Title: It's Not Love

Fandom: Durarara!

Rated: NC-17/M

Genre: General, Romance (not quite...)

Characters: Izaya Orihara, Namie Yagiri

Summary: Because she'd sell him out without thinking twice, and he'd use her as bait if it's necessary. The word 'love' without 'twisted' doesn't exist in their dictionary. Izaya/Namie.

Disclaimer: I do not own Durarara! or any involved materials.

Warning: Grammatical mistakes, horrible puns and words usage. This is my second time writing something like this, in the same fandom. Admit it, Durarara! is too sexy to be true.

For someone like Izaya Orihara—twisted to his every core, manipulative son of a bitch, a cold-hearted bastard who always thought of everyone's feelings but used them to his own advantage to ruin their lives more and more, just to gain some personal sick pleasure out of it; someone who's hated and despised by almost everyone he met—he would've never thought that his evening could be more interesting than it usually did. And no, by 'interesting', he didn't mean about another one of his success attempts on making someone's life more miserable, that'd be too boring, and he did it almost every single day, anyway. What he meant by 'interesting' was, that he would've never expected to have sex with his secretary.

Sure, she had been loathing him since the first time they met; always trying to find a way to piss him off (which often backfired), but completely professional when they were working together (and as much as she hated to be ordered around by the likes of him, she did everything he asked her to do). He of all people knew extremely well the hatred and grudge she had for him, since he's the one who pulled all the strings to make her company bankrupt, and the fact that she didn't even try to hide those emotions of hers and could still impress him with her poisonous choice of words and tones, it made her fairly entertaining and amusing at the same time for him, and the incest part just made her much more interesting than she already was, another one of many reasons as of why he decided to keep her around.

Which was why, he would have never, ever expected to get intimate with her, on his favorite expensive long black-leather couch of all places. It was unpredictable, and he liked it to the point he became addicted to it. Addicted to all of the hatred she had for him, her complications and surprises, and everything about her. But still, it wasn't love. Never had and never will. It was just pure and raw addiction he had over her—maybe because he had never been with women, women like her, before, that he felt that way. He knew how complicated and strange love was, how people said that it had no boundaries and all, but it was as clear as day that this thing between them wasn't love. Just addiction, and lust, and something they might do more often to pass the time (for him), and to release the stress of the day (for her. He never stressed over something like her before, not once).

The day began quite simple and ordinary enough. She came to his apartment at ten pass five, gave him the bento he ordered from the Russian Sushi Store yesterday, put her things down and started working behind her desk as usual. He noticed that she was unusually more quiet than she had ever been though, even when he rambled about a couple of murderers that escaped from Russia to Japan, or about the dreams he'd been having where Shizuo finally died in the hands of his sisters. She barely even moved a muscle when he brought his brother into the conversation, and he frowned.

"Oh, come on Namie. You're no fun when you're quite." He whined childishly and pouted, dropping his head onto the table and stretched out his arms, both of his hands rested on stacks of papers he didn't even bother to look at since last week. She would do it sooner or later, anyway. That's the point of having a secretary in the first place.

She didn't answer, or gave him any proper response in that case, and kept focusing on the papers spread on the table diligently. Since when did she become so occupied with her work—the work he gave her—that she couldn't even give him a response? A simple 'hm' or 'whatever' would be nice; as long as she talked to him. Maybe if she were with someone else, someone normal that wasn't Orihara Izaya, he or she might give up and decide to do something else more interesting. But the facts that she didn't even bother to look at him, talk to him or doing anything with him involved in it, made him more curious than ever, and that wasn't a really good sign.

The corner of his thin lips quirked into a sly playful smirk that always appeared when he was planning on something, something fun to him in particular, like when he managed to successfully ruin Masaomi Kida's life, or when he framed Heiwajima Shizuo for a crime that he did; it was that kind of smirk. Poor Namie, who thought that he might already give up on bothering her, didn't even know what's going to come for her.

Izaya stood up from his chair, placing his glasses beside his dark-blue laptop and walked toward her desk with silence and carefulness that could make even the most professional assassin jealous. She didn't even notice when he was two steps away behind her chair, settling comfortably on the edge of her desk as his long fingers caught a few strands of her soft dark-brown hair, twisting it around before releasing it, and did it again in cycle.

Namie tensed up—finally, he thought—and swiftly turned her chair around, catching him by the wrist and threw his hand away from her roughly. Apparently he was expecting that kind of reaction from her, and didn't waste any time to strike her, grabbing her shoulders and yanked her out of the chair before slamming her onto her desk when she let her guard down. 'A piece of cake,' because he could do a lot more than just that with this kind of position, in which she was lying on her back, the papers and some other things around her fell off the desk and flew anywhere, her legs went up to either kick him or getting back on her feet, but failed completely when he jabbed his right knees on her thigh hard. Namie growled loudly in pain, her free leg went up and kicked his jaw in reflex as she tried to grab his shoulders and reverse the situation.

