Let me repeat myself, Warning for: Non-con, Smut, and general fuckery. If you're under eighteen, dun read.

Beware, Monster.

Ikebukuro, Red Light District

The moon hung full and pregnant over the abandoned building. This was the shabbiest part of town, filled with the most desperate of people. Shizuo Heiwajima felt, somewhat, at home amongst the darkness and desperation of the area. He imagined that this area was what his soul was like—the shadows and desolation the evidence of his separation from his fellow human beings, with which he had little in common. He was stronger than other humans. He was prone to fits of absolute rage that he could not control. He was dangerous—like this place.

The red cherry of a cigarette dangled from his lips, the orange-red light competing with only the moon for the illumination of the somber landscape stretched out before him. The streetlights in the area were out—their glass shattered like broken flower petals. There was no light coming from within the abandoned building. A massive door hung open on a rusty iron hinge that squealed as the wind blew. This is either a set-up, Shizuo thought, or the wrong fucking place.

He took several more steps toward the ominous looking building. The sound of his footsteps became the predominant sound in the night. Each step drew him closer and closer to what he was beginning to understand was some kind of elaborate trap. Yesterday, he had saved a man's life. The act had not been, at least not entirely, on purpose. The stupid man, in expensive suit and even more expensive shoes, had been talking frantically on an expensive cellphone. Raging at whomever was on the other end of the call, the man had walked out into the street heedless of the large truck that had been barreling down upon him at deadly speed.

Shizuo had not thought. Like many times in his miserable life, his body just reacted. One moment, he had been standing by the streetlight on the opposite side of the street waiting to cross himself, and the next moment, he had propelled himself the distance between him and the man and thrown his body between the man and the truck.

The impact had stopped time and caused him to be aware of the fact that he had done this thing. The man lay crumpled up on the ground at his feet, the phone shattered beside him. People were screaming in horror. And the massive truck, and Shizuo, for that moment were…one.

He experienced pain. But pain was an odd thing for him. Real, but distant. It rocked through his body as he and the truck fought for domination of the road. He could smell the thick smell of the plastic of the tires as they spun against that asphalt. He could hear the sound of bending, rending metal as it tried to force its way over and through him. He was, simply, stronger—uncannily strong, demonically strong, superhumanly strong.

The driver of the truck got control of the vehicle, and the vehicle stopped its assault upon his person. Now, the only sound he could hear was the driver's cursing, the screams of the spectators, and the breathless pants of the man on the ground. Shizuo stepped away from the truck, head clearing, remembering his purpose for having to cross the street in the first place. The sign for the coffee shop winked in the amber sunlight. He made his way in that direction.

"You're the Monster of Ikebukuro," the man he was stepping over, said.

"You should pay attention when crossing the street," Shizuo responded without bothering to turn around or break his stride. "To call me a monster when I have saved your life is more than a little ungrateful."

"No-no!" the man said, his voice desperate and awed at once, "I didn't mean it like that. We have a common enemy you and me. I've always hoped you'd catch him. Kill him-"

This was more than a little interesting, but his boss, Tom Tanaka, had tasked Shizuo with a very simple duty—to obtain a cup of coffee without getting into any trouble at all. For most minions, this would be a simple enough task. For Shizuo, it was damn near impossible—the not getting into any trouble part.

He walked on, the surge of adrenaline inspired by seeing the truck bearing down on the man abating to something that was almost tolerable as it rushed like a shock through his system. He ignored the many bystander's, male and female alike that were staring at him as if he were something amazing, something other than human.

A staying hand fell on his shoulder, and he had to resist the urge to snatch away from the desperate grip.

"Please, Mr. Heiwajima," the man in the now slightly rumpled expensive suit said, "take this. Meet me at this place at midnight tomorrow. Accept a reward for the life you gave me today. I promise you, it is a gift that is worth your while, one that you, and only you will appreciate."

A flicker of annoyance flared through Shizuo, even as he snatched the little piece of paper that had been offered to him. "I don't need a reward-" he began, but, before he could get the rest of the sentence out of his mouth, the man and turned and moved off into the milling crowd, expensive suit swallowed in the rush of the many bodies eager to get an up close and personal look at the Monster of Ikebukuro.

