Originally done for the DRRR! Kink Meme.

To Russia, With Loathing

Yagiri Namie watches the flurry of snowflakes whirl past the window, the mere sight of it enough to chill her to the core, even with a cozy fire nearby. Beside her, Orihara Izaya has put his charms on full display, words flowing as freely as the vodka on the table. The once respectable pharmaceutical lab chief turned secretary is now reduced to a mute extra in his wannabe James Bond scene, an exotic anomaly that he'd dragged along to watch him enthrall the growing crowd of listeners.

It's almost unfair how he never feels out of place, no matter where he goes. He has them all hanging on his every syllable, even the man for whom the conversation is intended, who had earned the title of being one of her employer's "valued associates." Judging from his appearance, he can only be a mobster, dealing in what is clearly human trafficking. Yet the informant keeps yammering on and on, all too aware of the possible threat, but showing the same frustrating ease he has with his army of fan girls.

"When you consider the type of people I associate with, shouldn't you have anticipated this?" his voice echoes in her head in a language she actually understands. She remembers him leaning back casually into his seat on the plane as he said, "While I'm flattered by your confidence in my skill, even I think it was only a matter of time before I made the wrong person angry and had go into hiding."

He's right, of course. As opinionated as she is about him and his shady practices, she should have seen this coming a mile away. But some foolish part of her was convinced that he had the ability to survive virtually anything, like a cockroach. She realized how wrong she was when she arrived at his office that afternoon. The only greeting she received was a brisk "We're leaving." as he handed his luggage over, sauntering past her and out the door. Credit cards and cell phones were immediately disposed of, Japanese identification and passports were exchanged for American ones, complete with aliases; and in a matter of minutes she was off the grid with only the clothes on her back.

Hours later, she's observing the final strains of this monologue that makes sense to everyone but her; remaining dead quiet as their laughter fills the room.

She supposes she can understand the appeal he has to others. While he can never, ever hold a candle to Seiji, he has the youthful good looks and sense of style that allow him to pull off that stupid "eternal twenty-one year old" persona of his. When the mood strikes him, he's capable of being eloquent, charismatic and even witty. And yet, what some consider his boyish charm she calls insufferable immaturity. She has little patience for his childish pranks and her ire towards his more destructive ventures is tempered only by her own morbid curiosity in the end results. If Namie had to put how she felt about Izaya in words, she could say without hesitation that she hates him. But she grudgingly acknowledges and even envies his brilliance, and that's the part she resents the most.

At the end of his ridiculous display, the mobster/pimp hands Izaya a key, and winks at her in a way that makes her understand why he and her boss get along so well. Now thoroughly nauseated, she mechanically follows the informant as he skips down a corridor.

"We can stay here for a couple of days, while we wait for the situation back home to die down."

"...This is a brothel."

"Aw, don't be so harsh. This is the respectable business of a dear acquaintance."

"He's a pimp."

"I wouldn't call him that; you might get hurt. He's not as friendly as Denis or Simon, you know. If it helps, think of him more as a facilitator for services given and provided by consenting adults. A matchmaker, of sorts."

"Even if you put it that way, he's still a pimp."

"Now, now. Let's leave that aside for a bit."

He lets the door swing open dramatically, and to her surprise, the room is remarkably clean; an easily manageable task, considering the room is practically barren.

"...There's only one bed in this room."

"Yes, I can see that. This is a brothel, after all."

"...I'm not taking the floor."

"Well, I'm certainly not. And it would be ungracious of me as a guest to force him to accommodate us further when he's already been so generous."

"I don't want to share a bed with you."

"Then you're free to leave, if you like. I'll even give you a farewell gift."

He tosses a pocket Japanese to Russian phrasebook and dictionary that skitter to her feet. "I don't know how helpful they'd be against unsavory types who'd love nothing more than to make sure a pretty foreigner never sees the light of day, but every little bit helps~"

Rage tugs at her hands, and the only way to quell it is to let them tighten around his neck, until she squeezes every last breath out of him. Unfortunately, that would leave her in the terrible situation he had just described.

"Fine, I'll stay. As if I have a choice."

"There's always a choice; but you can't blame me if you don't like the options that're available. Those things are beyond my control. I'm only human, you see..."

"You could have left me behind."

"That was a difficult choice I had to make. True enough, it would have been far easier for me to disappear alone, but what are the risks? Should anyone looking for me find you..."

"They wouldn't be a problem."

