuo says. His fingers inside Izaya shift, his touch presses deep into
the other’s body; Izaya shudders, his whole body tensing for a moment before he
can recollect his breathing. “I suppose the same applies to me too?”
“Of course it does,” Izaya says, loosening his hold around Shizuo’s neck enough
that he can tip away by a few inches and blink put-upon innocence up at the
other. “Senpai, do you need to let off some tension of your own?” He trails his
fingers down Shizuo’s shoulder and across the thrum of breathing in the other’s
chest, down until he can fit his palm against the fall of the towel still
caught against Shizuo’s hips. “You know all you have to do is ask.”
Shizuo huffs a laugh so low in his chest it sounds more like a groan than
amusement and doesn’t do anything to lighten the darkness in the stare he has
fixed on Izaya. “Is that all?”
“Of course.” Izaya presses up harder with his palm to pin the weight of the
towel between Shizuo’s body and his hand; Shizuo’s lashes dip, his breathing
drags on a groan. His hips jolt forward, his body flexing to buck instinctively
against the resistance of Izaya’s hand. Izaya lets his gaze drop down, lets his
lashes weight heavy over his eyes as he hooks his thumb under the top edge of
the towel and tugs against the fall of it. “Anything for my favorite senpai.”
The towel slides free, falling open as if it was just waiting for Izaya’s
fingers to urge it loose, and Shizuo is laid bare for Izaya’s gaze, from the
flex of his tense thighs and the strain at his stomach to the dark-flushed
weight of his erection. Izaya can’t help the sound he makes in the back of his
throat any more than he can help the way his fingers come out to draw along the
length of Shizuo’s cock.
“Fuck,” Shizuo groans, and he bucks forward again, with intention enough to
slide the head of his cock up and against the press of Izaya’s fingertips. It
makes Izaya’s cock jerk, makes his body clench as if it’s Shizuo’s length
moving into him instead of the breadth of Shizuo’s fingers, and he’s curling
his fingers in against the shaft of the other’s cock before he can think
through the motion, dragging up in a rushed rhythm wholly at-odds with the
press of Shizuo’s touch inside him and his steady stroking over his own length
flushed heavy and hard under his grip.
“It’s just getting some relief,” he says as he drags up over them both, as he
watches Shizuo’s hips flex and rock the other forward to fuck against the
resistance of Izaya’s grip. “It’s only reasonable to offer a...a helping hand.”
“Of course,” Shizuo says, sounding like he’s not completely paying attention to
what Izaya is saying. “Yeah.”
“Right.” Izaya closes his mouth, swallowing hard as he attempts to find some
measure of calm for his voice. It’s hard, with his cock jerking in his grip
with every motion of Shizuo’s fingers and his palm pressing tight against the
hard heat of Shizuo’s length in his hand, but: “You know, this doesn’t seem
particularly efficient, does it?”
Shizuo’s laugh is hot at Izaya’s skin. “Izaya--”
“I just mean,” Izaya manages, sounding raw and overheated and not caring enough
to try to restrain himself, even if he knew he could. “It’s kind of a pain to
jerk us both off, and wouldn’t it be easier for you to have both hands free?”
He tips the knee between Shizuo’s sideways to press hard against the inside of
the other’s thigh. “It’s not like you have to worry about me getting pregnant
or anything.”
“Right,” Shizuo says. “It’s just a matter of convenience, is that it?”
“Exactly,” Izaya agrees, and draws his knee up close to his chest so he can
free his leg from under Shizuo’s body. “It’s easier this way, don’t you think?”
Shizuo huffs amusement. “I’m not about to argue with you.”
“Good.” Izaya braces his heels against the mattress under them and angles his
hips up, bucking up to meet the forward drive of Shizuo’s fingers into him.
“Please, senpai, make use of me.”
Shizuo groans, pushing in hard with his fingers for another stroke before he
slides them back and eases them free of Izaya’s body. “Jesus, Izaya.” He ducks
his head to look down at what he’s doing, closing his lube-slick fingers around
himself just under Izaya’s grip on his cock; Izaya lets his hold go at once,
reaching up for Shizuo’s hip instead to hold himself steady as the other lowers
his weight to line himself up. “I don’t believe you.”
“I know,” Izaya says, deliberately misunderstanding Shizuo’s words. “I’m a
genius.” Shizuo huffs a laugh without looking up, his lips curving into a smile
as he rocks his weight forward, as the head of his cock presses against the
open heat of Izaya’s body; Izaya hooks his leg around Shizuo’s hip and presses
his calf in against the other’s body to urge him closer. “I should have thought
of this years ago.”
“It would have saved me a lot of effort,” Shizuo agrees; and then his weight is
coming forward, his body flexing as he moves, and the hard heat of his cock is
sliding forward and into Izaya’s body, penetrating deep on the first thrust
thanks to the work of Shizuo’s fingers easing Izaya for the strain to come.
