PART 11 OVERFLOW
DURARARA!! KINK MEME PT.11 OVERFLOW
This post is only for new and continuing fics from part 11! Please do not post new requests here.
ATTN all authors moving fics to this part:
Please put the original URL to your request somewhere in the first part of the fic, just so people a) know what it's for and b) to make things easier for russia_sushi-tachi. Thank you ( Read more... )
This post is only for new and continuing fics from part 11! Please do not post new requests here.
ATTN all authors moving fics to this part:
Please put the original URL to your request somewhere in the first part of the fic, just so people a) know what it's for and b) to make things easier for russia_sushi-tachi. Thank you ( Read more... )
http://drrrkink.livejournal.com/6253.html?thread=24767853#t24767853
Warning: rape, rape aftermath and graphic violence
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Izaya is well aware of the dangers inherent in the job he’s chosen for himself. He’s doing exceedingly well at it despite that - or because of it, maybe, and that’s more often than not what he likes to believe - and his age has earned him the additional title of prodigy in a good number of circles. It was a hindrance at first; as a fifteen-something kid claiming to deal in information known not even to some of the underground’s top brass, he was only rarely given the chance to prove his worth.
Naturally, though, he was quick to force the point. He’s ruined quite a few people in just under two years, so if he’s not fearsome he’s at least one to be approached delicately. Notoriety like that is one of his aims, and handling it with an appropriate degree of caution is an important point of pride.
And that caution doesn’t just mean keeping his drinks out of strangers’ hands, either. It probably should mean avoiding Shizu-chan and his little outbursts, but that’s not fun, and besides - he can handle Heiwajima Shizuo. The guy’s an idiot, ( ... )
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He’s leading the way to a meeting place of his own choosing, anyway, so he decides that the man’s simply testing his resolve. It’s dark - very dark, moonless night and few lights or people in this part of the city - so with most of the situation’s control well within his own hands, Izaya’s sure that’s all it is.
Despite the warning signs - despite the achingly uncertain, buried-deep voice of reason.
He’s rarely wrong. The only thing that manages to convince him of his mistake this time is the crack of something hard and sharp against the back of his head - and then, of course, he sees a rush of gray, blurred-out lights and nothing.
The prodigy falls.
~~*~~
The first irritation of waking up is the light that surrounds him. His head is ringing with it, his vision fading in and out as his thoughts struggle to catch up with the sudden juxtaposition of night and sun. His hand is lying limp in front of his face. Everything is skewed wrong, he thinks, and then he recognizes his position as horizontal, the surface upon which he ( ... )
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That’s what skips through his fever-dark mind like so many neon-sign flickers, dying in and out.
He draws a sharp breath as the smooth pads of this stranger’s hands pick their way over the skin of his stomach and chest. They press close and hard and painful to the pink of his nipples, chilling the back of his neck - his hair standing stiffly on end.
“My, my,” he bites, “I never would’ve taken you for a pedophile.”
“So you consider yourself a child, then?” The man seems amused. “And does your body operate in accordance with that, Orihara-kun? Or are you more adult than you’ve yet learned to admit?”
Izaya swallows thickly and refuses to respond. Breathing is suddenly a maddeningly difficult task. His chest is rising and falling irregularly, dry air rasping in his throat as his heart flutters almost painfully under another person’s touch.
This is wrong; he feels it in every fiber of his being, from the flush in his cheeks to the chill of dread pooling in his stomach. He feels no loyalty toward most of the humans he knows, but that ( ... )
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His captor will be back soon enough. Izaya should try to escape - should at least be thinking about it more than he is - but there’s too much pain there for him to deal with. He should stand, but his legs feel too heavy. His arms are too weak to accomplish much of anything; it’s all he can do to drag himself over to the little dish of water that’s been left out for him. It’s intended for dogs, clearly, but his lips and throat hurt so much that he’s willing to make an allowance just this once.
He only gets to wet his tongue, though, before he collapses back, too exhausted to so much as hold himself upright.
~~*~~
“He must be sick,” Shinra comments before the end of their first class. The teacher’d sailed right through the class roster after the bell, barely reacting to Izaya’s failure to respond; he misses even more school than Shizuo does, after all, so it really doesn’t make any damn sense to assume that he’s got something genuinely wrong with him today. “I wonder if it’s because you chased him through the rain before.”
( ... )
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He’ll make a mess of the floor, though. He’ll make a mess of Izaya. And Izaya will lay back with his limbs splayed, limp save for the occasional twisting of his muscles, tensing, shuddering upon every bruising thrust. He’ll whine for release, and when he doesn’t get it he’ll hurt everywhere and bite his lip hard - until it bleeds, stinging, and then he’ll just keep biting.
~~*~~
He wakes up sopping wet in the middle of the third night. He thinks blood, first, and then he thinks cum. Water, maybe, a pointless cruelty exerted by his owner - a joke.