"Because you'd sell me out without batting an eyelash, right?" He sighs melodramatically, "Loyalty is such a rare quality these days."

A sadistic grin paints her face as she fantasizes about him being ruthlessly tortured with various instruments by the yakuza. Restrained in a chair stained red with his blood, eyes widened in horror as they assault him with their fists, blades, chains, and maybe even electricity; his cries of agony ringing through some dark, abandoned warehouse until he's finally, finally silenced.

"You know me too well."

"Do I? Maybe you're just easier to read than you think."

The shutting of the bathroom door gives her a temporary break from the exchange, resuming again over the rush of water from the shower:

"You really are quite boring," he tells her, voice resonating off the bathroom tile. "In addition, I'm not the type to waste my efforts trying to change the mind of someone who hates me. I'm much more accustomed to being chased rather than doing the chasing. Well, more accurately, I'm good at making myself available at the right time. As I've often said, I love humans. So if any of them want my affection, I have no choice but to oblige."

"Be a little more discerning. You sound like a slut."

"As if saving yourself for your younger brother is any better."

"I hope you contract an STD."

The only response from the other side of the door is the shower knob squeaking as the water shuts off.

"Rest assured, I have no intention of seducing you." he goes on, disregarding her attempt at a jab with an annoying nonchalance. "Why, I'm hardly dressed for something like that."

She has no words for the sight that greets her when he emerges: The smiling face of an earless, bright blue cartoon cat covering every inch of the informant's pajamas. She remembers the quiet Sunday mornings when she and Seiji would wake up early to watch the show that character was from. If memory served, wasn't it a robot as well? Whatever it was, it looks more stupid now than it ever did.

"Is that... Doraemon?"

"Correct~ I had to have these custom made, you know."

"Because pajamas in that pattern were never meant for adults."

"Who cares? What matters is that I like them. Besides, it's either this, or nothing at all." he replies, smiling in the shared knowledge of what her answer will be.

Unable to respond, she escapes to the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind her. Clothes are carelessly tossed aside in her hurry to the shower, scrubbing her skin raw as she tries to prevent the idea of him naked from invading her mind.

Even the shower can't make her relax- not that doing so would ameliorate the situation. If only she could call Seiji. Calling him would make this easier to deal with. Just so she can tell him that she'll be out of town for a couple of days, and then she can finally come home to him. But she can't, and she's seven thousand, four hundred-eighty and eighty-seven hundredths of a kilometer away from home, forced out of her comfort zone with a villain who manages to simultaneously be an evil mastermind and the world's biggest idiot as her only companion. It's undoubtedly high-grade psychological torture; a personal level of Hell that's cruel and unusual punishment, even in the face of the crimes she'd committed.

But she'll persevere. There's no way she'll let this- or Izaya- get to her. With that resolve, she steps out of the shower with a squish and looks down to find her sweater and skirt, sopping wet on the bathroom floor. She swears as she wrings them out, hanging them on the towel rack.

She slips into the only things that are thankfully dry: her bra and panties in black tulle and Chantilly lace. As she cleans her teeth with toothpaste on a new face towel, she looks at her form in the mirror, the black frills standing out nicely against her creamy skin. She knows she looks good; she takes great pains to make it happen. It's only a matter of time before her efforts pay off and Seiji will take notice, so all she has to do is keep preparing and waiting. While she has no qualms about parading around her own apartment this way, the sight is reserved for Seiji alone.

Wrapping a bath towel around herself, she cracks the door open and sees her boss sitting in bed, eyes transfixed on a book. She takes the opportunity to quietly sneak to the other side of the bed, pausing every few steps or so to see if he's watching her. He continues to read, and she sprints to the mattress, pulling the sheets over her head.

"Don't turn this way," she orders pre-emptively, unwinding the towel and tossing it on top of the bed.

"I won't. Like I said before, I'm not dressed for seducing you. You, on the other hand, seem to enjoy doing your lingerie shopping at Agent Provocateur."

"I told you not to look-!" she roars, spinning around to see his eyes still obediently glued to his book.

"I didn't. I was merely sharing a fact I learned after been reviewing your credit card statements."

"..."

Without a single glance, he waves his hand in her general direction in dismissal.

"Don't misunderstand; I'm not a stalker like you. As a safety precaution, I check the finances of all my clients. I have to make sure they can pay me on time, don't I?" With the timing of a hero from some harem anime or a terrible romantic comedy, he "forgets" her order and turns to look at her.

