“Shizu-chan~! Wanna go for a ride?”
Shizuo stands dumbfounded in the middle of the sidewalk, gapping alternately at the ginormous limo and Izaya, sitting inside in his black V neck t-shirt (fur-trimmed coat off, for once) with one door invitingly open and a positively sinful look on his face.
You have a lot of nerve, Shizuo wants to say, only for some reason his jaw is hanging stupidly agape. How dare you think you can pick me up like some hook-
“Ne, Shizu-chan,” Izaya singsongs. “Don’t let your protozoan mind wander, it’s too little to be let out on its own.”
“More importantly,” Izaya interrupts with a slight nod of his chin. “Why don’t you hurry up and come inside? People are staring, you know.”
“Staring” is an understatement, Shizuo realizes, taking in the crowd of passersby gathering on the street with smartphones pointed at him. Fuckshitfuckshitfuckshit. He is trapped between the bane of his existence and the endlessly curious folks of Ikebukuro, and oh boy the chat rooms must be having a ball.
He feels his ears burning with anger and embarrassment. Why does Izaya always have to be like this?
“You attacked me first, Shizu-chan,” the imaginary Flea in his head tells him, with the same sweetly venomous voice the real one uses every time he chooses to remind him of the fact. As if that automatically validates all the shit that he has put Shizuo through over the years.
By the time he steps inside the luxurious vehicle, Shizuo’s mind is already burning with white-hot rage—hell if he’s gonna let the Flea have his way. Izaya, in turn, doesn’t seem in the least concerned about the yellow-headed time bomb sitting next to him. He gets up and opens an opulent drinks cabinet, pouring some kind of bubbly beverage into a flute glass.
“Oh, don’t look so scary, Shizu-chan!” He chirps, eyeing Shizuo with his trademark smirk as he straddles the other’s lap, knees on each side of the Fortissimo’s hips with the nonchalance of a beast tamer patting his circus animal. “I’d serve you a drink, but you know what they say about milk and alcohol—they don’t mix.” Izaya all but purrs his next words, looking at Shizuo through half-masted eyelids: “And we wouldn’t want you to get indigestion, now would we.”
Holding the glass, Izaya tangles his free hand in blond tresses and brings their faces closer. Shizuo can feel the informant’s breath on his lips, the slender fingers tracing circles in Shizuo’s scalp, the slight rocking against his crotch—all the carefully rehearsed moves of seduction Izaya has mastered over years in the data broker industry. “C’mon, Shizuo,” he sucks lightly on his earlobe. “The cabin is soundproof, you know. Let’s have some fun~.”
Izaya’s ministrations and the oh-so-casual way he drops the annoying and ubiquitous (or annoyingly ubiquitous?) pet name when whispering in his ear, it all drives Shizuo crazy with desire; but, above all, it pisses him off.
Oh no, you don’t.
Izaya lets out an indignant yelp as Shizuo grabs his wrist and robs him of his drink. “What the-” Izaya begins, but is rudely manhandled until their positions are switched and the blond is leering over him. “Gotcha,” Shizuo says, flashing a manic grin that would have a lesser man pee his pants.
Izaya, now pinned rather uncomfortably against the seat under his enemy’s weight, frowns in annoyance more than fear or concern. “Shizu-chan is as brutish as ever,” he gives a dramatic sigh, smirk falling back into place. “Ne, why don’t you sit back and let me handle this? I understand an unrefined beast like you isn’t used to luxury, but there’s no need to be so jumpy about it.”
“Let me show you what I think about your luxury, Flea,” Shizuo says, slowly—deliberately—rotating the flute above Izaya’s head until the contents spill onto raven hair and trail down the informant’s face and neck in a flurry of effervescent droplets.
“That,” Izaya says, “was Moët & Chandon. You stupid, uncivilized animal.”
Shizuo barks out a laugh and smashes the glass against the cabin’s floor for good measure. “Is that so, Izaya-kun?” Then he reaches back and runs his hand over the polished counter with glass holders, the expensive crystalware falling and shattering all over the carpet, sounding like several cafeteria accidents exploding at once.
Shizuo enjoys the genuine look of shock on Izaya’s face more than anything else.
