Pretentious, creepy, weird smut. Shameless, pretentious, creepy, weird smut. Because everything I do, I do shamelessly.

I'm not super familiar with the canon (watched the anime, but I've yet to hit light novels), so be nice, k? Also my first time experimenting with these boys, but I think it came out just fine.

(And by fine, I mean really really really weird. Obviously.)

Tight like a tourniquet.

Crooked fingers make a necklace around his throat. Knuckles of diamonds, and the purple splatters on lily white skin. His head smashes against the brick wall and rainbows explode before the blackened darkness of his bloodlust eyes.

He's grinning. And sparkling eyes behind blue glasses smile back as they grip tighter and tighter.

Izaya's choking and dancing—little demon hips wriggling and squirming and oh, oh, oh, is he loving this. There's always the thrill of the chase, but the danger of the capture holds its own allure. Breath hitching, eyes widening, head spinning, air losing; the bruises collect along his collarbone and he'd laugh if he could even breathe.

It all begins with bent smiles and twisted lips and boots kissing pavement. Blood and concrete become one as he moves, one foot after the other. Runs like Hell. Pirouettes like a ballerina. He shapes the scene around him, splitting air and leaping buildings. Climbing like an animal, he tried to escape.

Shizuo's always been bigger and stronger. Angrier.

Those brown eyes burn as they search. Scanning the streets of Ikebukuro like he's looking for a disease. A rat. Vermin. Those skinny little legs can scamper as quickly as they'd like, but Shizu-chan will find them and snap them. Stomping past citizens and destroying whatever he can get his hands on, the bodyguard spreads like wildfire.

And his gaze may ignite the asphalt and light it up, but Izaya's feet have already done most of the job. Blazing steps as he gallops from point A to point B, burning so bright and so fast his trail turns to charcoal as he runs. He's perfected the art of despondent passion, so happy and cruel and unattached. He doesn't run to get away, not anymore, now he runs to get a laugh. He doesn't have anything to believe in, our Izaya-kun, except himself.

Quick cheap thrills while he sits on the skyline and plays God.

He moves fast and loud, but never quickly enough. It's no wonder he gets himself caught, especially with the wiggling of his hips and the brightness of his eyes and it's very very obvious that he's just begging for it. Slips down an alleyway, pivots elegantly, and he's pressing against the dirty bricks gasping for air. Ins and outs, shallow and quick, gulps in all the breaths he can handle. All those he can afford. A brain of God and a heart of Nothing, but Izaya's body is still human. Those lungs need to pump pump pump themselves to keep him moving.

Presses himself against the wall, he tries to hide. Like he isn't begging for it.

When Shizuo runs past, red and angry, he coughs. A shrill little bark. In some places, they might've even called it a laugh—this evil little giggle: a macabre mating call. Izaya's throat burns and tightens and itches. Cough cough. And it could've been intentional or accidental (yeah right), but it happened, and a blonde head whips around like lightning.

"Izaya-kun" he calls. Growls, screams, roars. Draws the word out, spits it violent. Like a sickness or a curse. He's got a metal pole in his grip and he's holding on so very tightly that his veins are blue and bulging, coiling around his hand like snakes. Full of venom, they are, and his knuckles may just snap if they grasp that much more.

He's burning. Hard and fast.

Fire raging through his veins, he smirks. An evil twisted grin that looks wrong on that muscular face. That smile belongs to Izaya's lips, and they don't enjoy seeing it on the bodyguard. They contort to a bittersweet frown.

"Shizu-chan," he responds with, lips crackling just the tiniest bit upwards as Shizuo's grin falters. "I'll just be on my way now—"

They both spend about thirty seconds pretending like he's going to get away with this before Shizuo takes one step forward and Izaya takes one back.

(Things are just easier this way.)

Clang, as the metal collides with white flesh and a blackblue stain blossoms on the little demon's wrist. Clang, clang, clang. Because he needs to punished. Because he is not supposed to be enjoying this; neither of them are. They shouldn't, they're not. Clang, clang, clang and let's all pray the pretty arm doesn't fall off.