It’s not funny, though - not when he realizes what it really is. His eyes burn, his cheeks, the back of his neck and he can smell it wafting up from his lower body - naked, of course, because not once since the first time has the man holding him here bothered to clothe him in between fucks -
And he can’t move. He should be drugged out of his head, too, but instead it’s just his body that won’t do what he wants it to. His mind is all too clear, too breaking, too broken.
He ( ... )
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The way he stands, staring - and Izaya all curled in on himself, body stiff and cold despite his heart beating wildly in his chest. Izaya completely exposed, seemingly small and soaked in piss and probably looking ready to cry despite whatever faux rage he’s still capable of holding to in his facial expressions. And that man nothing if not impassive, mercilessly matter-of-fact. Commanding.
Izaya shudders heavily, his eyes forced close as a heavy lump of nausea works its way into his throat. He shakes his head silently and hates himself all over again for the irrational cowardice. Whatever happened to fighting? To laughing through the pain? He’s supposed to mock guys like this, pathetic losers with nothing but desperation and overblown egos.
“I wonder,” the man mutters. “Thinking of getting away like that? You thought you’d get a bath, didn’t you?”
As if I’d choose to wet myself for a slim chance like that, he wants to snap - but no, he can’t. He won’t even try, because in a small matter of days he’s started to hate the sound of his ( ... )
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“Smile, Orihara-kun. I’m sure you’ll miss me today, too, but I can’t help working on a weekend, after all, there’s a meeting” - an important one, Izaya dully surmises, because his master’s almost manic under the strain of obvious nerves - “but tonight will make the wait well worth it, I promise.”
Izaya doesn’t want it to be worth it, but he twists his lips into a broken smile, anyway, and that seems to placate the man into leaving with no more than a parting stroke.
The cold rush of self-disgust triggered by that alone sees him curling into a loose ball - his strength failing him when he tries to do more - mind fogging over, alone.
Abstractedly, he wonders - about Shinra, his sisters, what they’re doing now, what they’d think if they could only - if maybe - and where, he thinks desperately, where’s Shizu-chan, breaking things? Happy? Mad? I bet he misses me -
But Izaya knows better, after all. He’s gone - so, happy. Shizu-chan must be happy, maybe must be breaking things just a little less than usual. Maybe must be wandering ( ... )
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But it’s raining and he’s tired, so he deludes himself into thinking that it’s someone like Shizu-chan coming to save him - just for a second, of course, and then he lets himself really forget all about it.
Because that’s ridiculous and this is reality and he’s alone, after all.
~~*~~
Really, it’s nothing if not rude.
Here he is waiting patiently, and the bastard doesn’t have the decency to come back with food. He probably expects Izaya to stick around, unfighting, even as his body gradually purges the drug - even as he regains the physical ability to fight his way out - and to be honest it’s probably the accuracy of the assumption that really gets to him.
He won’t fight. He can’t. He’s heavily exhausted and relatively malnourished and hardly as superhuman as the monstrous Shizu-chan. He can’t come back from stuff like this in the blink of an eye, but he can lie still and hope and hate. He can imagine himself channeling his rival’s strength for long enough, just long enough to get out and far away.
The first thing he’d ( ... )
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“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles. He hopes it’s not that either of them has heard about the trouble from a few days ago - that pompous dick who reeked of flea and the same-old, same-old trouble of getting hauled off to a holding cell to spend the night. That stuff’s not usually his fault, but even now he can’t argue that he wasn’t unprovoked this time.
He’d do it again, fucking expensive bail or not.
“Right,” Shinra agrees with a flippant grin. “He’s in a better mood than usual, isn’t he?”
Celty tilts her helmet curiously before somewhat closing the distance between herself and Shizuo.
[It’s that Orihara - right?]
Shizuo frowns. “No,” he denies. He hesitates for a moment, then decides to go with something a bit more honest than that. “But I guess - yeah, sort of.”
“Huh?”
“It’s fine as long as he doesn’t show his face at school, really,” Shizuo says, turning just briefly to face Shinra, “but I get the feeling he’s not gonna leave it like that, after all. Kinda just wish he’d get whatever it is over with so I ( ... )
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“Really getting to you, is it?” the man chuckles - several days in, Izaya’s stomach just emptied in the crazy-desperate throes of yet another attack - and he doesn’t even bother to clean his toy up, just makes half an attempt to get the mess away from his lower body - so that the play can continue, naturally.
“You’re certainly a lot worse for wear these days, Orihara-kun. I should be terribly insulted that you haven’t yet grown to like me.”
Izaya shudders, swallows back bile, and then tries hard to smile. He’s not sure it works, but the effort’s enough to save him a few bruises, at least.
“Changed a lot, haven’t you?” His master is outright laughing, now - thrusting into him at the same time, hot and wet and sloppily painful. “Used to talk back. Glad to see we’ve put a stop to that, anyhow. Though you could say I - ahh, yeah - mm, probably miss the cheeriness, but the quiet’s more’n worth it.”
