For Chappy-the-Bunny
Take No Prisoners
Shizuo isn't exactly sure how he got into this situation, but like many- if not most- of the unpleasant and sometimes simply baffling occurrences that have taken place in his lifetime, he knows for a fact that it's definitely Izaya's fault.
These accusations are completely justified, although after days and weeks and even years of tailing the annoying little flea, he feels that his hatred for Izaya is already justified—like everything else in this crazy town: from headless motorcyclists to high school girls who harbor the powers to enslave an entire city. It's simply accepted.
It's commonplace, his contempt—a well-known fact: Shizuo hates even the smallest grain of dirt that gets lodged in the grooves of the other man's shoes; he hates the tainted air that is trapped momentarily within those dirty lungs, and he hates that stupid tattered coat that always rests so loosely upon Izaya's shoulders.
He hates the way his dark eyes glint like oil slicks when he laughs. He hates that stupid way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he thinks no one is looking. He hates the way he smells of cigarettes when he's never smoked a day in his life, like aftershave when Shizuo is sure his baby cheeks haven't ever grown hair, and an odd musky scent that Shizuo wants to say smells like sex, but for the life of him, he can't imagine who would ever want to have sex with such a walking disease—
But that's not fair, he muses, fingers gripped so tightly against the counter that he can hear the granite crackling. Sweat beads at his forehead as his glasses sit askew across his nose. His hips are snapping against the wooden cabinets below so forcefully that he wonders just how dark they'll bruise. He wonders if he's ever broken his hips before. He wonders what the point is of making them stronger.
And he wonders, in the small, private part of his mind that he won't even show to Celty, if it's really fair to indirectly call someone unattractive while you're fucking them mindless on some stranger's kitchen counter.
Of course, even a completely mindless Izaya-kun was a chatty Izaya-kun, and Shizuo finds himself wishing that the other man would just shut the hell up.
"Shizu-chan," he pants as the force of Shizuo's thrusts jerk his body forward and back, "S-Shizu-chan is s-so rough. No wonder no poor, d-delicate women want to sleep with h-him."
Shizuo tries to drown out his voice by focusing his breathing, the draft that's drifting through the balcony doors from which Izaya came, and the dull thudding of Izaya's bony shoulder blades as they beat rhythmically against the granite with each thrust.
He contemplates the wet squelching sound that's emitting from where they're connected, and with a quick glance downward, he's welcomed with the immediate realization that dish soap lubricant definitely does create suds. He inwardly chuckles.
Outwardly, however, he keens as Izaya's nails dig into the flesh of his scalp, fingers twisting about his hairs and pulling them out little by little.
"Shizu-chan," Izaya's moans somehow meld into words and he growls throatily, wishing the flea would just shut his goddamn mouth and enjoy the ride, "I-I can see y-your roots. They're ugly and d-dark. It's time t-to buy some more d-discount peroxide a-and bleach them o-out."
Izaya's erection drums against his navel, flushed cherry red and weeping as it bounces between the two of them. He's leery of it as it smears precum across his midriff. He's never touched another man's penis before. Then again, he's also never fucked his sworn enemy on some deadbeat client's counter, so maybe today is for first opportunities.
"S-Shizu-chan," Izaya's voice is more of a whine this time. His eyes are incredibly glassy and unfocused for how alert he'd acting, but Shizuo honestly wouldn't put it passed him to have come up with a few jeering insults beforehand to use when he's completely lost himself.
He may be wrong, but regardless of how in control Izaya is trying to act, Shizuo gets the feeling that he doesn't do this type of thing very often either. Maybe he was right in his earlier assumption that no one really wanted to have sex with someone like Izaya.
Maybe the flea is just as alone as he is.
"Shizu-chan, t-the carpet doesn't m-match the drapes."
He decides, however, that maybe they both deserve it: himself for being an uncontrollable, rampaging monster, and Izaya-kun for being an arrogant asshole.
At this moment, he's glad that he disregarded Izaya's arguments and used the dish soap for lubricant. He's content knowing that he can very easily wipe the mess from himself, but Izaya is going to have a Hell of a time getting the bubbles out of his ass.
He's still not quite sure how they've found themselves in this situation, and he's even surer than before that it's entirely the louse's fault.
Well, he recalls, slowing his pace slightly and pulling a hand from the crumbling granite to palm Izaya's erection (which causes the raven haired man to mewl so low and sultry that Shizuo nearly chokes to death on his own spit), that, odd as it was, Tom had sent him alone to collect money from some lowlife's apartment in the dingier part of town. He then remembers knocking hurriedly on the front door and waiting for nearly twenty minutes until his rage got the best of him and he tore the door off its hinges to see if the jackass was hiding from him inside.
He also remembers walking into an empty room… aside, of course, from a very suspicious and very unwelcome Izaya-kun who had come waltzing in from the balcony like he owned the damn place.