Forever the beautiful ballerina, Izaya moves. He dances, spins. The fingers on his wrists and the metal on his flesh are distant memories as the metal pole clangs to the sordid alley floor. He has to look up to meet Shizuo's gaze, but the licks of flame present in both sets of eyes is obvious as the blue sky.

(Sky blue and fire red are on contradictory sides of the color wheel, and if Ikebukuro was cut up into a pie chart it wouldn't be radical to say that Shizu-chan and Izaya-kun would be on opposite edges.)

Circling one another like a pair of bloodthirsty tigers, they dance. Forward and backward they move in perfect rhythm as though they have some vague idea as to the outcome of this mangled tango. Izaya gives a graceful spin as Shizuo stomps around him and they wind themselves deeper and deeper down the alleyway. Sunshine vanishes behind dirt-soaked buildings and rusted fire escapes and they're locked away in a deep dark corner. Hidden from everyone who knows them.

And maybe it's just that damn cough acting up again, but Izaya trips.

Falls flat. The flesh of his face kisses gravel and grinds down onto it until he's got the taste of blood in his mouth and a smirk on his face. His arms are bent and probably broken and bruised, so they don't come close to supporting him as his tries to scramble to his feet. He's simply beaming by this point, shaking his bony little hips into the asphalt.

(Izaya isn't a good person. Not because he wants to be bad, but because he doesn't want to be a person at all.)

All grunts and brute strength, Shizuo twists the flea's arm. Grabs it where he knows he's hurt it the most, and pulls. Slams Izaya against a brick wall when he's back on his feet, because he knows it's what the son of a bitch wants. Hisses in his ear. Grins like a fool.

Being the idiot that he is, Izaya fights back. Squirms and twists and he's so close to free, but they don't call Shizu the strongest man in Ikebukuro for nothing. Knicks him with his pocketknife, at least, before the bodyguard wrenches it from his pale grasp. Presses it against the white throat. Smiles. Izaya smiles back.

Tossing the knife to the side, this is when Shizuo wraps his fingers around that wicked neck.

The skinny legs go weak. They scramble and kick but a strong body holds them down. So close, they are. Just a thin layer of clothing separates them. A smile on his lips, Izaya snaps his hips like a whip, sharp and quick. They're breaths away from each other (if Izaya were even breathing), and the closeness is unbearable.

Grunting, Shizuo takes a hand off the bastard's esophagus to move it to his waist. Holding them down tightly, he grunts, stop that.

His airway's open, if only a fraction of an inch, and he manages to wheeze out, never.

They kiss like they do everything else. Quickly and violently. It's all tongues and teeth and spit and you could spend years living in that mess and never find a drop of love. Shizuo's fingers crawl up to sit on top of the mess of raven hair, and they take fistfuls, slamming the thing against brick walls, and goes for the neck again. Tongue tracing the finger shaped bruises he'd left there and lips ghosting across the collarbone.

Stop that, Izaya smirks—mimics—because this is too weak and too soft and he mashes his hips against Shizuo's. It always has to be quick and violent and angry and smash, smash, smash. He sneaks a knee between the blonde's legs and rubs against all that he can.

And oh does he like that, head popping backwards and away from that delicious throat. Groaning and grunting deeply, never anything too loud or too high or too shrill or too weak as Izaya plays him like fucking instrument. Slowly and carefully, the informant flips them over so Shizuo's back is against the grimy alley wall. Fingers drift to the black vest and white button-down shirt and make quick work of the bartender's uniform. Shizuo tries to protest, shakes his blonde little head, but it's awfully hard to make a valid argument with shiny white teeth in your neck.

Fuck me, Izaya breathes over and over as he works his devilish tongue across the tan flesh and unbuttons more and more. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Because that's all he is, and it's all they want. Something hot and angry and fast. They couldn't stand to sit there and look at each other long enough to get off if it were anything other than a quick spiteful fuck.

God yes, he whispers, just quiet enough for Izaya to hear him, as his shirt falls to the floor. He shoves his tongue in the brunette's mouth and makes quick work of that black jacket, leaving it to join his own clothing on the sordid cement.