"Fuck," he'd uttered then, staring at the little piece of paper and the address that had been hastily scrawled upon it. He repeated that word now as he stood directly before a large door that swung on rusted hinges. He stared into the ominous darkness of the hallways that stretched beyond that door into the infinite darkness of the building that had the same address set in the stone above the doorway as what had been on the piece of paper.

He wasn't afraid. He was a monster, after all. And monsters did not fear, but were feared. He was annoyed. And he was…curious. The man's words on their 'common enemy' had haunted him ever since he'd heard them.

"I've always hoped you'd catch him. Kill him-"

The words, and no reward, were what had brought him to the Red Light District at this darkest of times of night. He ran pale fingers thought the golden waves of his dyed blond hair. He peered into the darkness and tried to discern what secrets they held—what phantoms and killers Izaya Orihara had conjured up this time. Most of the trouble that Shizuo found himself in, Izaya was the root cause of in one way or another. He didn't think this way any different.

"…catch him. Kill him-"

Yes, that is very much what I'd like to do to Izaya, he thought. He dropped his cigarette in the doorway, and stepped on it as he made his way into the darkness.

The hallway stretched out long before him, and he could barely see anything in the stygian shadows that encompassed his world now. The light of the moon was far behind, eclipsed by the thick walls and many doors of the edifice. A flicker of anger bloomed beside his curiosity and that was a dangerous thing indeed, because once that dark little flower had bloomed past a certain point, Shizuo wouldn't be able to control it, and he'd tear this whole place down in order to satisfy it. He was alright now, however, content to merely be curious about where he was being led and why. This was no gift though, no one chose such a place to give thanks. What it was, exactly, remained to be seen.

Ahead of him in the darkness something that was darker lay piled on the floor. Shizuo knelt and picked that thing up. Simultaneously, he used his lighter to bring golden illumination to the black. The coat was instantly familiar, and a little snarl of escalating rage exited him. It was an animal's warning sound. He fingered the black coat's pale fur collar, and the single word left his lips in a cold hiss. "Izaya."

The amber light made a distinction of the stairway just ahead of him. A paler object rested on those stairs. He moved toward it, bringing the coat with him, and listening to the sound of his heartbeat increase until it sounded like the waves of a stormy ocean beating on a small beach. He reached down and picked up the white shirt. Izaya had a tendency to wear such a shirt underneath the damnable coat. He frowned and looked up the stairway to the darkness above. Just as where the light met the shadows, he saw another article, pale and white. It was a sock, fresh and new and clean, and absolutely out of place in an old, abandoned building.

"What kind of fucked up game is this, you sick little animal?" he asked the fathomless darkness above. Excitement raced through him, and combined with the rage, had him taking the stairs by two's and three's until he reached the second floor. Another sock lay in the hallway, and the harsh metal of a black leather belt glinted in the lighter's amber flame.

His knuckles flexed into fists around the possessions he was carrying. His breaths came in hard little pants that had nothing to do with his minimal physical excretions. The hallway stretched out before him—a picture of the long ago abandoned. Forgotten papers that had probably been important to someone once littered the floor. There were broken and overturned chairs scattered haphazardly all over the place. A dead vending machine offered nothing edible in one deserted corner. A cracked mahogany desk stood like a dark sentinel in the other.

Shizuo listened carefully for any sound that would alert him to the presence of anyone other than himself. He could hear nothing over the raging rush of his own heartbeat. This was what Izaya did to him from that first meeting when they were children when he'd tried to punch the dark haired male in his smug, overly pretty, face.

"Izaya!" he called to the quiet shadows, "I don't want to play another one of your stupid games. Come here, so I can tear your fucking head off and play kick ball with it!"

He received no reply to the goading, and that irritated him to the point where he was nearly shaking. Adrenaline was his drug, and the situation had him high on the stuff. The lighter was overused and hot in his hands, but he barely felt the pain as his dark blue eyes surveyed the shadows for more signs of his adversary—the man who'd had him put in jail on more than one occasion for the sheer pleasure of doing so. This person who could not…would not…leave him alone and invented elaborate schemes designed to ruin him. This person who but the sight of sent him into an unstoppable violent rage. Izaya Orihara, he thought. I'll kill you. I am not a game for you to play.