Then everything becomes a little hazy. There was an argument, of course, he could have assumed this even if his memory had been stripped clean, and Izaya had starting mocking him. It was something about sexual frustration, about how Shizuo could only lift such heavy objects because he was so worked up, that maybe if he'd let loose and be a little spontaneous, he might actually be able to find a woman to ease his stress.
The next thing Shizuo remembers is gripping the dish soap bottle and Izaya barking something about suds and soap irritating the skin, then….
This.
He's still not quite sure what 'this' is, however.
Part of him feels like snarling in the other man's face, 'How's this for spontaneous, Izaya-kun?'
Another, more sane part of him feels like pulling out of Izaya, even with the coiling warmth in the pit of his stomach and the pleasant velvety wetness of Izaya's inner walls enveloping him.
"Shizu-chan is getting c-close, isn't h-he?" Izaya hisses, nose in the hollow of Shizuo's neck as he grinds into his hand. Shizuo finds himself wishing that the other man's penis were smaller, or maybe that his moans sounded funny or for him to finish too quickly.
He wants some sort of ammunition for when this is all over, something he can hold over Izaya's head for years until he becomes as fed up with it as Shizuo is of that goddamn nickname. Izaya, unfortunately however, seems to be flawless—physically, at least, as he's positive that the ugliness in his rival's soul definitely makes up for what his face and body lack.
He's a little too thin, of course, but there is rippling muscle that's packed beneath his tight skin. He's as soft as anyone else who has never worked hard a day in their life, and he's pale. Shizuo hasn't ever considered paleness one of his turn-ons, although he realizes that he's never even taken the time to consider what turns him on at all.
When everyone is afraid to get near you, he decides, it's useless to be picky. You just take whatever comes your way and be thankful that you're not completely alone, that there are still people in this world naive enough to put up with you even when you don't deserve it.
He wonders if Izaya-kun shares the same sentiment.
Izaya is breathing erratically beneath him, bangs pressed to his forehead with sweat as he runs his tongue along Shizuo's collarbone. He's so hard in Shizuo's hand that the blonde man wonders just how often he masturbates, if ever at all.
He can't imagine him pleasuring himself, moaning and sighing in the safety of his own bed as his fingers run over the veiny underside of his dick, that Shizuo has just discovered is extremely sensitive—but he can't really imagine Izaya-kun doing much of anything aside from wearing that shit-eating grin and dodging even his best-aimed punches with shocking precision.
Even now, everything they're doing feels like a dream.
Izaya's nails are dragging down his back, most likely leaving ugly red trails as he tears the skin, but Shizuo realizes that no matter what the dark haired man does to him, at the end of the day, he's still going to be the one with irritated skin in places that he can't reach. That alone is enough to calm even his most intense rage.
He contemplates the expression on Izaya's face. It's a mixture of his usual smugness, the pleasure that they're both undoubtedly feeling, and something else that he can't exactly pinpoint.
He seems giddy, almost, as if he's achieved something that he's been working for forever, but that's a stupid thought.
Izaya isn't attracted to him… right?
He remembers a brief conversation he shared with Celty a few months back, while sitting in Shinra's kitchen as his old friend cleaned the blood from the Izaya-inflicted knife wound on his chest.
'What will you do if you finally catch him?' She had written, pen against paper as her phone charged in the other room.
He'd scowled at her 'if', knowing full-well that no one believed he'd ever actually be able to catch the louse. He'd hissed as Shinra dabbed at the jagged edges of his skin, cursing lightly and huffing,
"I'll kill him, of course."
She'd looked uncertain at that, gliding her pen across the paper in a neat, precise kanji,
'Won't you be bored without him around?'
And he'd laughed, because even he believed that he'd never get that far.
Izaya is writhing beneath him in a way that feels almost too raw and real for him to see. He's never witnessed this desperate, more vulnerable side of the information broker before, and the tingling sensation it shoots straight to the heated, crawling depths of his stomach is both foreign and disgustingly wonderful.
"Shizu-ch—"
"Shut up." He growls, nipping at Izaya's shoulder as he pumps the other man's erection.
Izaya's answering giggle is a low, naughty sound, straight out of a bad porn film, and it takes everything Shizuo has not to cum right then and there.
The infuriating little flea seems so acutely aware of the ungodly sex appeal he possesses, and it's absolutely maddening.
"Ohhh," Izaya breathes, heels resting against Shizuo's backside as he spreads his thighs wider and wider. Shizuo wonders just how flexible he is, but throws the thought aside with such fervor as it causes the familiar tingling that warns of an oncoming orgasm to settle in his lower belly.