But he was a better fighter and was much stronger than her; thanks to the parkour technique he mastered years ago in France, and somehow made the situation worse for her by taking the upper hand, literally (because he was, in fact, holding both of her wrists tightly above her head). Izaya smirked deviously at her, his dark crimson eyes flashed in what seemed like amusement mixed with something bad. When he leaned down and stopped a few inches above her neck, she realized instantly that this wouldn't end in a good way.

"Tsk, tsk, Namie-san. You of all people should already know how flexible I could be when I want to." He purred sensually against the smooth skin of her neck, giving a long lick at her pulse and smiled when she groaned. Her hands clenched into fists as she tried to push him away from her once again, but to no avail. Namie threw him a deadly glare.

"You're disgusting." She snapped in disgust, her voice trembled slightly when his teeth sank into the more sensitive part around her jugular very slowly.

"You haven't told me to stop," he murmured softly with half-parted lips, and grinned when she squirmed violently underneath him. "Well, at least not yet." He pressed down on her harder, her thighs and upper arms were bruised from the force of his elbows and knees, emitting a low painful moan from her throat and she scowled.

She was going to hiss 'then stop!' at him, screaming thousands of curses and dirty words as loud as she could with her high-pitch voice, so loud that his ears might bleed, but she didn't, or more like, she couldn't—especially not when one of his hands suddenly moved from her wrists to grope her ass, hard enough to leave another bruise for her to attend to afterward. She didn't even realize she was moaning when he pointed it out in that slurry amused voice of his, every time something went according to his plan.

"You're moaning. Now that is a good reaction."

And then before they realized what's going on, his lips were kissing on hers hotly, his hands were lost on her long brown tresses while hers were scratching on his back and shoulder blades. The next thing she knew, her clothes were thrown on the floor along with her skirt, followed by his black t-shirt and her stocking. His lips were on hers, all over her neck and collarbone, making her moan and pant underneath his hot tongue and hands.

She didn't arch for his touch, nor did he want her to, and he didn't pull back, because he was bored and this was one hell of a rare, intriguingly interesting occasion he didn't really want to miss. The reason she didn't tell him to stop was because she needed a distraction for one, and she just wanted him to—

Oh god.

Her hands shot down and gripped his raven-black hair, scratching his scalp hard enough to leave a mark or two, and much to her shame, her hips bucked when his tongue slipped into her hot wet center (since when did he get rid of her underwear again?). Before she could scream his name until her throat gone dry, Namie bit her own tongue and let out a loud groan instead, feeling completely and utterly humiliated when she felt his lips curved into a smirk, but there's nothing came out of her mouth.

She didn't stop him when he thrust into her either—hard and fast and simply mind-blowing—and dug her nails into his back while her teeth sank deep into his shoulders. Izaya buried his face into the crook of her neck, breathing raggedly but he didn't say anything, and when she finally came, he followed a minute after, and stayed like that for a while (and for god's sake, 'stayed' and 'cuddled' were two different things).

Suddenly, Izaya started laughing, first lowly, so low that she could barely hear it, and then he started laughing louder and louder like a maniac, tears swelled up in his eyes, and she felt like slapping his face with a hammer or something alike. He looked at her straight in the eyes before moving away, picking up his discarded clothes on the floor and put them back on.

"That was interesting, although you," he buckled his belt and slid his black t-shirt swiftly over his head, stretching both of his arms up and looked at her from the corner of his eyes. "Maybe you should go home and check that brother of yours. I'll see you in the morning."

Namie raised her eyebrow as she put her own clothes back on.

"I thought you said that we would be busy today."

"Yes, yes, that's why you're not speaking to me all day long, I know. And there's another reason to that, is it?" Izaya smiled once again, though his eyes weren't on hers anymore. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest.

"You didn't tell me anything. That she knows." She knew that he understood what she was saying.

"Ah, yes. Did she use it against you already? That's why you're so angry?"

"Well yes!" she was screaming now, and her head started aching because of the complication of its all. Not only that Harima Mika—the girl that she used to use for the sanity of her brother despite her own questionable sanity—threatened her to expose all the secrets about her and Izaya's illegal works if she did something that would make her brother to stay away from her, the said girl also did a close call of making some sort of deal with her that would destroy everything. For the first time in her life, she was glad that Izaya came and ruined it all.

"You don't have to worry about her anymore, Namie-san. Consider she had already been taken care of, and no, you don't have to worry about your brother anymore as well." The raven haired replied as calm and amused as usual. He was already halfway outside the room; his hand was still on the door handle, when his head poked back in.

"Oh, and by the way, that—"Izaya smiled cheekily, emphasizing 'that' in a playful manner, but clearly pointing out the intimate act they just did. "Let's consider that it never happened."

She couldn't agree more.

Word count: 2115

And if you're reading on your screen right now, screaming "what the hell was that" or "that was so stupid"; yes, I am so sorry that I've totally lost it. I don't know what else to write or do to finish this story, and uhh… okay, let's end this at that. Bye.