He heard a slight sound from the end of the hallway. While there were many doors stretching up the long hall, there was only one door at the hall's end, and from behind it, came a muffled half a noise—something like a cry of distress from behind thick cotton. He snapped the lighter off, as he body surged with more and more adrenaline in anticipation for the upcoming brawl with whatever entities shared the darkness with him. He dropped the clothing that he had gathered. His mind working on what he'd seen just before he'd turned off the light and cast the hallway back into darkness. A dark pair of pants had been neatly lain across the back of a chair that sat near the door from behind which the little cry had emanated.

What the fuck, he thought. But he had already used the very last of his patience, and questions, at least for him, were usually answered by kicking in doors. He moved fast and determinedly until he was standing before that door. He drew his foot up, he lashed out, foot connecting with and shattering wood. The door flew open to expose the blackness behind it.

His mind took it all in at once. His mouth dropped open. And, again, time stopped for him. This room had once been some kind of cafeteria. The long table, what was left of the order they'd once possessed, were strewn all over the place. Windows made up three of the four walls and moonlight poured into the room in buckets making evident the bizarre picture before him. When his mouth closed in the aftershock, his lips turned up at the corners with a surprised kind of amusement that would turn, quickly, to a cruel kind of laughter—the mocking kind. His mind had to process it all, first, however.

Izaya Orihara was as naked as the day he'd been born. Seemingly flawless alabaster skin matched the moonlight's pale tones perfectly and seemed to glow from where he had been strapped to the cafeteria table. Inky black hair shone in that same silvery light. Face down on the table, Izaya struggled to look up from the pale surface and dark brown eyes met blue in the somber light of the chamber. A chuckle poured from Shizuo for the expression on the other male's face—the sheer indignation that rode in that dark gaze, and the slight fear.

Someone had taped Izaya's smart mouth shut, and that was good. The shiny gray duct tape rode from one ear to the other. Someone had wrapped a glittering red bow around his waist. It was big, and carefully, intricately, tied.

"…it is a gift that is worth your while, once that you, and only you will appreciate."

"Well, well, well," Shizuo said, and moved deeper into the chamber and closer to the captive Izaya. Understanding dawned on him. This was not another one of Izaya's games after all. This was the game of the man in the expensive suit. A goodly portion of the rage moved away from him, but not all of it, his excitement for finding his enemy this way, wouldn't let it all go away, but enough. He came to stand before the cafeteria table and its fleshy offering, his blue gaze moving over pale flesh. "You make a lot of enemies, Izaya."

He got a response. It was clipped and nasty, whatever it was that was said from beneath that muffle. Normally, this man's smart mouth made him want to kill…everything. Right now, though, he found he very much wanted to hear what Izaya had to say. He knelt before the other, met that dark chocolate gaze again, and reached out and peeled the tape away in a single, and he hoped, painful, sweep.

"Shizuo-chan," Izaya spat.

Shizuo frowned. The rage stirred. "Yes?"

"I was kidnapped. Release me."

He smirked. He leaned in closer to the other until they were nose to nose. His voice was a whisper. "Why would I want to do that?"

He watched frustration light those dark eyes, and anger. He liked seeing it there. Ordinarily, Izaya was the picture of calm. With a face like a statue already—carved and pale and perfect, Izaya Orihara was a study in cold serenity most of the time. Shizuo had watched that cold, pretty face make a fool out of him so many times it was beyond his ability to count how many. It felt good to see that familiar expression undone, and even better to be in control of himself while it happened.

He stood. There had never been an occasion when he'd been around this person and felt in control of himself. Izaya had a way of looking at him that made him feel less than human, and that was why he'd tried to punch him that first meeting when they were children. The dark haired male had been staring at him like he was some kind of new and elaborate zoo animal. It had pissed him off instantly. It had been pissing him off ever since.