Shizuo groans, Izaya whimpers; and then Shizuo lets himself go, and reaches to
brace himself against the bed over Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya resumes the
again-forgotten stroke of his grip over himself as Shizuo starts to move into
him in a slow, steady pace that lets Izaya feel every inch of depth the other
gains.
Neither of them speaks for a moment. This is familiar, simple, this fit of
Shizuo’s body against Izaya’s, this angle of Izaya’s legs open for Shizuo’s
hips; Izaya loses track of even the structure of his half-formed teasing for
the gust of Shizuo’s breathing at his shoulder, and the slick-smooth heat of
Shizuo’s cock pushing into him and drawing out, and the outline of the orgasm
he can feel forming at the base of his spine, and at the inside of his chest,
and in the ache tensing his balls and the length of his cock. He’s starting to
lean into it, starting to feel his breathing coming faster on the start of
anticipation as his movements speed and his hand tightens; and then,
unexpectedly, Shizuo takes a breath, and says “Izaya.”
Izaya has to actively struggle to collect himself. “Senpai.”
“You said this doesn’t count.” Shizuo is moving in a steady rhythm, with the
slow, smooth strokes that always make Izaya feel like the other intends to keep
this up forever, like he could hold himself back from the cusp of pleasure as
long as he wishes. When it comes to stamina, Shizuo has proven an extremely
dedicated student. “Right?”
“Ah.” Izaya nods and tries to pull his teasing persona back around him even as
he feels it slipping free of his grip. “Of course. We’re just relieving tension
in an...efficient way.” He tightens his hold on himself and strokes up with
deliberate focus. “I’m technically jerking myself off, really.”
“Right,” Shizuo says, and lifts his head to look at Izaya under him, to turn
the full focus of his gaze on the other. There’s tension at the corner of his
mouth, the very start of a smile, Izaya thinks; and for a brief moment Izaya
remembers another time, with Shizuo leaning in over him with newly blond hair,
and a smile like that, and mischief sparkling behind his eyes like it is now.
“Makes sense.” And he’s moving at once, so quickly Izaya barely has time to
realize the other’s acting before there’s a hand drawing down his arm and
fingers closing to a gentle hold against his wrist, and Shizuo is tugging
Izaya’s hand up and off himself before Izaya can think to try to resist,
pulling the other’s arm up and over his head to pin down alongside his upraised
wrist.
“Ah,” Izaya gasps at this sudden loss of friction, dragging reflexively against
the hold Shizuo has on him; but his efforts have no effect, not even to
distract Shizuo from catching Izaya’s other wrist under the first to hold them
both down against the mattress over the other’s head. Shizuo’s fingers close
around his arms, Shizuo’s weight tips forward to brace them in place; and Izaya
knows his attempts to break free will be futile even as he pulls against that
gentle, unshakeable hold, can feel the awareness catching to heat in the back
of his throat as he struggles against the sudden enforced helplessness of
Shizuo’s grip. “Shizu-chan, what are you doing?”
Shizuo’s smile is slow, dark and curling at the corners of his mouth and up to
match the shadows in his gaze. Izaya can feel his cock jerk untouched just from
the weight of that look against him. “Making it count.”
“What?” Izaya pulls against Shizuo’s hold again, even though he knows he won’t
break free of the restraint, just to feel how completely unshifting Shizuo’s
grip on him is. “Making what count?”
“This,” Shizuo says, and rocks himself forward to thrust as deep into Izaya as
he can go. Izaya shudders with the sensation, with the pressure as much as with
the tremor of heat that runs up his spine from the drag of Shizuo moving inside
him, but there’s no chance of him losing focus on the other, not when Shizuo is
looking at him like he is. “It doesn’t count if you’re jerking yourself off,
right?” Another movement, long and slow and savouring; Izaya’s legs flex
involuntarily against Shizuo’s thighs, his spine curving up to arch him closer
to Shizuo over him. “What if you come from me fucking you?”
“Senpai,” Izaya pants, letting his voice go shaky and hot on the word. It
doesn’t take much effort.
Shizuo’s fingers flex against Izaya’s wrists, his hold bracing closer against
the other’s skin like he’s trying to press the shape of Izaya’s body into his
memory, like he’s trying to memorize the texture of the other’s skin against
his. “It’ll count then, won’t it?” He’s moving harder, Izaya thinks, or maybe
somehow deeper; maybe it’s just the angle of his hips that is pressing such
impossible friction inside Izaya’s body. “I want it to count.”
“Is that it?” Izaya asks, dipping his lashes to gaze up through them at Shizuo,
to curve his mouth on the most teasing smile he can muster. “Are you in love
with me, senpai?”
“Yes,” Shizuo says, with such absolute speed it takes Izaya’s breath away even
knowing what answer he would get, even knowing how Shizuo was going to respond.