Izaya doesn’t respond. He presses his left cheek heavily into the dirty newspaper - to avoid watching it as it happens, his eyes screwed ( ... )
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He’d stopped running, but the discomfort quickly turns to distrust turns to fear again - and he runs.
A tall man, middle-aged and graying, tries to help him, but he doesn’t recognize the sound coming from the stranger’s mouth as words. That scares him almost as much as the towering form and what if he knows who I am? so he stumbles past with his sheet clutched gingerly to his chest.
The stranger doesn’t follow him.
He wanders like that for a long time, lost. He should know the ins and outs of Ikebukuro, but now it’s all messed up and he can’t remember how to get home. He has no money for a hotel room or taxi, and he’s honestly terrified of running into anyone who might know him - or anyone who might not, the whole lot of accusatory fingers and raised eyebrows and gaping mouths. The bodies on the sidewalks around him seem too close. They’re waiting for him to fall, must be - must be waiting for him to brush close and then they’ll grab him, so he has to get away now before they take him back -
“Izaya?”
He twists to face behind him ( ... )
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~~*~~
The note is hard to read, it’s so messy, and Izaya’s vision keeps blurring in and out so much that it takes him more than a minute to figure out what the thing says.
It you try anything weird, I’ll kill you. Bathroom’s down the hall, so go clean up when you feel like it.
He almost smiles. The last part of it’s kind of nice, actually, especially coming from Shizu-chan. The first is probably the most important, though, because that’s how Shizu-chan’s simple mind works. That’s what he thinks first when he thinks about Izaya; it’s all he can focus on, really, and getting past it must be as hard for that brute as calming down is for the informant.
The open animosity makes it hard, but the almost-smiling-kind-of-nice part helps.
He looks around. He’s still wrapped up tight in his sheet, and there’s a towel flung carelessly over the pillow upon which his head was resting just a second ago. The room’s small but neat, the bed still made with the blankets taut beneath him. The table beside him is empty save for the ( ... )
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~~*~~
“What are you gonna do now?”
The question startles Izaya. He sets his spoon and the emptied carton of chocolate pudding - hardly worth wasting on you, Shizuo’d grumbled, but if Izaya didn’t know better he’d almost call the look on the blonde’s face satisfied - down on the bedside table. Crinkles his brow and imagines the reaction he’d get if he went home now. He should probably see a doctor, but what would Shinra’s response be?
He shrugs listlessly.
“Fine,” Shizuo groans. “At least tell me what happened. I can call Shinra if that’s what you need. Dunno if he’d come, but it’s better than sitting around here like this. Doubt you wanna be here, anyway.”
“I might,” Izaya mumbles.
“What?”
“I - I might,” the informant tries again, louder this time. His voice still sounds foreign to him, but it’s better than it was before - not grating, just dry, still hurting.
Shizuo stares. “What - really?” He narrows his eyes at Izaya. “Got any weird reasons for that? You’re not planning something, are you?”
“I’m not,” Izaya defends ( ... )
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This is where he takes it all upon himself, really. Shizuo’s no good as a support system, Izaya knows that. But he’s it now, and to lose it is more than just painful; it feels like falling. The sensation in his stomach is the same - it’s in his throat.
“Thanks,” he croaks. “Bye.”
“You gonna be okay like this?” Shizuo fusses, eyes wide. “Would it be alright if I -”
Izaya shakes his head. Go.
“Iza-nii,” Mairu chimes, “we thought you were dead.” She cranes her neck to scrutinize him with wide and innocent six-turning-seven-year-old eyes - and Izaya can feel something in him start to break again. There’s nothing in her tone that indicates worry - just curiosity, a novelty to be examined and then cast aside at the end of the day.
Kururi mimics her twin sister’s actions, her mouth a near-perfect O, little hands searching for the corner of the enormously baggy T-shirt Izaya’s borrowed from Shizu-chan.
Shizuo smiles uncomfortably at them, then glances back up at Izaya. “Your parents aren’t around?”
Izaya’s stomach constricts; the ( ... )
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“Izaya -”
“I can’t,” he repeats.
“Oh - yes, well,” he hears, and it takes him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that her change in tone isn’t intended for him. “If you’re willing to wait, I suppose that’s fine…”
Izaya doubts it until he manages to detect the faint tap of the phone being set down on the floor in front of his door. He swallows thickly and waits for an explanation.
“It’s still connected, dear,” his mother calls. “I don’t know how long your friend plans on waiting, but you can take your time if you need to.”
He takes a deep breath to steady himself; it doesn’t help the nervous fluttering in his stomach. “Sure.”
The moment his mother’s footsteps disappear down the stairs, he lowers himself to the floor and gradually works his way onto two feet. The door feels incredibly far away, but a few teetering inches in its direction close the distance quickly. He can hardly breathe, and it’s not exertion - not exactly, anyway.
“Hey,” he whispers to the crack between his door and the hallway beyond it. He should feel ( ... )
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