He moved around the cafeteria table in observation of his unique 'gift'. Heavy leather straps bound Izaya to the table's metal legs at the ankles and wrists. Even while he watched, the other struggled in his bonds. A thin sheen of sweat glinted on his pale body in the moonlight as he twisted on the table. There was a beauty in the vain struggle, and he let it captivate him for a few moments as those captured limbs fought desperately for freedom.

"Shizuo-chan," Izaya tried again.

His hand came down on the pale firmness of the other's ass without him even thinking about it. The sound of flesh on flesh rocked hard in the chamber and echoed through it. He heard Izaya's sudden intake of shocked and pained breath. He watched the paleness of the flesh flower rose blossom red where he had struck it. Within moments the flesh showed the outline of his palm. "Don't call me that."

For his next few breaths, the room was absolutely silent. Izaya had stopped his struggling with the blow, and lay pale-statue-frozen on the table. He was not even breathing.

It felt good, the control. With it, he could see how beautiful the body stretched across that table truly was. How flawless the skin. How fine the muscle underneath formed the perfection that was Izaya Orihara. He thought that he might have always thought so, even at the first childhood meeting, but he'd never had the time to linger on it like this. He was always trying to kill Izaya, and Izaya was always trying to ruin him.

He heard the other draw a shuddering breath.

"Shizuo," Izaya said. His voice was soft and reasonable. "You can't just leave me here. No one comes here. I will die."

The knife lay on the table. It was wrapped in red ribbon too—Izaya's knife. Shizuo's flesh knew the weapon well. It was Izaya's main form of defense. His skin sported several scars from meeting the weapon in open combat, his strength against Izaya's quickness.

"You framed me for murder, Izaya-chan," Shizuo said. "You death would only be a good thing for me. Remember who you are begging for your life."

Silence. Shizuo could almost hear the gears on Izaya's brain turning in search of a way to save himself. This was the first time he found he could pay attention to such a thing in the other's presence and he found he liked it very much. His hand still stung from the blow he'd delivered to the other, and the pain was warm and pleasant.

"Animal," Izaya whispered, softly. "I love people, but I hate you. Barely in control. No higher mind. No better self. Just a reactionary beast akin to the basest savage. Poke Shizuo and watch him explode. Are you going to kill me then?"

There was no fear in the question, or, not much fear anyway. It was what it was, a simple need to know.

Shizuo fingered the knife, complete with its pretty little bow. "I don't think so. The thought of you starving to death, all alone, in this place where you can't bother anybody does have its appeal, Izaya. I could visit you as you waste away. Your desperation, I have found, gives me peace."

The body on the table strained, all the muscles working at once and in unison seeking freedom. Shizuo watched this with a mixture of serenity and excitement coursing through him.

"Look at you pretending to think," Izaya said. His words were less smug due to his situation, but that familiar smugness was there nonetheless. In it was the obvious superiority in the way that Izaya looked at other people, the world—looked at him.

"I think I'd very much like to make you cry," Shizuo said, as suddenly as the thought entered his head. "I think you deserve it, and I think your parents didn't do it enough, which is why you turned out to be the heartless, twisted, little piece of shit that you are."

With a finger, he traced the outline of the handprint that he'd gifted Izaya's ass. The body on the table went still again in reaction, every muscle tense. Shizuo thought that, maybe, Izaya wanted to run like he always did. Unfortunately for the dark haired male, running was not an option at this time.

"Don't pretend to understand me, monster," Izaya said, finally. And then, "Don't touch me."

Shizuo smiled in the silver moonlight filtered in through the dirty glass of many windows. If Izaya had seen that smile, he might have had enough sense to truly be afraid. But he didn't see, and, so, he was wholly unprepared for the pulling away of a questing finger, relatively gently searching his flesh, and its replacement of a whole hand coming down with punishing intensity upon the same spot, exactly, that it had struck before.

"Because no one touches you, right?" Shizuo said, and hit him again, and in the same spot. The flesh blushed hard crimson, all the blood rushing to that spot and engorging it with furious pain-color. "You're better than the rest of us, and can't be touched. Is that right?"

