Durarara!
#4
Kuronuma Aoba x Orihara Kururi x Orihara Mairu (!)
/
/
[notes]
Thanks to all those who have read/reviewed/faved/followed! Your support is very much appreciated.
333
Warning: rooftop smut with a fluffy-ish ending (but you knew that anyway, because this fic is rated M for a reason...)
/
/
When Kuronuma Aoba gets called to the rooftop during lunch he can only expect to be embroiled in some sort of deep shit. And that is exactly what happens, though it's the not the sort of deep shit he was expecting. Was expecting.
Because as soon as he makes it up the dingy stairwell and closes the door behind him, he's slammed into the flimsy wooden surface by one Orihara Mairu, who flies at him out of nowhere, braids whipping about in the wind. Her glasses are skewed on her nose from the impact delivered and her crazy eyes are fucking two inches away from his own startled pupils and she's just smiling at him like he's lunch.
He may as well be, actually. The bruising grip on his shoulders tightens along with the tension in the air, a thin, razor-sharp string of the sort he doesn't even dare to breathe around. "Arms straight out sideways, Aoba-san," she sings, slamming his hands into place when he remains too stunned to move for a second too long. "This way, so it looks like you're going to be crucified."
Dear god, he thinks, what did I ever do to deserve this? Is this oddly divine punishment for everything he's plotted against Ran and Mikado-senpai and everybody else who's been stupid enough to trust him even though they knew better? It doesn't seem so, though. This attack is way more personal, somehow. And since this is Orihara Mairu, this is also about Orihara Kururi.
Orihara Kururi, who sits next to him in class, always in a gym uniform and always quiet. Orihara Kururi, who he stood up for in class previously when she was being bullied on her sister's account, and who he happened to catch yesterday dodging falling flowerpots round the back of the school building. Ah.
Mairu lets go of him all of a sudden, spinning away merrily so her skirt fans out around her too-pale legs. He's ready to sigh in relief and scram, but the girl has other plans. "Aha!" she cries, when she spots him slumping his shoulders and preparing to put his arms back down – the next thing he knows, a neat line of thumbtacks has the lining of his uniform sleeves neatly pinned to the door and wall, driven straight into the fucking concrete. He is literally barring the entrance to the roof right now. "Naughty of you, Aoba-san," Mairu leers, suddenly up close again. He turns his face to the side, stares at the parts of his wrist that he just knows are purpling under his uniform, skeins of ruptured blood vessels.
The bespectacled girl pushes off him again and does a neat series of backflips before springing up onto the ledge above his head. He can't very well see what's going on, but he can hear rustling and whispering. He swallows, hard.
"Mairu-san? Kururi-san?" he dares to venture, heart now pounding so hard in his chest that he wouldn't be surprised if it ripped right through the fabric. "What is – what is this about?"
"Thank (Thank you for yesterday, like last time)."
"What the hell do you think, silly, of course it's Kuru-nee wanting to be nice to you, though I don't know why she bothers! Ah, Kuru-nee, you love me more than him, right? I'm the one you love most in the world, right?"
"Stop (Don't pinch me)."
Aoba sighs wearily, and they get the message. "Coming," is Kururi's barely audible whisper, as she climbs carefully down the steel-rung ladder. Mairu leaps off, neatly landing in front of him on one knee, arms full of assorted magazines full of X-rated material. His eyes do kind of bug out, he must admit. Porn. Porn; porn being carried around in broad daylight, porn. Even though they are on the roof, so technically no one's here to look but him. What the hell?
The twins kneel in front of his mock-crucified form and spread the selection at his feet (very nicely, he notes, like a deck of playing cards one does tricks with), and bring silently (or in Mairu's case, not so silently) eager eyes up to meet his. "Choose one," they say in unison; that's rare, he thinks.
He has no idea where this is going, but luckily there's someone else around to make some sense of the situation. "Kuronuma Aoba-san," a male voice says, in a tone as crafty and downright manipulative as his own, "a pleasure to meet you at last. Orihara Izaya, at your service."
The man drops down from above (wherever the hell he'd been concealing himself) and dances his way over to stand behind the twins, jaunty smile firmly in place, trademark fur coat flaring a little behind him. He dips a bow, claps his hands lightly. "Like they said," he smiles, slowly and dangerously, "pick one."
"You pick one magazine, and they'll base whatever they do to you next on its contents. Simple enough, yes?"
Aoba eyes them all warily, enough for them to open their mouths and reply to his suspicions, unstated or not.
"Ah, really, this is a reward for helping Kuru-nee out yesterday. You should be grateful, hurry and pick one already! Eh, I wonder if any of these have flowerpots inside them? We could theme it –"
"Even if there were, stupid, where would we get those? There aren't any on the roof –"
"Maybe (That might work, but I don't think there will be flowerpots in your magazines)."
