Work Text:
i.
First time you set eyes upon Orihara Izaya, your only thought is to kick him out, maybe wipe everything he touched with a mix of holy water and bleach.
It’s been years upon years since you felt unease strong enough to tread into the edge of violence, but just the sight of him seems to be able to bring out a ferocity of emotions you spent years suppressing.
He saunters into your church like he owns it, a blur of blacks and faux furs and a sharp smile on his lips. His eyes are the colour of old blood, and stare at you like he’s imagining all the ways he could ruin your life.
You fucking hate him.
And you never believed in angels and demons amongst us, but you look at him and you think– that’s a face the devil would wear.
Because he’s pretty in a way that’s terrifying, and reeks of untethered cruelty; damnation in the shape of your worst nightmare, and your gut twists with the potential of violence when he narrows his focus on you.
He must realise what he’s doing too, because his smile widens.
You take a deep breath.
“Can I help you?” Your voice is strained, your fingernails leaving crescent marks on your palms, and he breathes out a chuckle.
“Hardly.” Even his voice grates your nerves, dripping with the kind of indolence only those with no care in the world can achieve. You barely hold back a snarl, and you see amusement glint on the maroon of his eyes. “I'm Orihara Izaya.”
His smile is coy and mocking, and there’s a confidence to his words that tells you this is something you’re supposed to know, that you should have known the minute you set foot in this neighbourhood.
Something that he knows you don’t know, that you don’t understand the weight it carries.
“Mass is only on Sundays if that’s what you’re here for.” You say, and he laughs.
“Oh, that’s not why I'm here at all.”
“What, then?” It comes out much sharper than you intended, but Orihara seems unbothered, even more amused.
“Why, I've come to greet you, of course.” He sends you a look through the lashes, and there's a lazy smile on his lips, and you want to wreck his pretty face. “It’s not everyday i get to see a beast in cassocks, after all.”
His words are harsh and the look on his eyes is loaded, and fuck. You freeze where you stand, because he knows, he fucking knows. He’s dangerous, stinks of bad intentions and he knows.
The urge to strike him is almost overwhelming, but you swallow it down.
You refuse to ruin this.
"Ah, this will be very interesting indeed." He smiles again, wide and gleeful, uncaring of the fact that you're on the verge of ripping his throat out with your bare hands. "I'll be seeing you again, yes?"
And just like he came, he goes.
Your blood drips down on marble floors as you let out the breath you didn't know you were holding.
ii.
He comes over again and again, despite your unspoken but obvious objections, seemingly finding endless amusement in your presence for reasons you have yet to uncover.
You have no idea how you haven't killed him yet, if you're being honest. Every time he comes, you manage to find it in yourself to dislike him a bit more, and everything he does seems to anger you almost to the point of no return. From the brittle sound of his laughter to the way he moves, too fast, too fluid. He's somewhere, then he's not anymore, and it makes you dizzy, which in turn makes you angry.
Prayers have been abundant these days.
He seems infinitely curious about you as well, though the tone of his voice suggests he already knows all there is to know, only asks out of habit or in hope of inspiring a false sense of security.
You're not sure if it's an act or not.
You're inclined to think it is, of course, but you don't doubt the idea that he somehow knows everything, far more than he lets it show.
He knows about you, after all. There's no reason for him not to know about everything else.
And that makes you wonder what the fuck it is that Orihara does for a living.
He doesn't seem to abide by any schedule that you're aware of. He shows up at random times on random days – in the middle of a weekday, during luncheon on a Saturday, late at night after everyone has left on a Sunday. Sporadic, like he has no fixed schedule, like time just does his bidding and has no restraints on him.
He shows up as he pleases and you never turn him away.
Rationally, you know you could. you know you should. Orihara stinks of a kind of trouble it wouldn't do good to even glance at, but–
You don't know whether to blame indoctrination or your nature for this, but you're wired to accept people regardless of how thoroughly you dislike them. It's your fucking job, which incidentally, is who you are.
And it's not like closing the door on him would actually stop him, after all. You get the very distinct impression that Orihara does what he wants, regardless of anything that might try to stop him.