At this point, Izaya is not amused. He reaches for the intercom in vain, succeeding instead of getting his arm pinned behind his back by one wild-looking blond. “Get off, Shizu-chan,” he says through gritted teeth. “Or I swear you’ll regret it.”
Shizuo chuckles against his nape. “You’re in no position to be making threats, Flea.” Taking advantage of their new arrangement, he pushes Izaya down until his head hits the seat and proceeds to rip apart a good chunk of the soft, leather covers.
Izaya recoils in horror. “You idiotic protozoan!” he shrieks, “Do you have any idea how must those cos-” He never gets to finish the sentence, for Shizuo gags him with the expensive material and a growl of “shut up.” Shizuo plucks off his bartender bow tie, loosens his collar and vest, then undoes his belt and tugs it out of the loops, using it to create a pair of impromptu cuffs around Izaya's delicate wrists. His large, calloused hands work the tail and buckle of the belt with surprising dexterity (after all, you don't work in debt collection without learning a life hack or two), ignoring the informant's muffled complaints.
“Too bad, Izaya. You can’t always have it your way.” Shizuo pushes a few strands of raven hair away from Izaya’s one visible eye, the other shut tightly against the seat. “Today is the day of vengeance.”
For all his protesting, Izaya sighs rather beautifully when Shizuo reaches under him to fondle the front of his designer jeans. “Nng,” Izaya gasps, the heady tang of saliva-wet leather invading his mouth and nostrils all at once.
Izaya thinks he should probably fight this, but the rising temperature inside the closed cabin and the awkward angle of his face against the bench is making it hard to breathe and, really, focus on anything other than Shizuo’s agile fingers. At the mercy of his archenemy, it is all Izaya can do to alternately buck against the hard body behind him or dry hump the limo seat below in an undignified attempt to increase friction.
As Shizuo undoes the first buttons of his fly and sneaks his hand in, the fondling turns heavier and more frenzied; Izaya’s eyes slide shut, feeling a familiar burn welling deep in his gut. He is so close.
And that is when Shizuo lets go of him, grasps a handful of Izaya’s hair and shoves him around until he is a disheveled mess of trembling limbs and shallow breaths lying on his back. If the predatory smirk on Shizou’s face is any indication, he must think Izaya looks lovely like this.
“Poor Flea…” Shizuo says, and Izaya thinks that tone of mock concern has no business rolling so easily off a beast’s tongue—it is a privilege reserved only for himself. He would tell it to Shizuo, too, if his mouth wasn’t full of the makeshift leather gag.
As if his thoughts were heard, Shizuo crawls over Izaya, straddling his face with both knees anchored on the large limo seat, and removes the gag unceremoniously from the informant’s mouth. Izaya coughs and swallows, trying to ease the pungent taste of leather lingering on his tongue. The proximity between his face and the clothed bulge on the brute’s crotch is making him, er… nervous. “Ah… Shizu-chan…” Izaya begins in a placating if breathless voice, but Shizuo is having none of it.
“Shut up, Flea,” he says, pulling down the zipper of his beltless pants in one swift motion. He reaches for the inside of his boxer shorts and pulls out his already half-hard member. “Suck.”
It is the order, as much as the closeness of the other’s erection, that sends a shiver straight to Izaya’s groin—not that he would ever admit it. “It's kind of sad, Shizu-chan,” the car vibrations cause the tip of Shizuo's erect member to brush tauntingly against Izaya’s nose as he speaks, “that you can fit your entire vocabulary into a sentence.”
“Oh yeah,” Shizuo replies, voice low and rough. “Then, why don’t you fit this,” he thrusts his hips forward for emphasis, “into that annoying mouth of yours? You brat.”
Izaya narrows his eyes at that. This wasn’t what he had in mind! He just wanted to have some fun… embarrassing Shizuo, indulging in expensive alcohol in an expensive car and having steamy sex with the monstrous beast. With him, Izaya the Tamer, in control—always in control.
Of course, count on Shizu-chan’s unpredictability to foil a God’s plans.
“What if I don’t want to?” Izaya says. He knows that for all his bravado, Shizuo is above all else terrified of imposing himself on someone, even if that someone is the recipient of his utmost animosity.
Really, Shizu-chan, you and your morals… a monster shouldn’t pretend to be so human.