She's paralyzed, and her failure to move allows him to drink in the sight she tried so desperately to conceal.

"Oh, my~" he exclaims with an insulting level of mock surprise, his lips warped into an undeniably wicked smirk. "If I'm not mistaken, that's from The Classics collection. You have really nice taste."

Shouldn't working for him ought to have earned her some immunity from his mind games? The way he baits her like this is so unforgivably unfair.

Considering that he speaks regularly with girls and women, it makes sense that he'd understand their interests, but it's still unsettling that he'd be able to identify her lingerie, especially since the shop isn't in Japan. More troubling is the way he toys with the bra strap, hooking a finger underneath it and running down to the cup, then back up her shoulder, slipping it off, before righting it again. The circuit repeats, slow and almost hypnotic; until she breaks the cycle, forcing words out just before losing them under the stifling weight of his appreciative gaze.

"You said you weren't interested in me," she snaps, reminding him of the reassurance he had given her before. He draws closer, hands on either side of her shoulders as he leans in.

"I know what I said. But really, how is any man supposed to feel when they see a woman in something like this? Especially one who wears it so well. I just can't help myself." All it takes is a little compliment to shift the blame, to make her go from victim to aggressor: the villainous older woman seducing the innocent younger man. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd planned this all along.

"Your little brother must be blind or completely uninterested. I wonder how many times you've changed with your bedroom door open to ensure he'd be treated to such a sight, but to no avail." Either she really is as transparent as he claims, or he has cameras planted in her apartment.

His lips brush the side of her neck and her system goes haywire. There seems to be a lag between what he does and her reactions, and the time it takes to form proper response to his statement feels like an eternity.

"That's... none of your business." Somehow, the words don't sound as caustic as she knows they should.

It should be easy. She despises him, and she tells him so every single day. Even as he plants airy kisses along her neck and shoulders, she's more than certain this terrifying feeling that burns through every fiber of her being can't be anything other than hatred. In spite of herself, she leans into his caresses, the cool skin seeking the heat of his hands as they run along her curves.

For once, she regrets never letting anyone close to her. If she had previous experience, then maybe she could have stilled the pounding of her heart; resisting with the cool indifference she prides herself on instead of pathetically submitting to the touch of a man she doesn't love.

"I hate you."

"I know."

"Go to Hell."

"I've considered the possibility, but I don't plan on doing so in the immediate future. More importantly, don't you find it strange? As much as you claim to hate me, you haven't said "no" or told me to stop even once. I think you're enjoying this more than you let on..."

Namie recognizes this as a game he plays often and well, implanting ideas in the minds of others until they believe his thoughts are their own. He proceeds relentlessly, further complicating things with the way faint, warm puffs of his breath flit across her skin, sending an undeniably pleasant tingle down her spine. Unbearable as his outrageous lies are, she finds herself straining to hear the soft, low whispers.

"Maybe deep down, I was the one you were looking for all along. Perhaps you don't even love your darling Seiji as much as you profess..."

The ridiculous suggestion almost makes her laugh. Nothing can come between them, but the distance from her little brother makes her heart ache.

"I wonder what he's doing right now... It should be around five in the morning back home. He's probably with that girl you hate so much. What was her name?"

He knows damn well what that stupid girl's name is, yet he plays dumb, absently running his fingers along the edge of her panties as he tries to "remember."

"Harima Mika... or something like that?"

She wants to answer "yes," but the response gets caught in her throat when his fingers slip past the fabric of her underwear. They rub against a particularly sensitive spot, and she bitterly notes how he does a much better job of it than she can.

"At any rate, I'm sure he's with her. After all, they're dating, aren't they? How long has it been?"

Yes, they are; and it's been too long. She thinks, trying to ignore his fingers sliding in.

"How far do you think they've gotten in the time they've been dating?"

Stop talking, already.

"I bet they've already done it. Kids these days are so precocious, aren't they?"

Shut up.

"I wonder how it must feel for you, knowing that he's already been with another woman..."

Shut up.

"... her legs wrapped around his waist, hands cupping her slim thighs as he makes her moan in ecstasy..."

Shut up.

"... and all the while, you wait for him, alone. It's kind of pitiful, don't you think?"

SHUT UP!

"Don't you think so... Namie-san?"

SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!

She can't take more of his verbal assault, tearing at her like the blades he's so very fond of. Her mind races, and she wishes her ragged breaths and the heartbeats resounding in her ears were enough to drown him out.