The blows began to fall in a rhythm that was casual for the punisher, but far less casual for the punished. Shizuo was a monster, and so he hit harder than other people. He could drag a lamp post out of the concrete in which it was embedded in the ground with an ease that was astonishing, but he tamed these blows, delivering light one's in the spaces that were blossoming red, and hard ones where the flesh was pale. He took a perverse kind of pleasure when the pale body beneath his gave up its statue-like appearance and began to struggle against the pain he was dispensing. At first those struggles were of light shock, he could feel the disbelief at such punishment coursing through the flesh underneath his stinging palm, and the way the struggles escalated moment to moment as he continued to dispense the punishment.

At first, Izaya cursed him, calling him names that would have easily sent him into a rage. Shizuo was worthless to Izaya. He was nothing but a beast. Less than human. A mindless, stupid, easily predictable, thing.

He did not react to any of these things, losing himself in the sound of flesh on flesh contact and the gorgeous display of those slim hips working that table in an effort to get away from him. The flesh underneath his palm was hot everywhere he touched it now, and that ass bloomed hot cherry red in the soft moonlight. The pale body arched and humped and tried to cave in on itself in an effort to escape each merciless blow. It was a beautiful, decidedly nasty, little dance that Izaya took up, but the punishment was not about the dance at all. He really did want to see Izaya cry. He wanted to see this arrogant person completely undone.

He let that need carry him through all of Izaya's threats. Izaya was going to have him killed. Izaya was going to kill him himself. He increased the tempo of the blows. He was skilled with pain. He had to be in learning how to master the bizarre strength that made him what he was. He'd broken more bones than he could count in learning how not to hurt himself when he lost his mind and began to throw street signs and vending machines at this person, in particular. He was a good friend to pain, and now, he was making Izaya its friend. Slowly. Carefully. Methodically. Deliberately.

He heard the distinct hitching of breath that brought the helpless tears, and for some bizarre reason, it made it his dick hard. Normally, Shizuo was not cruel, so he really didn't understand this reaction. The blows stopped falling in smooth reaction to the symphonic sound of Izaya Orihara's weeping. His hands fell flat on the cafeteria table, clenching around its edges until his knuckles turned white with the power with which he was gripping the thing. He wanted…more. It wasn't enough this revenge. It wasn't enough making Izaya cry.

Through that entire punishment, he had been calm. He was no longer calm. He felt, very much, like he was in the grips of his own familiar driving rage. Except it wasn't rage he was feeling right now. Every shuddering cry from the person trapped on the table increased the feeling a thousand fold. He couldn't get enough of looking at Izaya. He wanted to devour him voraciously. And not in a nice way either. There was not a tender emotion in any of his thoughts. He, very simply, wanted to eat the other male. He was starving for him and that hunger was as strong as any of the rage that Izaya normally inspired.

"No," he breathed in disbelief of himself. I can't want to do this.

But his dick said that he, very much, did.

"Don't hit me again," Izaya whimpered, and flinched at the sound of his voice. "Please."

He could not imagine such vulnerability from this person. Izaya was as cold as ice—that was simply who he was. He didn't have a girlfriend. He didn't have a boyfriend. He was above all that. As much as Shizuo had wanted to see and hear this person cry, before he'd actually seen it, he couldn't have imagined it. Now that he was experiencing it, it made him so horny he could barely think beyond the feel of that pale flesh bouncing and reacting to his own.

"Oh hell no," he said, and backed away a stumbling step from the table.

"Please," Izaya whimpered again, and the word sounded so much like an invitation that his dick twitched with every sinuous syllable as it wrapped around that hard flesh like a choking noose. "Shizuo-chan," the dark haired male finished.

Blue eyes narrowed in the moonlit darkness. He took a step forward, until his thighs banged against the side of the table. His fingers found their way into short, silken, inky curls, and he used the grip to draw Izaya's head up off the table and turn his face toward him. "Didn't I tell you not to call me that?"

The gaze that met his was tear-streaked and fearful. Izaya's perfect mouth trembled. Blue eyes locked on those trembling lips, and, in the second before he kissed him, Shizuo cursed his infamous lack of control.

