It starts as a simple invitation – or as a dare, rather, because Shizuo’s as loud as ever when he says it, threatening and glaring and storming off like he hasn’t just asked his enemy of ten years to meet him for what can only be intimate relations. The thought alone is enough to leave Izaya a mess of breathless laughter.
Shizuo doesn’t want to kill Izaya. He just hates him. If the flea would just quit coming to Ikebukuro, everything would be fine.
What are the death threats for, then, Shizu-chan?
The blonde pauses, blinks down at concrete and loosens his grip on the informant’s throat. Izaya slips right through his fingers – ducks and leaps past him to land a mere meter away.
I’ll almost-kill you. So you won’t come back here.
Izaya laughs. You’re not trying very hard. Careful, or I’ll get away again.
Shizuo takes a step forward and watches Izaya’s lips as the informant taunts him again – I doubt you have the finesse to bring anyone that close to death without actually killing them, anyway – and as a dangerous stillness falls on the alley and the informant smirking right back at him with his arms crossed on his chest.
He surprises Izaya the most right then. He grins, slow, and – no, I’m sure I do.
It’s obvious that the meaning behind his words has shifted, and he cocks his head to one side as his gaze follows Izaya’s single step backward.
My place, tomorrow. You can talk after you prove me wrong.
Tomorrow is even hotter - suffocating, crashing waves of heat that shimmer like water above every distant centimeter of cement. Izaya knows that heat means anger and that Shizuo means violent rage, but he decides that Shizuo’s kind of fury might not be too bad stuffed between a few sweat-drenched sheets and bound by soft – he’ll leave a mark, he knows he will – caresses.
“I can’t believe you actually came,” Shizuo murmurs when he sees him. He doesn’t offer his guest anything to cool down with – just leads him into another room and fixes him with an expectant gaze. It’s sweltering, Shizuo’s poor old AC completely broken and a single fan spinning in one corner only shuffles waves of stifling air back and forth.
Hm. Well, anything like lemonade – cold, ice, condensation on smooth glass or the courtesy behind gestures like that – would run counter to what they both want. Heat. Loud shouting and moans and scratching nails. Izaya knows. There will be no finesse; the bet is lost before it’s even begun.
He wonders, though, if Shizuo will try to resist what he has planned – because the one promising finesse should also be the one on top but that isn’t how Izaya means to play this. Because domination is Izaya’s forte.
He feels his mouth growing wet with want as his fingers initially find bare skin – smooth, damp, and incredibly hot to the touch. He can feel the blonde’s pulse hammering in his throat, can see even in the old apartment’s half-light the darkening of his eyes and the little shiver that runs through him as his bowtie folds in on itself – a crumpled mess, a whisper of fabric on the sheets of a futon and dusty tatami – as Izaya removes it with one smooth motion.
He pushes him back with just a few fingers, and Shizuo’s eyes widen slightly as he follows the unspoken directions. He lies down – beneath Izaya, blonde hair splayed in a short halo all about his face. There’s a surprise – and another, for the bodyguard’s mouth remains determinedly shut, a relaxed line of pink and silence.
“Thanks for the invite,” Izaya purrs into the blonde’s neck as his slender fingers work at button after button. “Think you’ll be able to handle me?”
“Same to you.” That would have been one of many ideal answers, and the informant waits for it until both layers of the blonde’s uniform have been discarded in the same manner as his bowtie.
That’s when he glances up, when he notices the fire glowing beneath the blonde’s skin. Like hot coals, the red spreads and dyes all of Shizuo’s face with quiet shyness and insecurity.
“Oh,” he teases, “Shizu-chan’s embarrassed.” He rakes his palms over as much of Shizuo’s chest as he can, then, and the blonde’s eyes slip shut – his lips parting slightly to taste salt and sweat in the air – before he collects himself enough to lend the informant a hand. Up on one arm, it’s easier to discard what remains of his clothing, to extend inquisitive fingers and – and no buttons, so there is the muted sound of black fabric parted right down the center and some clumsy tugging at slipping sleeves and blood pumping its way into every extremity.
There is never any response. No response but more clothes falling away, more bare skin and sweat glistening as the heat grows greater and greater – more surrendering much of that job to Izaya and his dexterous hands, and Shizuo’s own hands free his throbbing cock of the constraints of boxers when it all becomes too much to bear.
The informant frowns down at him, then – erection completely soaked in precum, eyes half-mast and dark and skin shining everywhere, sticking blonde hair to forehead and sheets to dripping skin – and he licks his way from one edge of Shizuo’s collarbone to the other. “You know, you are allowed to talk,” he murmurs into the dip of his throat. His breath gusts again across the other man’s bare skin, and all he manages to elicit with that is a low moan.
“Hurry,” Shizuo whispers. He reaches up, both hands on Izaya’s shoulders. He pulls him into a kiss – noses bumping, chests close and the friction against Izaya’s nipples is enough in itself to send his cock twinging and dripping down onto the pale glow that is Shizuo beneath him. Their lips are hot, too – sticky, saliva like a chain connecting their two mouths, and the dance is not synchronized but that’s to be expected with so little practice beforehand.