As if on cue, Shizuo leans back, hands grasping at the fabric of his dark pants. “You don’t want to?”
His tone is thick with concern and self-consciousness, and Izaya rolls his eyes at that. “Get on with it, beast! But don’t go crying to your mama when I tear your monstrous dick apart with my teeth.”
At that, the smirk returns to Shizuo’s lips, trying but failing to conceal the relief written all over his face. “As if a flea could do that!” He says, one hand grasping the short hairs at the back of Izaya’s nape, coaxing him forward so Shizuo’s erection slips into his mouth.
The movement elicits a throaty moan from Shizuo, who muffles it into one arm thrown over the bench’s headrest, his other hand letting go of Izaya’s head to land on the seat, keeping him from doubling over. Izaya tries to go slow and steady at first, feeling Shizuo swelling to full hardness inside his mouth, but after a couple of minutes his neck is hurting and the knuckles of his hands—which, incidentally, are still pretty much tied up—are digging painfully into his back. He chokes, causing Shizuo to pull back and open his eyes to search for Izaya’s gaze.
Their position is making Izaya sore, wet and sloppy, but the look of unbridled desire on Shizuo’s face suffices for his concerns about comfort or propriety to be forgotten. A couple of years ago, Izaya wouldn’t have dreamt of seeing that look directed at him—he wouldn’t have expected anything other than killing intent coming from Shizuo—and now he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. “Fuck me, Shizu-chan,” he half-orders, half-begs, voice husky, and melting, and too desperate for his (Izaya’s) own good.
“Izaya…” Shizuo says in a low, throaty moan, maneuvering impatiently and tugging at their half-undressed pants. “Izaya—I…” Shizuo drops his head, running his face against Izaya’s jaw, his cheek, his nose, and eyes, pressing their foreheads together. “I-Izaya…I don’t...” He can’t bring himself to form a full sentence. Yet somehow, miraculously, Izaya understands: “There’s lube in that drawer,” he says, smiling at him, as he gestures with his chin to a nearby organizer compartment. Shizuo reaches for the drawer and takes the lube, squeezing a generous amount in his hand. Amid his brain fog, Shizuo thinks the Flea is enjoying this more than one should enjoy being the target of justly served retribution. It is but a fleeting thought, though, quickly dismissed in favor of the pressing need to lower the rest of Izaya's pants and tear off his shoe, enough to let go of one leg so as to not be in the way.
He shoves one, two trembling, lube-covered fingers inside Izaya. The warm, pliable folds envelop Shizuo’s fingers, constricting around them as he pushes roughly against the walls, fingering Izaya open. Izaya shuts his eyes, brows furrowing as he moans. He trashes his head to the side, jaw going slack with abandonment.
Izaya knows they’re going too fast, but by the time Shizuo adds a third finger, he is past the point of caring about preparation. “Do it, Shizuo!” Izaya feels a quiver of trepidation run through his body—this is going to hurt. When Shizuo's erection presses against his entrance and he pushes in with an animalistic grunt, Izaya’s sight becomes blurry with the sting radiating from his nether regions. Tears pool at the corners of his eyes, and Izaya thanks the heavens for the champagne he had earlier.
Shizuo stands motionless like a statue, waiting for Izaya’s insides to adjust to the intrusion. The limousine sways slightly from the road movements. "You feel so good," Shizuo whispers, face tucked into the crook of Izaya’s neck, sticky and tasting of alcohol, his solid weight pressing down on the smaller man beneath him. The confession sends a fluttering sensation creeping up Izaya's stomach, and he is a little shocked to hear the whimpering word that rolls off his tongue next, one that seems to come from somewhere far away, beyond the rhythmic thumping of blood in his ears:
Shizuo does. A wave of dizziness overtakes Izaya, the mixture of pleasure and pain too much, too intense. He groans, gasping and squirming under Shizuo. “Ah… Shizuo… F-fuck!” The damn cooling system must be malfunctioning because Izaya feels impossibly hot and sweaty. When he arches off the seat to ease the discomfort of having his tied hands behind his back, Shizuo drives into him hard and fast. Izaya’s mouth falls agape and he stiffens; as if in slow motion, he marvels at the preternatural way the shards of broken crystal on the floor refract the LED glow of the limousine’s accent lights—then he climaxes, consciousness fading to white as he rides the wave of his orgasm.
