Child
A/N: Izanami is just so delicious not to write. . .
Warnings: Some sexual content, some AU-ness
Disclaimer: I own nothing mentioned in the story.
Child
She is not pregnant.
She has no child.
But she is taking care of one.
A child that is Orihara Izaya.
He is that childish-of-a-brain employer of hers. If she wasn't in desperate need of escape from the law, she would've decline every offer presented to her—by him.
You see, he is persistent—neck-cracking persistent—at everything he does, well mostly everything he does.
But now, he's taken that childish persistence to a higher level; from begging for food, for company, for the basic things—to something more
Intimate.
The moment she walks (grudgingly) into the apartment, he welcomes her with open arms and a wide smile. She looks at him blankly and ducks under his arm, making her way further into the room.
When she asks him if he has anything for her to do, he says her name with the '-chan' honorific. She stalks out the moment he stops speaking.
As she files the papers in their respective folders; he stands behind her, hands over her shoulders as if to grab them. As she closes the file cabinet, he drops his hands on either of her shoulders and rubs them tenderly, telling her to relax. She shivers in disgust—in pleasure, to him—and shrugs his hands away before running to another part of the apartment.
While she is cooking, he cranes his neck over her shoulder and stares at the mix in the pot. She tells him to look at something else in the unit and stop bothering her. He responds to her rude tone by embracing her from behind and lowering his chin to her shoulder, telling her that she is more interesting than any other thing in the world. She sighs and continues cooking.
When they are eating, he sits beside her in the table—rather than his usual one which is in front of her—and he sits too close; too close that he forces her right hand down. As her hand is down, his left hand reaches for it and holds it with careful fingers intertwining with hers. She stops and lowers her fork to the side of her plate. She sighs and asks using his name. He replies by kissing her cheek. Now she has lost her appetite, she arises, shakes off his hand, and walks out; leaving him alone for the rest of the night.
The rest of the week goes on with nearly the same antics from him, and the annoyed expressions from her.
Come the weekend, he invites her for a "friendly" dinner in the apartment. She comments and texts him back, asking him if she'll be the one to do everything while he dances in the living room. He laughs and sends his reply, telling her that it'll be one of the best nights of her life, and that she wouldn't have to do those chores—alone that is. He also tells her to wear the best dress that she has, but he sends her one anyway; with a twenty-four roses and a little note that she carelessly threw away.
Three non-enthusiastic knocks were on his door; no doubt that it was her. He rushes from his seat and looks through the peep-hole; it was her—in the dress.
He opens the door and wolf-whistles at sight presented to him, as his eyes reeled in her form. She coughs and asks him if he plans on letting her in. He replies with a wink and stands aside.
She rolls her eyes and stalks past him, he has never noticed that scent from her before, so she must have bought a new perfume. He watches her from behind; the swish of the long, black dress accentuating that sole, visible leg; the bodice highlighting her every outline; her hair cascading into—
Her angry tone stops his train of thought, but after she is silent, fingers twitching. As he is curious, he walks up to her side and smirks.
He asks her what's wrong, and she shakes her head, telling him that the entire situation is wrong. Him asking her to dinner on such rushed circumstances, and sending her roses, and sending her a dress—that no doubt her rented off or stole, and the dishes of the table.
He chuckles and tells her that everything she said was false, and that eating cup noodles while wearing such formal clothes is not a crime. She scoffs at his childishness before he pulls her by the wrist and drags her onto the leather sofa. She gives up and sits down, noticing that his TV is missing.
He tells her that there's something better than watching TV with instant noodles, her. She moves to slap him because of everything he's done to her in the past week. He stops her hand and clutches it with his. He sets her hand down on his knee and places another hand on the side of her neck. She hisses him to stop and her remarks her perfume. She smells of a fresh summer's day, he told her.
She scoffs, avoiding those deeply-colored eyes of his. He asks her if something's bothering her, a heavy weight of concern in his voice. She doesn't reply, but she tries to peel herself away from him, but is futile. He moves closer and she recoils back until she hits the armrest.
He shushes her, tells her to calm down as he nears her slowly. Her eyes are half-lidded and she seems lost, embraced by his aura. He closes the gap between them, but he doesn't kiss her lips, her kisses the edge of her jawline. He reaches up to her cheek and proceeds to kiss her further, lowering down to her neck. She seems still and unmoving so he grips her hand harder and releases it from his grasp.
Her hand doesn't move to shove him away, but it crawls up his arm and pulls him by the collar, pressing him against her. His newly free hand moves to the slit of her dress, caressing bare skin, and he hears her gasp near-silently. His other hand tugs on her hair, pulling her face to his, as their noses brush against each other, their breaths mixing into one. Her other hand tangles itself in his mess of hair, as he pulls away an inch.
Seconds—hours—of silence pass by before he finally captures her lips in a chaste lock. She murmurs words into his mouth as he presses in deeper; simplicity turning into a tender ferocity.
The morning after was nothing different from what he has always imagined.
A/N: And I leave you with that, since I don't know how to end it, sadly. And, by the way, I'm supposed to be studying for the big-shot exams tomorrow and the day after. . . Read and review please?