"You could go steal one, Iza-nii, you're good at jumping around."
"Flowerpots are more suited for torture than…this, anyway."
"But we're borrowing this idea from Erika-san and Yumasaki-san, ne? Don't they use it for torture?"
"Different (They use manga. This is porn.) – ow!"
The three siblings bicker, and Aoba blinks; they're all talking to and over one another, rendering the conversation near unintelligible, it's washing over him like water. Damn right, he could be drowning too and he wouldn't know it, wouldn't know it from all the clenching in his chest and the numbness in his face. The pain in his abused wrists anchors him to reality. Izaya smirks at him.
"…Perhaps torture would be a better idea, though. I don't much like the idea of rewarding someone who likes to pick on our Mikado, hmm?" Wait, what? How does he even know that?
"Anyway, lunch break won't last forever, shouldn't you two be getting a move on?"
"Hai," Mairu replies, and Kururi smiles: and then there's Aoba pinned to the spot, gaping at the now-unzipped fly of his pants.
/
/
How long does lunch break last, you ask? Let's say one hour.
One hour is more than enough time for Aoba to crack – according to his abductors, he took ten minutes – and randomly lash a foot out; it catches on one of the porn magazines, sends it flying, and they leap eagerly upon it with all the gusto of delayed enthusiasm.
Within the next five minutes, their motley crew has established some sort of setup to follow. Aoba tells himself that he'll never be able to live this down, especially not with the way his erection is staying up, despite all his attempts to the contrary. He can't believe he's actually glad for the blindfold over his eyes (the one Izaya casually produced out of his coat pocket). Still, his cheeks are impossibly red, he's sure, because not being able to see heightens your awareness of every sensation and he definitely would be flaming up even without having his sight obscured.
Mairu has managed to coerce Kururi into acting out scenes from the magazine he picked, while Izaya has been employing himself in running experimental hands through Aoba's hair, over his cheeks, under his chin.
The boy holds his breath (no easy feat, when just a millisecond ago he was gasping with pain and pleasure) when he feels the tip of a knife – switchblade, to be exact – on his skin. It traces the path from the base of his throat to the underside of his chin, teasingly nicking at his Adam's apple. He can hear the ridiculously erotic sounds of the twins making out, all hard smacking of lips and drawn-out moans, whimpers and the scuffle of sneakers on the concrete when one of them writhes. He's so turned on it hurts – his cock painfully straining; then in the next second it's been freed from all constricting fabric and plunged into moist wet warmth. Then Izaya slashes the blindfold from Aoba's eyes and dances over to the railings in one graceful extended movement –
"Bye, you dirty little brats," he calls, as he swings his lithe form into the prep room below before casually walking out of the school building. "I sure as hell don't want to stick around and see that," he chortles dryly. "Ah, if Namie hasn't gone out for lunch yet, I'll treat her, hmm."
That fucker, Aoba curses. He's a little lost for words, though, because right then Orihara Kururi is on her knees and sucking him off, her twin sister lying under her and eating her out. They're all a hot mess, so long past the point of shame that every gasp and strangled moan is allowed to escape with impunity (though they're still glad none of them is a screamer). By this point everyone's close, Aoba's arching his back as far as he can while thrusting desperately into that soft mouth, and Kururi in turn is grinding down onto Mairu's face, one hand down to finger her own clit even as the other fondles his balls, nudges the base of his shaft.
They don't know who comes first.
All Aoba knows is that he wakes up in the infirmary, nary a trace of the encounter on him except for the ugly purple bruising that circles his wrists, under the cover of his uniform – that and the musky smell of sex in the air, so faint that he could think he was imagining it.
/
/
The next time he's called out to the rooftop, though, it's a perfectly normal brawl over gang ties and territory and other petty little things like revenge. In the middle of hurling fists and insults at one another he really doesn't have the time to think back to unexpected sexual encounters – that is, until he lands a clever hit with his length of metal pipe and slams his opponent against the entryway to the roof – and he finds his eyes are fucking level with a neat line of holes on the plaster-covered concrete.
Aoba actually laughs.
"This way," he sneers, lips curling up into smile as he crushes the other boy against the walls; "so it looks like you're going to be crucified."
/
/
He finishes them off quickly enough to go down to the cafeteria and get lunch, though pretty much everything has sold out by this point. When he slides the door open and shuffles over to slump down in his seat, he finds a homemade sandwich under his desk.
He reaches over to scrawl in pencil on the corner of the desk next to his.
Thanks.
/
/
[notes]
I don't know what I was thinking either LOL just felt like writing dumb school smut for some reason
[up next]
Seiji ponders the ethics of sleeping with Mika while thinking of her as Celty's head
.
.
.
AHAHAHAHA yeah lol idk when i'll update next anyway but you can yell at me in the review box to hopefully hasten the process