“Urrrhhh…” Shizuo growls, feeling Izaya tighten around him and the low cabin noise vibrating through their bodies. His thrusts grow sharper and more erratic, and Shizuo surrenders to his own release with a deep, guttural groan. For a moment he tenses spasmodically inside Izaya, grabbing a handful of short, black tresses, with enough force to rip some hairs out of Izaya’s scalp. Shizuo’s quick gasps puff against Izaya’s ear, mixing with the latter’s panting for air.
They stay like that for several minutes of postcoital bliss, only them, guarded against the noisy Tokyo traffic by their soundproof cocoon. Then Shizuo pulls back, leaving a trail of white fluid as he withdraws from Izaya’s body. Izaya utters something unintelligible, sprawled on the seat with his hands tied behind his back. Shizuo pulls his trousers up, tucks his shirt in and closes the vest, picking the discarded bow tie from the floor. He searches his pockets for a (severely beat-up) packet of cigarettes, bringing the lighter up to ignite the tip.
“Shizu-chan,” Izaya’s voice calls from Shizuo’s side. “I don’t want to cramp your style, but it’s about time you untie me, ne?”
Shizuo inhales the cigarette smoke deeply, then exhales long and slow. “I ain’t untying shit, Flea,” is Shizuo’s curt reply.
Izaya’s eyebrows rise. “What?” he says, trying to keep his voice mild, despite his growing irritation and the overall discomfort of his position.
Shizuo ignores him and reaches for the intercom. “Yes, chauffeur?” he speaks, pressing the button. “Please pull over at the next opportunity... Thanks.”
Izaya stares at Shizuo in disbelief, understanding dawning on his face as he pushes himself into an upright position on the seat with some effort. “Shizuo…” he snarls, flashing a dangerous smile. “Untie me now, you fucking beast.”
“This is your punishment, Izaya,” Shizuo says instead. “People aren’t your toys, you know.” He takes another drag on the cigarette, his serious expression shifting into a malicious grin. “Also, I wouldn’t want to ruin such a pretty picture.” Shizuo’s eyes trail from Izaya’s damp, disheveled hair sticking to his still-flushed face, to the black shirt drenched in perspiration and the soft prick exposed by the trousers pooling around the one shoe he is wearing. There are ribbons of semen across his stomach. Boy, he’s a mess. “Submission suits you, Flea.”
Izaya laughs bitterly at him. “Says the guy who’s so incoherent around me he can’t even ask for lube.” Shizuo scowls at Izaya’s mention of his earlier mental lapse. “Now, Shizuo. Untie me… Now.”
Shizuo runs a hand through his hair and straightens his bow. “Nah, let the chauffeur do it,” he says. “That’s what rich bastards like you pay him for, right?”
“Please, Shizu-chan.” Izaya’s voice takes on a frantic note of desperation. “At least zip me up, will you?” he begs.
Shizuo considers Izaya’s request. “You sure as hell don’t deserve it, Flea,” he says, but maneuvers Izaya's free foot down his pant leg and yanks up Izaya’s jeans, paying no attention to his startled utterance at the fast action. Shizuo is happy to do the zipper up just enough to cover Izaya’s groin, leaving the rest of him dirty and unbuttoned.
Suddenly, the limo comes to a halt. They cannot hear the driver door opening and closing, nor the driver’s footsteps moving towards the back door, but Izaya knows his humiliation is inevitable and fast-approaching. “You really are a brute,” although Izaya is smirking, his brow is furrowed and there is a drop of sweat running down his temple. “I wanted to give Shizu-chan a taste of luxury, but it’s like casting pearls before swine.”
As the door slides open, daylight suddenly floods the cabin, exposing Shizuo and Izaya to the driver’s sight. The driver lets out a cry and an expression of horror fills his face as he takes in the destruction: the dozens of broken glasses on the floor, the ripped seats, the cushions in disarray, the suspicious-looking stains on the seat. And, at the center of it all, Orihara Izaya, looking like he has just been involved in a gang fight, or an orgy, or both.
Shizuo flashes one last nasty smile at Izaya. “Later, Flea,” he says, earning him a less-than-amused glare. Then he turns to the speechless driver: “Put it on his tab.”