There’s no embarrassment coloring Shizuo’s cheeks, no self-consciousness in his
gaze; he’s just watching Izaya, his full attention holding to the other’s
features as he keeps moving into him, as he maintains that unbreakably gentle
hold to keep Izaya’s wrists up above his head. “I love you, Izaya.” He’s
ducking in, dipping in closer to Izaya under him even as Izaya’s breathing
catches, even as Izaya’s lashes flutter with heat more than artifice; for a
moment Shizuo’s mouth is pressing close against the other’s, punctuating with
the heat of a kiss that Izaya can’t help but lift his chin to lean into. He
whimpers into Shizuo’s mouth, letting the rising pleasure in him spill over the
other’s tongue; and Shizuo breaks away to gasp over Izaya’s lips. “Tell me.”
“Senpai,” Izaya says, meaning it to be teasing, meaning it to be a taunt; but
Shizuo thrusts hard into him, the force coming sharp and out-of-rhythm, and the
word breaks at the middle, cracking into a moan instead as he quivers with
sudden heat.
“Say it,” Shizuo says, and kisses him again, hard and fast, pulling away before
Izaya can even think through the possibility of reciprocation. “Say it
matters.”
“Shizu-chan,” Izaya gasps, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, feeling
that hold bracing at his wrists, feeling Shizuo moving into him with as much
unswerving certainty as he can see behind the dark of the other’s gaze.
“It...ah...it matters.”
Shizuo’s smile is warm against Izaya’s mouth. “Tell me you love me.”
“Shizuo,” Izaya whimpers. “I love you.”
“Yes,” Shizuo says, and his hold at Izaya’s wrists is easing, his hand is
drawing away to brace at the other’s hip instead; but Izaya is reaching for
Shizuo instead of for himself, stretching out to catch his arms around the
other’s neck and brace his hand flat at Shizuo’s shoulder while he gasps for
air to fill the heat rising in his chest.
“Shizuo,” he manages. “Fuck, Shizuo.”
“Yes,” Shizuo says, and “Izaya” and Izaya manages an inhale, air enough to
brace himself here, to reality, to the fact of this moment; and then Shizuo
moves into him, his hips pressing forward to slide their bodies as close as
they can be, and Izaya arches, and moans, and comes, his cock pulsing to heat
against Shizuo’s body pressing close atop his own. Shizuo makes a low sound in
the back of his throat, hot and wanting and a little bit startled; and then he
moves harder, and Izaya has to tighten his hold around the other’s shoulders
just to keep himself to some fragment of reality. Everything is heat,
shuddering through his body and tensing at his muscles and moving inside him,
he and Shizuo in the same space, in the same existence; and then Shizuo tenses
over him, the strain in his body like a barely-delayed echo of the pleasure
still shuddering through Izaya.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Izaya.”
Izaya draws his hand up into Shizuo’s hair, turns his head in against Shizuo’s
cheek. “Shizuo,” he says, and Shizuo groans, his whole body trembling into heat
just like that, like the sound of Izaya’s voice on his name was enough to push
him over the edge. Izaya gusts an exhale, tensing in a last tremor of pleasure
as Shizuo follows him into orgasm; and then Shizuo sighs, and Izaya pulls
against the other’s shoulder, and Shizuo eases the support of his arm to lean
hard against Izaya under him for a long span of heat-hazy minutes. Izaya shuts
his eyes to the rare pleasure of Shizuo’s weight pinning him to the soft of the
sheets beneath him, and for several breaths neither of them speak.
Finally Shizuo shifts, just slightly, enough to brace an elbow against the bed
so he can turn his head to ghost his lips against Izaya’s jaw. “Izaya.”
Izaya winds his fingers farther into Shizuo’s hair. “Senpai.”
Shizuo’s fingers at his hip trail up by a half-inch, just enough for the touch
to skim the lowest of Izaya’s ribs. “Did that count?”
Izaya smiles without opening his eyes. “Shizuo,” he says, slow, to taste the
shape of the syllables on his tongue; and then he turns his head and opens his
eyes to meet the focused gaze Shizuo is turning on him. “It always counts.”
Shizuo’s mouth curves up slow, like the expression is as pleasure-languid as
all the rest of him. “I know,” he says, and tips closer, until his nose is
bumping against Izaya’s and Izaya’s vision is going hazy from the shift of
Shizuo’s lashes so close to his own. “I’m glad you do too.”
Izaya huffs amusement at Shizuo’s mouth. “Of course I do,” he says, in the
loftiest tone he can manage while he’s still coming down from the rush of his
orgasm and pinned down to the bed under the warmth of Shizuo atop him. “Was I
the one who kept you waiting for six years of pining?”
Shizuo coughs something perilously close to a laugh. “Well, now that you
mention it--”
“Come on, Shizuo,” Izaya says, talking loud to cut off Shizuo’s speech. “Are
you going to kiss me or not?”
It’s a completely transparent means to stall Shizuo’s completely accurate
clarification, and they both know it. The fact that Shizuo laughs, and says
“Kiss you,” and does, speaks more clearly than anything else to how well they
understand each other.
He was going about it all wrong before, Izaya decides as the warmth of Shizuo’s
mouth melts whatever slow-rising stress there was in him. It turns out it’s
easiest to face how he feels when he has Shizuo already there with him.
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