So you keep letting him in, and he keeps coming back.
And you keep waiting for him to finally tell you what is it that he wants from you.
iii.
You ask about him when you're out of the cassock, wandering the streets of Ikebukuro with unease written all over you. You know enough not to be forthright about it; Izaya smells of the underbelly of the city, and you're bound to attract the wrong kind of attention if you go around with his name on your tongue.
It ends up being a frustratingly useless endeavour, of course.
It's your fault, at least partially– you were never good at the whole being inconspicuous thing, at subtlety. A lifetime of relying on direct confrontation isn't easily dismissible, and sneaking around is just not in your nature.
Most of what you come across is stuff you already know–
Izaya is dangerous, stay away from him. He runs shady businesses for shadier people, he's the evil that pollutes the blood of this town. Stay away, stay away and pray he doesn't take an interest in you.
Well, too late for that, at least.
–but you do find something, in the fucking confessional of places, out of the lips of some shady sounding creature you're trying desperately not to hate.
'That fucking bastard information broker, Orihara'
You don't have many doubts as to who they're referring to.
It suits him perfectly, after all.
"So, Father." You're wiping wax from candelabra when you hear the echo of his voice emanating through empty space like an infection spreading through an open wound. He says the word father like he's on the edge of laughter, and you take a deliberately slow breath. "A little bird told me you've been asking about me."
You don't deign him with an answer and his steps echo closer, until he's hovering around you, so close you can feel his warm breath on your skin.
You'd love to punch the air out of his lungs, you think.
"So? What would you like to know?" You turn to face him before you realise what you're doing, the candelabrum in your hand forgotten.
It's a mistake – he's way too fucking close, half lidded eyes staring up at you with faint amusement, full lips stuck on the same almost smile he always seems to wear.
Vaguely you notice yourself staring, and turn away.
The thrum of anger in your blood is subdued for now, but that means so very little when Izaya is around.
"Who are you?"
"Ah, what a disappointing question," He says it like a mildly thwarted professor, and your grip on the candle tree tightens significantly.
"And what would you have me ask?" He smirks at the strain in your voice, and there's a pulse of violence that you barely manage to restrain.
"You'd have me do all the work? I'm willing to answer, Shizuo, the least you can do is ask the questions."
It's a true testament to your self-control that you don't wrap your hands around his lithe little neck and snap it in two.
"What do you want from me?" It's not a question you were planning on asking, but it's the one that comes out and it's either the very wrong or the very right thing to ask, because Izaya's lips curve into a cheshire grin that has every inch of self-preservation in your bones screaming.
"Oh, that's easy," He says, like he's never heard anything more entertaining in his entire life, and you don't even notice the candelabrum cracking in your hands until he plucks it away from you, his touch like a trail of acid on your skin.
"I want everything."
iv.
Next time you see him is the first time something other than anger hums in your veins, and you're left so breathless, so sickened with the realisation, that you only just manage to move away from where you froze up.
He shows up at fucking mass.
You don't know when he got there or how you missed him until halfway through, but there he is, sitting like he belongs, eyes burning into you so intensely you can almost believe he's heeding the words that come out of your lips.
And once you realise he's there, he becomes impossible to ignore; your eyes drift to him more oft than not throughout the ceremony, and each and every time you find him staring back. It leaves you flustered and angry all at once and you wish, you wish you could forget he's there, but Izaya is a tangible presence in whatever room he inhabits, a black hole that pulls in the attention of everyone around him whether they like it or not.
You're not the only one to have noticed, after all.
All around you see others sending looks his way, terrified, fearful, anxious. They fidget where they're sitting, focus wandering to Izaya like they're waiting for him to jump up and do something terrible at any moment.
He waves at a someone sitting a couple rows up on his left, and never before had you witnessed a grown adult cower so tremendously at the sight of someone sitting ten feet away, and who's a foot shorter and at least a decade younger.
It'd be impressive if it wasn't so pitiful, and you wonder why he inspires what he's evoking, but you don't doubt for a second that it's well deserved.