Izaya tried to bite him. He was just that sort of person. Shizuo pulled his hair, hard enough to draw another cry from the other male. He held that hair in a tight grip that had to be rather painful, and promised even more pain if the attempt to bite was repeated. Then he drowned in the other male's mouth, taking the kiss as voracious supplement for the hunger that was roaring through him instead of the usual rage. He took his time. He kissed Izaya hard and deep, exploring the inside of the other's mouth with his tongue, sucking life and breath and soul out of him until he was satisfied.

This thing that he had never considered before became all important—the sampling of Izaya Orihara's evil mouth. There was a sweetness to it, the definite suspicion that no one had ever kissed these cold, cruel lips before. Izaya was slightly clumsy at it, after giving up his attempts to escapes it. There was power in taking this kiss, and he went about it rather violently at first, until the mouth beneath his gave to the pressure of his lips and the exploration of his tongue.

I had not once imagined what he'd taste like, Shizuo thought, distantly, beneath the fiery heat of the joining of their mouth. Having tasted him only increased the insane need roaring through him. Again, he wanted more. He wanted this person's humiliation, his submission, his struggle, his cooperation, his desire, his hatred, his…everything.

"You're in trouble now, Izaya," he said against that trembling mouth as he pulled out of the seduction of that kiss. "I think I'll take this time to tell you how fine I've always thought you were every time I tried to murder you."

He released his grip on dark satin hair, transferred that hand to graze across one high, fine, cheekbone to wipe away the tears that had gathered there.

"Wha-what are you talking about, Shizuo? What are you saying?"

The fingers of his thumb played across long, dark eyelashes and then moved to trace one dark raven brow.

"I'm an animal aren't I?" Shizuo continued. "That's why you torment me…because you know that I just can't help myself, right? In the end, I'll always suffer and you'll always laugh at my suffering. Because I am monster that cannot hide what he is the way that you can."

His fingers left that cheek and slid down Izaya's neck, across his shoulder blades, and down the middle of his back. Shizuo moved to accommodate this intimate exploration of the other. Izaya tried to follow him with dark eyes, and that's when Shizuo noticed the collar around his throat, the dark thing that bound his neck to the table and was secured somewhere underneath. The gift giver had been extremely through in making Izaya a helpless captive.

His fingers teased the small of Izaya's back, and slid the length of the crack of his ass.

"Don't," Izaya pleaded, and, in that final second, before straining against the bond became too much, gifted him with a look that was so big eyed and vulnerable, that Shizuo actually heard the snap, deep within himself, which determined the course of the rest of the night. His cock was throbbing, his very cells felt like they were on fire. What niggling sympathy he felt for the fact that his tormentor was now begging him in the most pathetic kind of way was far outweighed by the simple fact that he had never been able to quite control himself, and what usually evidenced itself a rage, had turned, for this person, to rampaging desire.

"It's too late," he said, as his fingers delved deeper into that heated crack and drew against the hot bud of the other's anus. "You know what I'm like. Temperamental Shizuo. Can't control himself. Izaya's toy to play with as he pleases. Piss him off and watch him go all crazy. Right?"

His mouth came down on one crimson hued ass cheek. His tongue followed in a rough lick that drew a startled gasp from Izaya. "Is this crazy enough for you?"

He moved lower then, his fingers moving over the heavy buckled that secured Izaya's left ankle to the table. He undid it, and as soon as he did, Izaya started kicking and thrashing. He ignored that, and undid the other leg.

"I'm begging you," Izaya said. He said a lot of things. Shizuo wasn't really listening to any of them. He wasn't thinking about the hefty prison sentence this person almost garnered him, or the fact that every time he saw Izaya he was filled with so much hate it was nearly unbearable. Vengeance, strangely, wasn't in this. No, he just wanted him. He'd wanted him, after a fashion, from the very first time that he'd seen him. Somewhere in all his hatred was a vicious, needy kind of want. To touch this pristine thing that held itself above all other beings. This cold statue of a man. That is why I tried to punch his light out that day. That is why I chase him incessantly.