"Honestly, I feel sorry for you," he says, though he doesn't sound sincere at all. "So just this once, I'll do you the favor of taking the lead."

Before she can even ask what he means, the tip of his tongue begins tracing the intricate lace pattern on her bra. There's something undeniably lewd about the way it feels, watching him inch along every swirl and curve as his fingers generate the kind of friction that makes quiver and roll into the touch. All she can do to control herself is chew on her lower lip until it turns raw, salt and the tang of metal mingling in her mouth. Blood runs down her chin, dripping into tiny, crimson constellations along her chest. He eagerly laps them up, following the trail millimeters shy of her lips. For a moment, he lingers near the corner of her mouth, and she fears he might steal away her first kiss. But he turns attention to her breasts again, pulling her bra down with his free hand.

She's ready to melt into the mattress when he presses his lips to the tender, exposed flesh, giving it a lick. She arches into it, coaxed further into arousal by the skilled fingers working in tandem with his mouth. There's the slightest pressure of teeth, only to be replaced by the flick of his tongue, fingertips brushing lightly against a bundle of nerves that force her to claw at the bed sheets, to keep herself from grabbing his head or fingers and bring him closer. It's humiliating to think he of all people could be the cause and cure of such an unstoppable fever; one of the rare occasions when it would have been better for him to be all talk and no action instead of doing things that render her completely speechless.

He of all people shouldn't be able to make her feel this way. Even under normal circumstances, his irritating attitude is a complete turn-off. He's like an overgrown child: bratty and lazy, manipulating others into doing his dirty work while he watches them move like ants under his magnifying glass, just before he gleefully burns them to a crisp. And yet, she's recklessly allowing herself to be tossed into that beam of light, completely vulnerable and exposed to an idiot who is only a man by definition of age: a moron in quirky pajamas. As she stares at the pattern, the multitude of smiling cartoon faces seems to judge her. It's like lying in bed with an elementary schooler, and while she's admittedly in love with a younger man, it's too much, even for her.

"... take... off."

"Hmmm?" he stops completely to look at her questioningly, allowing her to catch her breath long enough to form a coherent sentence.

"Take that stupid top off... right now."

"But I'm really comfortable. If you don't like it, you'll have to take it off yourself."

"But-"

"I'm already doing most of the work, aren't I? If it bothers you that much, it's the least you could do."

"... lazy bastard."

Hands that remain steady while holding a scalpel or needle now tremble as they inch towards the first button. She can't get her mind and fingers to cooperate, fumbling with the tiny piece of plastic as if it's as complex as a Rubik's Cube. What makes it even worse is how he's watching her, smugly mocking her incompetence.

"Having a little trouble?"

"Shut up."

When she finally loosens it, she heaves a sigh, mentally exhausted by the task. Drawing in a sharp breath, she screws her eyes shut and undoes the rest of them as fast as she can. She can hear the fabric slide off his slim shoulders, feel his hands closing around her wrists, placing them on his chest. His heart thumps in a steady rhythm under her small fingertips in stark contrast to frantic syncopation of her own. How can his heart rate be normal at a time like this? He truly is a freak.

Wondering if he looks as confident as he feels, she hesitantly opens one eye, then the other. Upon observation, she can't deny he has a nice body, lean but toned, even the thin scars that traverse his enviably soft, pale skin look as though they were meant to be there. That's not how monsters are supposed to look. He's perfect, too perfect for what she knows he is. She wants nothing more than to drag him down, to vivisect him and expose every disgusting bit of ugliness and vulnerability that lurks within him.

While she fantasizes about dragging him down, she realizes he's dragging her hands down to the waistband of his pajamas.

"I guess you'd want me to get rid of these, too."

Her breath grows exponentially shallow as the fabric inches down sculpted hips, lower and lower, until what she sees eliminates any doubt that she's definitely in bed with man. As a woman who's always longed for someone without reciprocation, it's strange to think of being wanted on the basest human level. Even as a young girl, she knew better than to wish for something out of the romance novels and shoujo manga her female classmates would steal from their mothers and older sisters and read aloud in giggles and scandalized whispers. The only acceptable desire is the pure one she has for Seiji.