You've been staring, you realise as he smiles at you.
Fuck.
You're wondering if it can get any worse than this, when fate takes the chance to show you that yes, of course it can–
He comes for the eucharist.
You’re so busy trying not to stare at him that you don’t notice him moving into line, don’t see him coming until he’s standing in front of you. His red eyes sparkle with fake obeisance, and something twists in your stomach, so violent that you can’t help the soft exhale that makes its way out your throat.
He holds his gaze as he parts his (red, full) lips for you, and your fingers burn where they touch the soft of his skin when you place the hostia on his tongue.
There's an urge boiling in the pit of your stomach, desperate and heavy and you want–
Fuck
Izaya winks at you before he turns away, full of intent, and only the ingrained knowledge you have of every part of this ritual keeps you from staggering into a stop.
By the time mass is over, Izaya is long gone and you're left with the realisation that you've fallen right into his fucking trap.
v.
His visits get more sporadic after that dreadful day, and far more charged than before as well– they still summon the irrational wash of anger they always did, but it’s almost drowned under the new found self-awareness that comes with knowing wrath is not the only cardinal sin he brings out in you anymore.
It doesn’t help that he’s aware of it, or that he seems to find amusement in it.
Izaya has been fond of teasing from the very start, has always enjoyed getting a rise out of you – out of everyone, you suspect; it’s part of who he is, constantly attempting to push others beyond their limits. But after that day, it’s different.
His actions carry more weight, are more intense, loaded. He doesn’t touch you often, but now when he does it’s with intent, and it burns into your skin like a high-tension wire.
Brushing him aside has become a sisyphean task.
He enjoys catching you off-guard the most, wanders into your personal space without your notice. You don’t know how he manages to be so fluid in his movements, so elegant, and you don’t like where that line of thought usually takes you, so you don’t dwell on it.
And you don’t realise it at first, but after a while it becomes glaring that he’s been testing his waters with the patience of a saint, seeing how far you’ll let him go before you push him away, before you either break or snap. Little by little, he lets his touch linger for longer, ventures further into your space, encroaches deeper into your life.
Keeping a façade of calmness is gruelling effort, especially when he’s doing everything he can to break it.
And you hate yourself for knowing this and not putting an end to it, but he’s so close to breaking it, to smashing you into the ground and tearing you into a million little pieces.
You think more and more about giving in every day.
It’d be so easy.
He’s made his intentions perfectly clear, after all. You know all you’d have to do is let go and let yourself take what he’s offering, let yourself have the oblation he’s so willing to give.
It goes against absolutely everything you stand for, and you don’t remember ever wanting anything as much in your life.
At this point, you’re wondering how long until something happens, until Izaya gets tired of just waiting and pushes a little bit further. You know if he were the one to start, you wouldn’t hesitate to keep going.
That if he asked you wouldn’t waver before giving whatever he wanted.
You come to the obvious conclusion that you should never have let Orihara Izaya into your life in the first place. You should’ve kicked him out of your church when you had a chance, chased him away and out of the city so he’d never come back.
How much fucking trouble you could’ve avoided had you had a sliver less of good fucking will.
The vitral above stares at you judgmentally, and you heave a sigh of absolute defeat before getting on your knees and praying for some fucking guidance.
vi.
“I wonder,” Izaya starts as he hovers around while you cook one day.
He’s taken to dropping by your actual apartment instead of the church these days. You don’t know why, and you don’t want to think about what his reasons might be, but whatever they are, you’re glad.
You wouldn’t say you like it, but it seems easier to deal with him when you’re home. Without the weight of the cassock on your shoulders you can almost pretend to be someone else, and away from public spaces you can act without fear of repercussions, of someone seeing through you and finding what lies underneath.
“What?” You ask, because you know it’s what he’s waiting for and you find it easier to deal with him when he’s indulged.
He doesn’t answer, and you don’t bother with pressing it further. Izaya’s fancies come and go faster than you can keep up, it’s not the first time he trails off and it won’t be the last.
By the time he starts rambling again, you’ve already forgotten about it.
