Author's Note: Can this still be considered a filler when it's over 2,000 words long? I have two mock exams tomorrow & I am finding myself updating this instead of revising. My priorities are clearly sorted just right.
There was music in the air tonight. It was deep and it was loud, throbbing and pulsing as if it were actually very much alive. Bodies had flocked to the dance floor of the little bar, the little club, the little whatever it was, sliding between each other, grinding and dancing and mixing with each other so that there was a permanent sheen of sweat and heat that surrounded them. The bar was fairly quiet; a handle of people – men and women – remained perched on bar stools, sipping at drinks that sang of alcohol. The barkeepers attended to them with fake smiles, reeling in the tips by flashing a bit of skin every now and then. They knew how to work it; they knew how to make things work to their advantage. Izaya had always found the bartenders in places like this fascinating; they were pure selfishness hidden behind perfect smiles and perfect hair. There were places like this all over Ikebukuro and Shinjuku, hell all over Tokyo if one just knew where to look. Izaya always knew just where to look. What sort of information broker would he be if he didn't?
He'd left the jacket at home tonight. The fur trims and thick material would have been suicide in a place like this, where the temperature rose by about ten degrees when one stepped in. Body heat was an amazing thing, wasn't it? He would have boiled alive as soon as he came through the doors wearing that thing. Besides, he was here for a break now, one of those little splurges of immorality that every good guy needs once in a while, and that coat held too many memories that Izaya didn't want hanging around him. It stunk, not literally, for he would never let such a thing happen, but it stunk of the past and angry ghosts that lingered around it. Maybe it was time for him to get a new damn jacket after all, a new image, something more appropriate for his role of guardian of all humans, their father, their lover, and their sweet little friend.
And hey, hey, how could expect to reel in someone if he was sweating and swooning in all the wrong ways? No, no. It was better the jacket had stayed at home, tucked over the back of his chair with Namie's distrusting eyes to watch over it like it were as precious as a child. It was really. No. No. It was just a jacket, and he wasn't a materialistic guy like his humans were, no, he'd had no trouble switched his usual wear for a pair of jeans in the same black as his hair and a t-shirt. They clung to him as if he had been born in them or they had been painted on, the denim of his jeans hugging to the curve of his hips, where they hung low, exposing a sliver of hipbones. His t-shirt dipped down his chest in one of those little 'v' shapes, uncovering an expanse of chest. It had once been tight, a red shirt similar to ones he had worn in middle and high school, but he had changed since then, he had lost weight, and now the lean tone his possessed meant the t-shirt was much baggier than it had once been. Red, red, red. Izaya had used to wear red all the time, his life had been red, hot and passionate and— he only wore black these days, black and red and black and red and black and red.
He had been here for a while already, leaning against the bar after a drink - whiskey and a shot of coke, he liked things strong and he liked them hard. His hair had fallen into a casual disarray as he stood, peering out at the dance floor over the heads of people who were walking past. This was just what he needed. It was long overdue. Izaya didn't love, in fact he was pretty sure he had forgotten how to love, and he was pretty sure that he never wanted to love again, other than his humans of course. It wasn't love he was looking for tonight, it was pleasure. He just needed one of those nights to get hot and heavy with some guy, just a face without a name, and then he could go back on with his work and his games, his lust satisfied and sated for the time being. He had learned to thrill on encounters like these, they had become part of his routine, and he always enjoyed being able to exert that power, his influence, to draw in these men with the sway of his hips or the power of his eyes. Not one of them knew his name, and they never went back to his place, so he didn't need to consider they might want something more. What sort of civilised man puts out on the first meeting anyway? Ha.
He had handed in his work to Shiki, all of the information that the man had asked for, as quickly as he could without lingering in the place that morning; which in actuality had done nothing to help with Izaya's foul mood from the night before. He had left Shinozuka without an answer once again, because really, what was one expected to say to a stupid reply of 'I'm sorry?' Was Izaya supposed to thank him? What a ridiculous notion, the man was ridiculous, that wasn't how it worked. He could wait for a reply; it was his own fault for asking such personal questions and putting him in such a foul, foul mood. Really now, what sort of asshole just goes around wanting to know everything about everyone? It was just rude, really, rude, rude, rude. The older man had noted Izaya's irritable mood when he had seen him, though Izaya had been pretty damn sure he had perfected his mask of complete apathy, of complete glee. Damn Shiki and damn Shinozuka too. What was it about his humans these days? Always playing naughty, always doing naughty things that caused trouble for Izaya. He'd have to punish them if they kept on doing it, he really would.
