Black Cat (Orihara Izaya Smut One-Shot)

*

It was a rainy Sunday that she first met him. His hair and clothes were damp and he was curled up on her balcony, clutching a wound on his side.

He looked just like a black cat.

Without question she invited him in and without a word she patched him up.

In the morning he was gone, as if a dream.

The next time she met him was when she was walking home from work. It was in a dark alleyway that she followed him. It was then that she learned his name.

"Orihara Izaya," he said, bowing in an airy fashion. "Nice to meet you."

She bowed back, introducing herself to him. He smirked, a toothy grin that made her feel like he was trouble. A grin that told her she shouldn't have given him her name or invited him into her home.

But it was too late now.

The third time she met him was in the dark of night on her balcony.

"I love humans you see," he purred, leaning against the railing and tilting his head. She watched as his slender face was highlighted by the moonlight, his red eyes seeming to glow. Her eyes trailed down his slim neck and finally to his slender body.

"Of course let me explain. I love humans, not you," he said, turning his gaze to her. She didn't react to his words, and he found it quite odd.

"It's alright," she said, her voice soft and almost inaudible from the noise of the streets below. "I don't love you either."

That was the first night he slept with her.

It was rough and disconnected, the kind of sex that left her feeling hollowed out yet fulfilled at the same time.

He smelled of alcohol.

In the morning he was gone.

That morning she showered slowly.

Ate her breakfast.

Went to work.

Came home.

She didn't love him.

He didn't return.

His irregular visits came to no surprise to her. Just like a cat he came and went as he pleased.

In the thick air of afterglow they laid together and he told her of his escapades around the city.

A girl who leapt from a building out of spite and the transporter who did more than she should have.

A boy whose name sounded like an air conditioner and the girl he saved from bullies.

Shizu-chan who he had caused trouble for once again and the Russian sushi-seller who stepped in.

Little puzzle pieces of who he really was began to connect to for a picture of a sadistic man.

She still didn't love him.

Yet she didn't hate him.

She didn't hate the way his natural smell mixed with the alcohol he drank. She didn't hate the way he left marks on her skin either. She didn't hate the way he was gone in the morning when she woke up.

Maybe she simply liked him. Like the way she liked black cats.

After each visit she would go about her day, and every night she seemed to sit and wait. Most nights she went to bed alone, though sometimes she felt a pair of eyes on her as she laid in bed.