He doesn’t point out that you made food enough for two, and you eat while making frivolous chatter, because Izaya has a gift of being able to talk about any given thing for any given amount of time and feels the need to constantly fill silences with it.
You don’t object to it – you find that having someone to kill the time with isn’t so bad, even if the person in question is him.
He’s thrown lazily by your side on the couch when he says it again.
“I wonder,” You don’t notice the weight of his voice, and make the mistake of turning to face him.
There’s no mistaking what’s about to happen, you reckon; Izaya is staring at you unrepentant, a shadow of bad intentions in the dark of his eyes and the mood shifts, seemingly abiding his will.
He’s still lying faineant on your couch, legs pulled back to give you room to sit, and he looks comfortable, almost domestic in a way you had never seen before. His coat had been discarded somewhere by the door the minute he walked in, and you marvel at the elegance of the lines of his neck, of the sharpness of his collarbones.
You don’t trust yourself to talk, and this time Izaya doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer.
“Do you pray for me, Shizuo?” He asks and your stomach drops. It’s an innocent enough question, but the way he says it, full of intent, the calculated slowness with which he says your name is anything but.
“I–What–”
“Well, you know who I am. You know what I do, you know what I want. So, I wonder,” He sits up, pushing one of his legs out of the couch and leaning forward, closer, but not nearly close enough and you– “Do you pray for me?”
You want to reach forward and take the bait. You want to taste the silver of Izaya’s tongue on your lips, feel the warmth of his skin flush against yours, you want to reach out and take him, burn yourself with his touch.
You want him more than anything, and it burns hotter than any rage you ever felt.
If he’d just get on with it, if he closed the distance, you know you’d take it to the end.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t move, and you finally realise what it is he wants – Orihara Izaya is sin incarnate, and he wants your corruption. He wants the destruction of your foundations, and needs you to be the one to initiate whatever happens because he knows that’s the only true way to do it.
You want to be angry, you desperately want to feel that ire that comes so easily when it’s unwanted, but you’re far too gone for it, your thoughts are too focused on wanting, on the way Izaya’s lashes flutter, on the flush that sits high on his cheeks, on the way his gaze pierces through you.
“Do you beg forgiveness in my name? Or am I the last prayers of the day, when you’re lying in the dark by yourself? Do you whisper my name? Call for me?” You don’t realise that you’re the one leaning forward until you’re hardly an inch apart from him, so close you can see the light freckles on the bridge of his nose, the way brown and red mix on his eyes. “Is it me you worship when there’s no one around?”
“What do you want?” You ask with what feels like the last breath in your lungs.
“I told you that already, Shizuo,” He sighs.
“What’s your endgame here, Izaya?” You ask, and the way he breathes out at the sound of his own name makes you shudder. You’ve always avoided saying it, you hate the way it sounds right on your tongue and you especially hate the way Izaya reacts every time you say it.
“You’ve guessed it, I'm sure. You’re smarter than you seem,” His long fingers graze your jaw, tracing the line of your throat—“So? What will it be?”—and it’s done.
You break.
Izaya’s lips are softer than you could’ve imagined, and he’s pliant under you, malleable and warm. You push forward until he’s lying back again, a hand on the nape of his neck, and he goes without an ounce of resistance, almost eager.
He kisses you like you imagined he would, demanding and vivacious, pouring all the focus he has into it.
It’s enthralling and you couldn’t stop it if you wanted to.
It’s as if there’s a fog obscuring your better judgment and you know this, you know you’re fucking up bad, but right now all that matters is Izaya and the way he’s moving against you, the way he feels against you, the fervency of his touch.
Tomorrow seems such a distant concept when right now feels so urgent.
So you give yourself into it, matching Izaya in enthusiasm and answering all his unspoken demands; you ignore the weight on your stomach, and you ignore the sense of accomplishment Izaya radiates.
For now at least, you ignore how wrong this is in favor of how right it feels.
And if Izaya is gone in the morning when you wake up, and if you’re left alone with a vague feeling of emptiness and the crushing weight of guilt on your shoulders, you don’t think about it.