Snake[Izaya X Reader]

Between Truths and Half-Truths

The office feels quieter after Izaya leaves, though nothing has changed. You stay seated longer than necessary, fingers brushing the cool metal edge of the first aid kit before tucking it back into place. The informer—Izaya Orihara. What an odd figure, what an intriguing man. 

It should have been an ordinary exchange. Bandages, antiseptic, a few sharp words. Yet the memory lingers—the faint smell of his cologne, the warmth of his hand, the way he looked at you when you tightened the bandage.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter. Izaya Orihara is useful. Amusing, sometimes. Dangerous, always. An informant.

Still, when your gaze drifts to the couch he had been sitting on, your mind wanders back. Annoying. You have more important things to deal with than thoughts like this.

Yet memories surface anyway—the time you were shot in the hip and he carried you to Shinra without a second thought. Took care of your wound when it reopened. The moment he taught you how to throw knives, his voice sharp with teasing but patient in its own way. Or the evening he came to deliver information, and the two of you ended up sharing a meal as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

The recollections tug a small, unbidden smile from you. Everyone warns you about him. Yet despite it, it feels like they are doing him an injustice solely due to his attitude. He's observant, intelligent, well-educated, and quick-witted—at times even charming, soft. 

But often, he's testing limits, unpleasant when it suits him, and shameless in how far he'll push.

You think back to all the times he provoked and mocked you, behaved unprofessionally, even pressed a knife to your neck to test your reaction—or to piss off Shizuo. He wandered around your apartment without permission, stole your wallet, keys, but then made up for it in his own strange way by dragging you to a restaurant to eat. Back then, you were certain his motives were ulterior, nothing more. Doing what is expected of an informant to do, especially an odd one like him.

But now... you're no longer sure. His remarks lean more playful than mocking, his questions sometimes carrying real answers. His hands brush against your skin too deliberately to be careless, and those subtle glances—fleeting, but unmistakable—say more than his words ever will.

You sigh, taking a seat at the mini bar.

By now, he's given you no reason to doubt him. Every piece of information has proven accurate, every warning timely, and at times, he's even gone out of his way to assist you. You remind yourself to stay reasonable, to keep your guard up—but reason falters when Izaya Orihara gives you nothing to hold against him.

Trust is dangerous, you know that better than anyone. Yet, with him, the danger feels... different. Not the careless betrayal of men too weak to carry loyalty, nor the reckless ambition of rivals clawing for power. Izaya is sharp, deliberate, calculating. If he meant you harm, you suspect you'd have felt the knife long ago.

And still—there's something more. The way he looks at you, as if peeling back your layers while offering just enough of his own to keep you guessing. The infuriating smirks, the rare glimmers of softness, the unsettling honesty hidden in his lies. Step by step, without asking permission, he's weaving himself into your thoughts.

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. Izaya Orihara. He's useful, he's dangerous... and he's slowly making his way under your skin.

Elsewhere, Izaya strolls through Ikebukuro's midnight streets, one hand buried in his pocket, the other still wrapped in your careful bandage. He flexes his fingers, amused at himself for not tearing it off immediately.

It isn't the injury that lingers with him—it's the way you treated it. Efficient. Focused. But softer than you realize. How very human of you. Once again, your kindness slipped through the cracks of the role you work so hard to play.