"Shizu-c-chan is-s soooo a-aggressive," the flea coos, pausing to draw out a long, high-pitched moan as Shizuo thumbs the head of his weeping penis, ramming into his prostate simultaneously, "I-I love it w-when Sh-Shizu-chan is aggressive. S-sometimes when Shizu-chan s-says my n-name just right, i-in that low, s-sexy voice of h-his, it's so hot that I-I nearly c-cum in my p-pants on the s-spot."
The comment is so bold and vulgar, but somehow sends a flash of pride right through his chest and pleasure to his groin. He knows exactly what Izaya is up to. The louse seriously thinks that he can dirty-talk him into finishing first, but he's determined to see the flushed, completely unmasked expression that will surely paint Izaya's features as he reaches his orgasm. So, with the very same insurmountable strength that allows him to tear street signs from concrete and throw vending machines down entire blocks, he's barely able to hold his orgasm until Izaya begins to choke and sob and grind helplessly against him.
"Sh-sh-shi—"he gasps, brows furrowed and eyes tightly closed, "Sh-shizu-chaaan—"
His hips are quivering under his grasp as cum strings across their chests. There's not a lot of it, Shizuo notes, at least not as much as he'd expected. Maybe the flea was telling the truth when he said his voice turned him on—
And suddenly, his own orgasm takes him, as his hipbones stab into the splintered wood of the cabinets and he breaks off the corner of the counter in his steel grip. There's a small part of his brain that considers bludgeoning Izaya with this broken piece of granite, but the other man is tweaking his nipples, nibbling at his collar bone as he's whispering something dirty like, 'yes, Shizu-chan, fill me up' and Shizuo finds himself dropping the broken counter piece in favor of grasping Izaya's sweaty hair and pulling his head back.
Their lips crush together just as he complies with Izaya's wishes and really does fill him up, and Shizuo is a little more than embarrassed to admit that he's cum more than he thought he would.
Maybe Izaya was right. Maybe he is too sexually frustrated.
The world is a blurry, spinning thing, as the dull browns and dusty blacks of the stranger's kitchen melt together and Izaya's tiny mewls are all he can hear.
Part of him registers that Izaya's tongue in sliding against the backs of his teeth, that his fingers are pinching so hard at his nipples that a weaker man would bleed, but he's too caught up in the soft wetness of Izaya's backside and the bitter taste of his mouth to care.
Izaya bites his lower lip hard, and they finally break apart, the smaller man gasping for breath.
"Shizu-chan is trying to suffocate me!"
And suddenly, just as the last of his orgasm slowly slips away from him, cold regret begins to settle in its place, like a boulder has replaced the coiling warmth in his belly.
Izaya is visibly glowing as he pulls himself from Shizuo's softening member and grabs a damp dish towel from the sink to wipe himself off. He clicks his tongue at the suds buried deep inside him, smirking up at Shizuo from under thick, dark lashes before drawing out, slow and deadly,
"It's okay, Shizu-chan, I have a removable shower head at home."
Shizuo gulps, clenching his fists as a lump forms in his throat as Izaya nudges passed him and hops onto the floor.
"Well, it's been fun," he hums, swaying his hips as he bends over to pick up his discarded clothing. Shizuo thinks it looks a lot like a victory dance, "but I really have to get home and take a bath."
He smiles sweetly, shimmying into his pants and pulling his shirt over his head.
"I reek of protozoan."
Shizuo knows that this is his cue to begin rampaging, but he's also aware that his pants are hanging tightly around his knees and at least has the sense to realize that any fussing on his part will cause him to fall promptly on his ass.
So, instead he hikes his pants up to his wastes and refastens his belt, grabbing his shirt from the floor as Izaya saunters over to the door.
"You're going to leave me to clean all this up?" He growls at the information broker's back.
Izaya simply laughs, tugging open the door as he throws over his shoulder,
"Maybe it will teach your client not to be late on his payments next time?"
It sounds like such a wickedly good idea that it almost pisses Shizuo off that he hadn't thought of it.
He surveys the damage as he buttons up his dress shirt and fetches his vest from the floor. The counter has been reduced to rubble. There are tiny speckles of blood and streams semen dotting the cracked cabinets and the floor, along with the very generous amount of dish soap that seems to be coating just about everything.
He wonders if he should close the balcony door, but shakes his head, deciding against it as he pulls out his phone and makes his way to the hall.
He leaves the front door wide open as well. It's what the man gets for wasting his time, he supposes.
'You were right,' he types, thinking of the feel of Izaya's lips against his own, the way the other man had writhed beneath him, 'I couldn't kill him' and sends the text to Celty before he has time to change his mind, sighing as he steps out of the building into the crisp, afternoon air.
He wonders if Izaya has made it back to his apartment yet, back to his shower and that… removable shower head.
Celty replies with a question mark, but he ignores it.
He really needs a drink.
Fin.
Happy Holidays!
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