In some twisted way, Izaya's lust is amusing. While he's succeeded in breaking her down, making her a more than willing accomplice in betraying her brother, something about the way he exhales just a little bit deeper as she runs a finger down his length seems to level the playing field. She notes how her fingers can't fully close around the shaft as she makes a cautious stroke, and then another, making him moan softly. Knowing that she can manipulate him this way gives her an empowering sense of control. In fact, if she had her way, she'd make him beg for it like a dog, but her own urges are becoming difficult to ignore.

"Namie," he calls her name with just a hint of need, ensnaring her waist with an arm and drawing her in. "I'd really like to finish this." His other hand glides up her inner leg to graze the juncture between her thighs, already slick with anticipation. "And so do you."

She's secretly grateful for the sharp, stinging pain that accompanies him closing the gap between them, even though she feels as though he'll rip her apart. It snaps a bit of sense into her and makes the thought of this being an unpleasant experience feel a little less like a lie. But now he's closer than ever, his body against hers, the sweet smell of shampoo and clean skin more intoxicating than any cologne he wears during the day.

It bothers her that he's being so gentle, and more disturbingly, isn't saying a word. Where is the derisive comment about her giving up her virginity before her first kiss? The soul-crushing laughter? The only sound that fills her ears is the exchange of breaths and body heat, as he continues with deliberate slowness, every little bit of contact feeling specifically engineered to illicit a positive response. Body betraying her mind, she follows his every direction, relishing in every sensation he brings her. His grin widens against her neck, and she realizes that he doesn't have to say anything at all, because she's doing a fine job of psychologically torturing herself. He really is at his cruelest when he's being kind.

By depriving her of any right to complain, he keeps her so firmly planted in the here and now that she can't pretend that the arms that envelop her; the mouth that tastes the dip in her collarbone; the hips that undulate into her in ways that make her desperate for more belong to anybody else. Lost in that haze, fantasies of Seiji are a misty afterthought; but to think of him as she gives herself to this detestable man would fill her with more guilt than she can bear. Her legs wrap around his waist, entwining them further. As he thrusts deeper, her voice becomes impossible to contain, resonating off the paper-thin walls.

Beneath her incoherent moans, he looks her in the eyes and lets out a soft, breathy laugh.

He has her exactly where he wants her, and the embarrassing whimpers she can't hold back only fuel his ego. What's just as unstoppable is how she wants more of him, especially when she's so close to release. The only other time she felt this miserably helpless was when she was a child, watching her parents argue through a crack in the door; incapable of silencing two people selfishly deaf to everything except their own need to place blame on each other- including the wails of their own infant son. It was at that moment that she understood that people who claimed to be in love were liars, pretending to care for others when they only cared about themselves. She vowed that she would never be like them. Despite her age, she made the decision to accept the adult responsibilities her parents failed to take: to be strong and devote her life to Seiji no matter what.

Now that resolve is a distant memory, worn away by primitive urges. His laughter crescendos, as if to say, "Listen to yourself; you can't get enough of me, can you? So much for your undying devotion to that little brother of yours." It breaks her heart, and she can't stand to hear him or herself any longer. If they could just shut up, it would make things barely tolerable; and for that pseudo-silence, her first kiss is a small price to pay.

She tentatively presses her lips to his, and for a brief moment, his shoulders jerk back. She gets a small thrill from catching him off guard, but he instantaneously adapts, deepening the kiss and taking over as though it was his idea in the first place. He robs her of breath and sanity, his tongue easily gliding along hers, allowing her to savor the notes of fresh mint from his toothpaste. As he drives her to the edge, she feels the full spectrum of human emotion speeding through her mind at a rate that could make it explode. She's sure this is what death feels like. It terrifies her, desperately gulping for air only to have him steal it away, the unbearable tension in every muscle fiber of her body, her heart threatening to shatter her ribcage. Then all her anger, frustration, hatred, loneliness and despair don't matter as he drowns her in unadulterated bliss, filling her inside and out with a strangely satisfying warmth.

When the pleasurable high finally dissipates, she comes to her senses and immediately pulls back. Her body feels so cold without his against hers and the chill sinks in, compounding the soreness that already wracks it. How could she have been so stupid?

"You know, I was really surprised that happened." he remarks, as though he wasn't even involved. He stretches out with the sated grin of a cat that ate a cage full of canaries. "This should keep things interesting for at least a week or two."

"What do you mean? You said this would be over in a couple of days."

"You misunderstood. I said we'd be here for a couple of days. We have to keep moving. Think about it: If my problem could go away that easily, would I need to leave the country?"

