In which Toji and Shiu can't keep their hands to themselves ;)
“This fucker taking a shit or what? Any longer and I'm gonna blow my head off.”
Shiu huffs a quiet laugh, blowing the billow of smoke out of the window and into the stillness of the night. “I’d tell you to be more patient, Fushiguro, but this time, I concur.”
Stakeouts are not the most exciting part of the job — killing tends to be, at least if you ask one of them. They consist of collecting information, making a game plan, and mostly waiting. A lot of waiting. For a man like Toji, who's used to getting all the action and doing before thinking, this is his own brand of hell. For Shiu, on the other hand, this is just a day in his life.
Shuffling in his seat, the assassin itches to do something other than wait. There’s a tightly wound up ball of tension in his chest that he can’t scratch, and it’s driving him crazy. His partner notices. Of course, he does. It was his job to notice. To regulate.
That’s the only reason he stubs out his cig on the glass ashtray he always has in his car and suggests, “Up for another Venice?”
Toji’s brow rises. “Didn’t you say that was a one-time thing?”
He shrugs, wiping off some invisible fluff from his suit jacket. “Seems like you’re in real need of it tonight.”
To that, the assassin scoffs. “Yeah sure, let’s pretend you didn’t get off just as well as I did. You’re full of shit, Kong.”
Another quiet laugh.
The conversation dies down, leaving behind only the silence of their breathing. Venice was some time ago — an unplanned moment they never shared with another soul and rarely spoke of even between themselves.
Except for long nights like this, where no pretty lady they can eye is walking down the street and there’s no store they can waltz in to distract themselves with extortionately-priced chocolate or ever-cheap vodka.
Maybe that’s that. Just a mere suggestion. A memory. One that fades in the confines of a car, whilst both sets of eyes remain fixated on the undimming light of the third floor window. One might dare think they’d forgotten it was ever even uttered.
But then…
Fushiguro groans. “Let’s be quick, yeah?”
And the corner of Shiu’s lips quirk up.
Soon, their pants are unzipped, pulled slightly down under their asses so their hard and heavy cocks could spring out. Calloused hands encircle the girth. Mouths release heady breaths. They begin tugging up the length, then down, and back up again, picking up pace with no hesitation.
“What am I, made of glass?” Toji growls. “Tighten up.”
The handler does just that, pulling his fingers closer together and snatching a low groan from the assassin; he always did like it rough.
Loosening his tie with his spare hand, Shiu mutters, “Don’t be shy, princess — my tip ain’t gonna bite.”
He could do rough, sometimes. But his preference has always been to take his time, to savour the build up, and make the end worth it. Not with this guy, though. The faster the better, they both thought. The sooner they could pretend nothing ever happened.
With a roll of his eyes, Fushiguro thumbs the leaking slit, spreading the pearlescent bead of cum around the swollen cockhead. The handler curses into the air, chest arching forward.
There’s nothing nice or sweet about the way they’re jerking each other off. It’s rough and fast, two men eager to reach their destination with little regard for the journey. Neither one is looking at the other. Somehow, that was more intimate than hips rutting up into mean hands.
“Fuck. Don’t you dare fucking stop,” one groans.
The other replies, “Right back at ya.”
Toji’s abs were contracting under his tight shirt, veins in his arms and neck protruding with the strain not to cum earlier than Shiu. He lets go for a mere second, only to spit in his palm, and tug on the throbbing cock faster. A choked moan echoes in the car.
“Jesus, you in a rush or something?”
Scarred lips stretch. A tongue pokes out to lick over the sharp point of a fang. “You prefer I fondle y’r balls h-here and there? Wine and -fuck- dine you? Hell, bet you’d like it if I -mm right there- s-sucked you off, wouldn’t you?”
“As if you could -hah- handle me,” Shiu retorted. “Your mouth’s so damn -ngh- big, it’d be like fucking the Grand Canyon.”
The windows have fogged up. No one knows what’s going on inside, no one but two men who swore this would never happen again. And that’s what they’ll tell themselves when they inevitably step outside, when the target resurfaces and they can blame the rush of adrenaline on the thrill of the hunt, not the thrill of their secret.
“Shit.”
“Crap.”
Twisting wrists, pulsing grips, and unrelenting pace pushes them both over the edge with a loud groan and an explosion of cum on the dash and glass. Backs arch, toes curl, heads throw back and eyes roll. Riding their orgasms, neither of them let go, not yet. They keep jerking and tugging and rubbing until the last spurts land weakly on their thighs, dirtying their pants.
They’re both panting and wiping sweat from their brows as they watch their cocks bounce weakly once, and twice, before softening. Oddly, or not so oddly, no shame settles in the car. No embarrassment or denial. Just uncaring acceptance of the fact they both seriously needed to talk to people other than each other.
“This can’t happen again,” Fushiguro says with a frown, grabbing the tissue from his friend’s offering hand.
Shiu’s head falls back to the headrest with a laugh, louder this time. “Think if we say that one more time, we’ll actually listen?”
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