Izaya's tongue is swift and sharp, just like every other part of him, and he's got Shizuo under his spell as he scrapes the slimy thing against the roof of the other man's mouth. A low growl rumbles in the back of Shizuo's throat and Izaya smiles into the kiss, breaking it for a moment to sensually peel the t-shirt over his head. Quirks his lips and rolls his entire body, arching up into Shizuo's like the two were made to fit together. (They weren't, really. They only ever come close to meeting one another when Izaya's on his toes and smashes his waist into the blonde's and he has to wiggle his way in and move and move and move.)

Chest to chest, their hearts can feel one another thump thump thumping like they're about to pop out of the skin. They're fighting, almost, the slimy organs. Which one can beat louder, pump blood faster; which one can win?

Peeling their faces apart, Izaya takes a moment to smile like a madman. His fingers are demons as they trace the angry bulging tendons of Shizuo's neck—crawl across the skin, spread throughout the flesh like a disease. They become a paintbrush to canvas, and artfully sketch the bruises, cuts, scars, everything. Downwards, downwards, downwards, they move. And smash go his hips, just as a reminder, that this isn't supposed to be sweet. (Good God, they are so fucking afraid of messing this up and falling in love.)

His hands find the waistband of Shizuo's trousers and he smilesmilesmiles. Lets his fingertips brush over the area, teasingly, tauntingly, softly, lovingly, until his nails sink in and he grabs a fistful of hardened flesh. The blonde grunts, groans, knocks his head back in ecstasy, if only a little. Fuck, he manages to breathe out. Reaches down to fumble with Izaya's belt buckle, with every intention of flinging it into oblivion, before the brunette stops him. Takes those evil fingers off Shizuo and grabs for the bit of leather. Sticks his arms out, nods. He'd be smiling if he hadn't already been doing so for the past ten minutes.

Grinning more than he should be, Shizuo turns the man around and smashes his face into the bricks in that sordid wall. Pulls the arms with more force than needed (one of them is probably broken, but he'll be damned if he remembers which is which) and ties them off at the wrist with the belt. Mumbles something about how, maybe now you'll stay put so I can kill you, but it goes without saying that's a load of bullshit.

Izaya tilts his head so it's at the perfect angle to fucking devour, and listens carefully for the telltale snapzip of pants being undone. Not that he can hear much over all the breathy sighs and the grunts and the sweat and the blood and the lust. Lips attach themselves to his neck like they were born to be there, and hands slip around his waist to completely destroy his buttons. His pants fall, they're yanked down just far enough, and Shizuo's tongue finds the shell of his ear. He shivers despite himself, hating himself for being so fucking sensitive there and hating Shizuo for remembering it.

Okay… and that's really all the warning he gets or wants or needs before Shizuo smashes them into a single bleeding, bruised waste of skin and bones. He moves, moves, moves. Puts his head on Izaya's shoulder, breathing out hot air and obscenity onto the salty skin. The informant's still got his hands tied and they're bunched into fists to they're bruising Shizuo's abdomen but he's going so fast and so hard and Oh God, he says, so he doesn't give a flying fuck.

Hands fix around those Satanic white hips as they wriggle, forever trying to get closer while moving away, and he keeps going. Fuck, fuck, fuck, and he can smell the blood filling in Izaya's mouth, the bastard is biting his tongue so hard to keep from screaming out.

He'd put his teeth to that battered throat if he could trust himself to breathe, but he can't, so he just lifts his head to stare at the back of the raven-haired-head while he moves. Lets his hands drift downwards to grab Izaya and when he grabs he grabs hard because not even Izaya can keep that pant from spitting out.

Shizuo… he gasps, and it would be so fucking romantic if anyone but Izaya were saying it, but Shizuo can't help himself, and lets it get to him anyway. Hisses as he knocks his head back and reaches conclusion.

He moves a few more times and bites a little bit harder and maybe draws more blood but maybe not because it's all already so dark and so dirty that no one can tell, and Izaya follows him to oblivion not long afterwards.

They barely give each other ten seconds to pick up their breathing and their belongings and their dignity before they leap from one another like they'll die if they won't.

"Get the fuck out of here, flea. Before I kill you."

Slipping into his jacket and grabbing his pocket knife, Izaya lets the listless smile settle back onto his face, and everything is as it should be.

(For the moment.)

"Until next time, Shizu-chan~"