It makes perfect, logical sense, but she doesn't want it to, because it's a truth that's far too brutal to accept. Just the thought of spending the coming weeks with him makes her blood run cold. And what if it took longer than that? As much as she doesn't want to know exactly what she's in for, she decides to ask him directly:

"How long do you really think it would take?"

He hesitates.

"Three years. I'd really like to say ten, to be on the safe side, but I'm sure they'd lose interest in me much sooner than that."

Rage can't begin to describe the emotion that quakes within her; clawing at her throat, turning her trembling hands into fists that demand violence until he's nothing but a grotesque pulp of flesh and crushed bone soaking into the mattress. And yet, no matter how much she needs to turn this into reality, common sense dictates that she doesn't have a chance: After all, he can stand up to that monstrous guy in the bartender outfit, so how can she overpower him? And even if she pulled it off, it would only be a matter of time until someone killed her too. Crushed by the futility of it all, she turns away, disgusted at her weakness.

"Grim times like these are when humans need each other the most," he says as though quoting some character from a space opera. "I'm glad we could deepen our friendship."

"We're not friends." she clarifies, snapping harshly to conceal the crack in her voice. "And you're not supposed to have sex with them, anyway."

"Haven't you heard of 'friends with benefits?'"

"I can't see the 'benefit' of sleeping with you."

She can hear him slide across the bed sheets as he moves closer and she immediately recoils, hoping that would be enough to deter contact. He halts just shy of touching her, but close enough for her to feel his heat radiate along her back. She clings to the sheets like a lifeline to keep herself from leaning against him, the tone of his whispers conjuring a replay of the night's events in her mind against her will:

"I think you already do."

A fingertip barely skates along her spine and she whirls around to strike on reflex. Her fist is stopped light years from his face by a thin hand encasing her wrist. He jerks her forward, sending her face first into the pillow right by his head. As she's sprawled against her opponent, she hears him mumbling in that damn language she can't understand with the bitterness of a child that got caught doing something they knew was wrong.

It's simply unacceptable. She needs him to play the part of the villain, not to be a cowardly little boy without any friends. The brat, who so desperately wants the company of others, but is too arrogant and stupid to admit it. A human being who, at this very moment, is probably just as scared at the prospect of being hunted down as she is. In that light, he becomes harder to loathe- a creature to be pitied. While he may have that vulnerable side to him, he's still an asshole who completely ruined her life. Granted, she had already thrown away her career, run her family's company into the ground and even approached Izaya for assistance in her futile effort to keep Seiji close to her, but that was her prerogative; that idiot has no right to toy with her as he pleases. She's going to decimate him for this, but when she does, she wants him to be at the top of his game: She can't take victory if he'd already defeated himself.

"Ah, don't mind me. I just wanted to hear how it sounds; those words weren't really meant for you." The very fact he volunteered that information makes it sound more like a flat-out lie, but she has to believe in it to keep the last remaining shreds of her determination.
"Of course, if you're that curious, I suppose I could tell you what they mean..."

"I'll pass. It's probably something disgusting."

"You know me too well." The inscrutable leer that distorts his otherwise passably good features gives her a nauseating sense of filth that a million showers couldn't wash away.

"You're such a pervert." She scoffs; a combination of revulsion and triumph. "When this is all over, I'll kill you."

"If you still feel that way three years from now, I suppose you'll have earned the right." he chuckles, and she wonders why he sounds so damn confident that it won't happen. "I'll get you a gun, load the bullets and even teach you how to shoot, if that's what you really want."

Even if he's patronizing her, even if she knows he's lying through his teeth; the promise is enough fully wrench her from despair.

"You don't deserve a quick death."

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to plan the whole thing out, won't you? But for now... I'm ready for round two."

"You can't be serious."

He stops any further discussion with a light kiss, which she allows to degenerate into something far more sinister. His arms weave around her once again, setting the pieces in place for a completely different game. It isn't quite the same when there are only two players, but just like any other, there's a goal, a prize to be won. Winning isn't just a lucky outcome- it's the only one, and she hungers for it with every ounce of hatred she has. Her need to defeat him consumes her as passionately as the love she has for Seiji, because it's for Seiji's sake that she needs erase Orihara Izaya from the face of the Earth. When he's finally gone, it would be like this night and all the nights to come will have never happened. So she draws that revolting monster closer to her and forces every reason she despises him to loop in her head: a mantra to keep her from falling in too deep.