"You're always fucking with me," he said, even as he drew Izaya's legs off the side of the table to get him in the position that he wanted him in. "I forget about you, and you send killers, you have me arrested. Save yourself and tell me…Why?"

He slid up behind that writhing ass, felt that hot flesh grinding against his dick. The bonds on Izaya's wrists and neck held him firmly in place. He spread Izaya's legs with one knee until they were far apart, and slid himself between them so that they couldn't come back together and make an effective attempt at struggle.

He undid his belt, the button of his pants, and his zipper in a hot rush. He shoved his pants and underwear down so that his flesh rode against Izaya's. His dick sandwiched between the hot cleft of that ass. His hips moved to instigate friction as he worked that heated place. Izaya squealed for every rough stroke, even though he hadn't entered him…yet.

Shizuo's hands fell on Izaya's hips, holding them, relatively, still. He leaned over the other male, fitting his body to the odd positioning he had him in, until he could feel the frantic beat of Izaya's heart beneath him. He leaned in until his mouth found Izaya's ear. He licked it, it was another savage taste of him. He breathed his question into the shell cup of that ear. "Why?"

All he got for his question was a series of whimpers that went perfectly in time with the way he was grinding his dick into the hot cleft of that ass. Need roared through him in increasing waves with every thrust of his hips until he pulled back and pressed against the tight twitching bud of that anus. Heat suffused him, and his grip on the other's hips increased until that ass was still for him. He pressed in, gaining a millimeter. It was tight and hot, and he'd brought nothing by way of preparing that hole for this impromptu invasion. The small amount of mercy left in him, had him entering slow, easing his way into that tight space with a gentleness that belied, absolutely, the way he felt.

He told himself he only had to do this for a little while, until the other got used to him. Besides, every inch gained was an addictive pleasure. Izaya made little sounds, and some part of him was keeping track of them—using them to tell him when he could go and when he needed to stop and allow the other male some small modicum of time to adjust.

Halfway, and he got a little rougher. The little sounds became big sounds, deep intakes of breath, heavy conflicted moans, the occasional, hot and heavy, 'please'. These little things drove him, because as out of control as Shizuo could be, he always knew his target, and, for the most part, his target was this person. Where, before, he'd always wanted Izaya to die, he wanted, now, for this person to cum, hard and for him. Somehow the monster in him saw that as truly conquering this bastard—to wipe that bland, half-amused expression he always wore completely off his face, to wipe away the tears he'd put there in lieu of the smirk and to cause him to cum all over the table he was strapped to.

It would be better even, he thought, that cumming in that tight little ass himself.

When he hit rock bottom, when he couldn't push himself inside the other anymore, he stopped for a moment. One hand slid from the grip of Izaya's hip, to the flesh of his dick and found it semi-erect. His thumb swirled across the tip. The body beneath his shuddered beautifully for the simple touch. Then he gripped that flesh hard and began to work it with a slow, deliberation. He stroked, he tugged, he pulled and he listed like the predatory monster that he was for every conflicted hitching breath, every hastily uttered groan, until that flesh was hard as stone for him, and pre-cum seeped from the turgid tip.

"I'm not stopping until you cum," he told Izaya. "Until you give. Until you break."

With those words, his hand moved to the base of Izaya's dick and began a rough stroking upward and down again. His hips moved to the time of that rough stoking. The tight space was hard to maneuver and resisted the invasion, the walls locked around him with the intensity of a vice. He soldiered on, gaining both speed and rhythm. The sounds Izaya made changed. They intensified. He lost himself in the hard flesh symphony as easily as he lost himself to rage. Pleasure flooded him as Izaya's cries intensified and the dick in his hand twitched as he forced it mercilessly toward eruption.

The empty building echoed with the sounds of Izaya's cries—some of pain and some of obvious pleasure. The monster in him loved hearing each and every one of them. For once, Izaya Orihara was dancing to his tune and not the other way around. When he wanted the cries louder, he just fucked him that much harder. The table shuddered underneath them.