Izaya hurries. It seems pointless, but there’s a bottle ready and waiting and he might as well – so he grabs it, the tube of lubricant, and moans as his fingers slide past every one of the sweetest points along his shaft. Head to hilt, and he can feel every part of him straining for more, for pressure and motion and Shizuo. Fully lubricated and trembling and barely rational anymore, he lifts the blonde’s knees up to meet his chest – skin on skin, slick and slippery and sliding – and laughs at his rival's startled gasp as the first finger is inserted.
Slowly, that. He strokes the outer edge of the ring of muscle and delights in the way it contracts, in the shuddery sigh that Shizuo offers up in exchange. Then the tip, and Shizuo’s throat tightens as a heavy knot of want ties itself about his lower body. A bit more, and every centimeter burns and aches and Shizuo has to fight the urge to writhe about and soft moans and hands tightening in fistfuls of white sheets.
“Sing for me, Shizu-chan.”
Shizuo breathes out – loudly, a delighted exhalation but almost as silent as it is erotic. “Nnnn…”
Oh, that’s really no fun, and Izaya can only get the reaction he wants by trying a bit harder. The next finger comes more quickly, all at once, and the scissoring motion sends waves of sharp pain and fire racing through the long axons of Shizuo’s screaming nerves. “How’s that,” Izaya pants, and Shizuo’s too focused on the pain and the pleasure to search for his own voice.
There’s definitely no finding it, either, when Izaya removes his fingers and angles downward – anxious fingers guiding him stiff and heavy and Shizuo filled to the brim, the blonde’s eyes widening and then crashing shut as his mouth falls open and a thin line of saliva runs past bright-red lips to dampen what is already soaked. That first thrust is smooth and easy and almost frictionless. It’s heavy, it’s no more time passing and Shizuo ready to cry for all that he can’t hold everything in at once. The fulfillment of that first moment is too much.
He whimpers softly on the next thrust, when Izaya adjusts the angle once more and speeds up and finds the blonde’s prostate with all the force he can muster given a single snap of his hips. Shizuo’s hands scramble at Izaya’s shoulders – still holding them tight, bruising and hurting. It’s funny, though, because there isn’t any anger in that pain. Not hate, but lust – passion, want, need, maybe-almost-kind-of love.
“Better be careful,” Izaya gasps as he pulls back – drags his nails from point A to point B and watches an agitated red rise where his hands have been – and then snaps back again, fast. “Showing me a face like that” – and Shizuo finally recognizes the rhythm and tries to follow it with his own muscles straining and scrambling at things that yield no purchase – “Shizu-chan.”
Shizuo whispers a moan and jerks his head off to one side. His bangs fall back onto the futon and his eyes never leave Izaya’s face. The informant can see the brown, the warm milk chocolate melted and now maybe eighty-five percent dark.
But that metaphor doesn’t entirely work; dark chocolate is bitter and healthier than its lighter counterpart. It packs more of a punch, and it could – Izaya thinks with a smirk and the slap of skin and Shizuo’s back arching as he comes very close but not close enough yet – yes, it could almost be called pure.
This Shizuo is pure – intense, too, but the shine of his eyes and the twitching muscles of his arms and chest and abdomen accomplish much of that without any real effort on his part – but he’s not particularly safe and that’s becausehe isn’t bitter. It’s because he’s melted like this beneath Izaya, because his dare has crumbled into a thing without excuses. It’s devolved into a tryst with meaning, and if the look in his eyes isn’t evidence of that Izaya doesn’t know what is.
Shizuo’s mouth stumbles over the shapes of words and still he’s silent. It’s sort of incredible, Izaya thinks. Shizuo’s walls spasming and tight around him, his cock visibly throbbing and Izaya’s own chest thrumming at a dozen heartbeats per second, and still the nonsensical babblings of orgasm are nothing more than trembling lips and jets of hot white.
Izaya follows – the extra pressure, the squeezing and Shizuo’s eyes opened wide as he gasps Izaya’s name finally out loud – and the blonde falls back limp and breathing hard as the informant leaves him full to the point of leaking.
The afterglow is damp and feverishly hot, Shizuo welcoming Izaya’s weight right beside him and a gentle, one-armed embrace. The fan continues to hum from its lonely vantage point in the shadows of a barely-lit bedroom, and Shizuo turns a sheepish grin on the informant when he lays claim to the trophy of victory – two words, I win, and it’s a trophy because neither of them has ever had the chance to say it before now.
Shizuo shakes his head. “No way. It was a draw.”
And Izaya laughs again – short waves of velvet and refreshing coolness – because only moments after the blonde is just as vocal as ever – because this is how he’ll keep him coming back –
– because there will be more opportunities, now, for the informant to drag syllables and sentences out of the blonde and to use and teach finesse by degrees in this stuffy little room with its broken AC and nothing to drink but sweat and cum and humid air.