It didn't take long to for Izaya to spot someone hovering by the edge of the dance floor, something that had caught his eye because of the delicious emotions flickering across his face. Ha, and maybe the fact that the man's ass looked pretty damn good in those jeans of his had had a little something to do with it too. Even Izaya had impulses; even he had desires that drove him into things like this. What sort of man would he be if he didn't? A smirk wormed its way onto the informant's mouth when the man in question turned, as if he could feel Izaya's eyes on him, and caught eyes with him. Izaya winked, and when the man smiled back in return, he pushed himself away from the bar to stalk over to his little plaything for the night.
"Hello handsome~" Izaya drawled out on arriving at the man's side, draping himself over him without another thought, one hand reaching up to run fingers through golden locks that sprouted from his head. The man leered back in return, snaking an arm around Izaya's slim hips to grab at his thigh. He introduced himself, but Izaya wasn't listening. He didn't need a name, he didn't plan on seeing this man again, but for the situation's sake, he introduced himself too. I'm Nakura, hi, hi, nice to meet you. Why no, I'm not seeing anyone, in fact there's no one I'm interesting in. You want to dance? Oh baby, baby, you're so hot, just baby- come and dance with me—
And then everything was just as Izaya had intended to be tonight. There was the bass pounding through his bones, setting the rhythm of his heart, there was this guy, attractive and hard in his jeans, grinding against Izaya and whispering lewd things in his ear and creating that delightful friction. Izaya lived for encounters like these. All the fruit of love but without any of its sting; who needed fucking love when you could just have fucking? This was Izaya's world, the one that he had been thrust into when he was still young. He had grown with it; he had loved it and lived it, and still did. He never wanted to leave, never wanted to grow up, because this was perfect and god— when random men like this were so good with their hands, why did Izaya need anything more? Why did he need to bother with people like Shinozuka? He didn't need pure, and he didn't need kind. He'd never had that. Shiki had never been either, and Izaya had loved him just fine. He needed hot and he needed dirty and he needed someone who was just like him, someone who didn't give a fuck about love either. Now that was a guy that Izaya could love, one of these scumbags, just like him, these primal creatures of love and sex and fuck—
He had to get out of here, and drag this man with him, because god, god, and god he couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't take this endless friction, he needed the release, he needed the pleasure, he needed this to clear his mind, to relax him, to get rid of the tension knotting up his shoulders. This was just what he needed; he had been craving it, right? That was why he had been so focused on Shino—
No, that was a lie, and a shit one at that. Izaya wasn't falling for it. He needed it. He needed this man, naked and flush against his skin. He needed him, he needed to feel hot kisses burning over his skin, teeth grazing and nipping and biting and he needed to connect with this man, he needed to be used and satisfy this fire in the pit of his stomach. The man was all over him as the two headed for the door as quickly as they could through the mass of sweaty bodies. Izaya could feel his hands sliding under his shirt and over his stomach, could feel fingers reached past the waistband of his jeans, could feel lips pressed kisses to Izaya's neck, nibbling as the two walked, glided, rushed out of the crowd. It was what he needed, and yet there was nausea rising in the bottom of Izaya's stomach now at this man all over him. It was what he needed, and he did things like this all the time. He needed it and he needed it now, to fill the gnawing whole in his stomach, and that funny feeling that felt like guilt but Izaya knew was otherwise nibbling at his insides, like a knife, twisting over and over and over. Izaya had been there before. It was so wrong, so right, so fuuuuck— when hot men did that, who gave a damn if it was right or wrong?
If Shinozuka was allowed to fuck guys other than him, then damn, Izaya was too. Shinozuka wanted to play that game did he? He wanted to act like he cared and still go off with guys? Izaya knew that game. Izaya invented that game. He could play that game too; a game within a game, how interesting, how delightful; absolutely captivating. He could knock Shinozuka down a few pegs, get his payback for that dirty question and get laid in the process. It was a win-win situation, and yet—
No. didn't matter. The bile rising in Izaya's throat at this stranger's touch was no matter. The name of some other man popping into his head when fingers brushed against the swell in the front of his jeans was no matter either. It was sex. It was love. It wasn't anything but a fantastic game; one that Izaya was going to win.
Shinozuka Heikichi, eat your heart out because Izaya Whorihara is back in town, and anything you can do, he can do so much better.