The dick in his hand twitched hard, and was slick with precum with the way that he manipulated it.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-!" Izaya moaned. It was a beautiful sound, even if it was one that foretold glorious finality.

Shizuo stopped, in direct negation of his previous threat. Completely.

"How's that for control?" he leaned down and breathed against Izaya's back. He bit that place, hard enough to leave the mark of his teeth in a semi-circle there.

The ass he was spearing writhed underneath him. Izaya panted in confusion. That ass moved back against him…just a little.

"Think I'll go home now," Shizuo said. His dick hated him for the words.

"B-Bastard."

"Why do you haunt me, ghost? Why can't you just leave me alone? Leave my city? Go. Away?"

He was barely in control, using everything he had to keep himself from plowing Izaya like a wheat field, but he really did want to know the answer to this most puzzling question.

Hot hips slammed back into him and caught him completely off guard. His breath hissed from between his teeth.

"Fuck me, animal," Izaya commanded. "Shut up, and fuck me!"

The monster deep inside him roared. It howled. And his question, unanswered for the third time now, drifted somewhere into the realm of things that were truly unimportant. He pulled out completely and slammed hard back into that ass. The hand on Izaya's dick fled it post to grab his hips instead and steady him. He fucked him like he hated him—because he did.

This time when that final kind of noise came from Izaya's mouth, he did nothing to stop it, but rode the sound as he buried himself hard and deep and fast into the other. At its crest, he came himself, unloading deep inside his nemesis.

Shizuo left him there. To the tune of Izaya's rage filled curses, he'd adjusted his clothing and walked out of that room, down the stairs, and out of the building into the sinuous night.

He was confused by his own actions. He really did hate Izaya Orihara. The insane urge to fuck his enemy made no sense to him—but there had been pleasure in the deed, and with it had come a bizarre kind of satisfaction that lent a certain spring to his step as he got as far away from that place as possible. He turned one corner and then another, his thoughts of home and normality and not desiring that hateful person.

The car that had not been there before made him turn around. It was not the kind of car that would be normal for a place like this. He considered the fact that it might have been the man who had given him the 'gift' in the first place, and that the man had probably expected him to kill Izaya and not fuck him. He'd left Izaya tied up, intending to call the police when he got home and alert of bastard's location. The potential presence of the man who'd been skilled enough to capture Izaya in such a way unnerved him. That man had wanted Izaya dead.

He turned around, retracing his steps. The car was empty and so he went into the building again. He heard voices and…and the distinct sound of Izaya Orihara…laughing.

He took the stairs carefully and quietly, and turned the corner to see Izaya standing and mostly dressed but for the coat. The man in the expensive suit was wearing another expensive suit and handing Izaya his coat.

Rage surged through Shizuo.

"Did you get what you wanted?" the man was asking.

"And then some," Izaya replied, running both hands over as ass that had to be sore as hell.

"Happy birthday then, sir?" the man inquired.

The strangest smile settled on Izaya's face. "Yes."

Shizuo saw red. He let the rage carry him, consumed him, and he …moved. He had crossed the hall in a second, and had grabbed the empty vending machine in another. He picked the gargantuan machine up with the ease of picking up an infant. The sound of the heavy machine scraping against one ragged wall alerted the other two men of his presence. They looked up, simultaneously.

Shizuo was in the doorway, the vending machine in both hands, and hoisted above his head. With a savage snarl, he hurled it, without thought or regret at Izaya. The little bastard was always fast. He dodged to the side, and the thing flew past him to go crashing through the large cafeteria windows in a rain of wood and glass. It seemed to hang in the open air for a moment before plummeting to the street below with a catastrophic noise of twisted metal and shattered mechanisms.

Izaya grinned at him in that terrible smug way he had, and was out of the window a second behind the vending machine. Shizuo got to the window a breath later. He watched Izaya get up, wave his precious knife in his direction and then take off for street.

Shizuo jumped out the window right behind him. The man in the expensive suit, he'd deal with later. The monster was focused on the grace and agility of the little dark haired animal fleeing before him. The monster was pleased that, while still agile and still graceful, the hateful prey was running more than a little funny.

"You'd better run, you little bitch!"