When Matsukawa had told Oikawa to let loose, Oikawa figured he meant for him to take a week off of work, go outside and soak up Vitamin D, maybe have one more drink than he usually did at the bar.
He did not, however, think that Matsukawa meant anything remotely close to going to a strip club.
Oikawa wasn’t big on strip clubs to begin with. He went to one once, where the girls were topless and three of them approached him at once with prices that were so damn expensive Oikawa couldn’t fathom spending that kind of cash for some visual stimulation.
“Trust me, I know you’re going to enjoy this one,” Matsukawa smirks, pulling the door open for him and gesturing him inside.
Oikawa is already a little irritated and unsettled. Matsukawa forced him to come outside tonight, which wasn’t on his agenda. He was originally going to curl up underneath some blankets and marathon a show on Netflix, coupled with a sweet treat and maybe a tissue box for tears. To the regular party-goer, that sounded like an awful, lonely kind of night. To Oikawa, it felt like complete relaxation. He was okay spending a night or two alone like that.
But Matsukawa didn’t let him. And because Oikawa begrudgingly gave up his plans to come outside, he didn’t put any effort into getting dressed. Well, not as much effort as he would have if he were excited to come out. Somehow Oikawa still managed to look good in jeans and a zip hoodie, paired with some chucks and his glasses.
“You could have picked anywhere else, and you chose a strip club?” Oikawa sighs as Matsukawa guides him around the bend, bypassing what most people have to stop and wait for. ID checks, VIP checks, giant bouncers with unnecessary shades and fancy secret agent headpieces. Mattsun must know someone in here.
“Alright, here’s the deal. We have to do at least two shots before you can go sit down.”
“Why’s that?” Oikawa blinks, dumbfound and staring at the bar counter. The bartender on the other side is damn cute, with long blond hair balled into a bun at the base of his neck, roots sticking out from the top. His eyes are sharp, caught between curious and surprised as he looks right back at Oikawa.
“Because you look too tense,” Matsukawa explains.
“Hey! I’m not! I didn’t even want to be here,” Oikawa complains. He falls silent when two shot glasses are set before him, both filled with a clear liquor that’s most likely something to make him feel good in the next fifteen minutes.
“Thanks, Kenma,” Matsukawa grins at the bartender. “Where’s Kuroo?”
“He’s in the back, cooling off. You just missed the first showing.”
“Dang it… he’s probably the fan favorite,” Matsukawa sighs, explaining when Oikawa shoots him a questionable look. Kenma doesn’t do much else besides a twitch of his lip, hands twirling a shaker between his fingers.
“Fan favorite?” Oikawa’s eyes shoot wide.
Kenma looks over at him and nods slowly, reaching to tuck one of his loose locks behind his ear. Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek. If this beautiful bartender went as far as to agree, this Kuroo guy must be something special.
“He’s good at what he does,” Kenma adds.
Oikawa and Matsukawa clink glasses in a cheers before turning bottoms up. The liquor hits his tongue nice and smooth, warm as he swallows. That’s definitely not bottom shelf quality, and Oikawa knows it’ll only take a few more of those before he forgets how his legs work.
Oikawa takes his eyes off of Kenma to look around the scene in front of him. The entirety of the club is set in soft blues, the club dim enough to be scandalous but light enough to take in every good angle of the dancers floating around. The crowd is pretty even, all walks of life in various levels of sexed up outfits sitting at booths and at tables. Oikawa smiles behind the back of his hand, almost laughing to himself when he catches one of the dancers with his bare back pressed against a pole in the center of one of the tables. He’s not sure he could take something like that seriously, he just finds it funny.
But when the dancer tears his pants from his waistline in one fell swoop, Oikawa whips his head back around so fast he feels a twinge in his neck. That flashy of a move makes his insides squirm.
“You’ve never been here before…” Kenma mutters, the end of his sentence dragging on with a question.
“Oikawa,” he finishes, “and, no. Not really my scene. But this guy here insisted I come.”
Kenma’s cat like eyes flicker between Oikawa and Matsukawa once, twice, and then he slides Oikawa another shot. Oikawa looks up from the third shot, seeing Matsukawa smiling and Kenma shaking his head. “I never said I haven’t been to a strip club before.”
“Trust me,” Matsukawa says, pushing the shot further towards Oikawa. Seems like Oikawa will be taking this third shot alone. “You’ll thank me when you get to see him.”
“The other fan favorite,” Kenma makes air quotes, “he just finished up too.”
Oikawa takes the last shot and pushes the glass back towards Kenma, wiping the edge of his mouth with his sleeve. Another one of those and he’ll start seeing doubles. He can already feel the alcohol swirling in his system and loosening him up in all the right places. Oikawa has always been careful about his alcohol intake, because he somehow reaches another level of charisma when he’s a certain type of buzzed, as he discovered back in University.
He’s just waiting for this night to turn into a good reason for him to have left his couch.
“We’re gonna head over to the VIP section, Kenma. You coming?”
“I do work here, Issei.” Kenma frowns at him, reaching across the bar to grab a set of empty martini glasses. “Maybe I’ll stop by later,” he quietly says in passing and walks down to the other end of the bar counter to close out a tab or two.
Matsukawa peeks back at Oikawa for a moment, eyes running him up and down before he clucks his tongue. “I should have made you change.”
“What? You said this was fine. And you failed to mention where we were going before I could put on an appropriate outfit.” Oikawa stamps his foot.
“You wouldn’t have come anyway. It’s fine. The glasses will work I’m sure. Although, ties are nice too.” Matsukawa gestures down to his own and pivots on his foot, continuing to walk towards the VIP corner. It’s more of a pit than a room, blocked off by thick velvet ropes and another set of giant bouncers. They seem to recognize Matsukawa immediately, and Oikawa starts to wonder what the hell else Matsukawa does outside of work that allows him to be known so well here.
“How the hell can you afford all this?”
“Luck,” Matsukawa snickers. “Friends in high places equates to the life of luxury.”
Oikawa rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with Matsukawa’s fancy way of saying he’s got mad connections throughout this entire joint.
The bouncers pull away the rope and one of them even greets Matsukawa as they descend the couple of steps into the pit. As soon as Oikawa steps down and looks around, he realizes why Matsukawa needed him to take the two shots before he came in here. Immediately in front of him is a gorgeous physique slicked sheen with oil and probably four different kinds of alcohol, and Oikawa is pretty sure there’s about five or six giant bills sticking out from the hem of his shorts. His eyes widen when he watches a hand, no, two hands press down against his stomach and pull him from the table he’s standing on in between two chairs of very satisfied customers.
Oikawa catches a glimpse of his face, brown eyes glazed over with liquor and good vibes, blond undercut a little on the messy side, all thanks to the hands of the person’s lap he’s currently in.
“Mattsun, isn’t there a no-touch rule in places like these?”
“That depends on the dancer, the amount of money, and the alcohol,” Matsukawa replies, tugging Oikawa further into the pit. Oikawa chokes on his air supply when he finds two dancers together, one with hair like starlight, the other onyx black. They have slimmer builds than some of the other dancers, but are nonetheless popular, especially since they seem to function as a duo that can’t keep their hands off of each other.
“I’ve already picked out your dancer for tonight,” Matsukawa smiles, “although trust me. Koushi and Keiji aren’t bad either.”
“Let me guess, you’ve asked for them before?” Oikawa asks, peeking back to see Koushi dragging his hands across the expanse of Keiji’s back, the smile on his face dangerous to anyone within the vicinity.
“All the ones in this pit are favorites. So yes,” Matsukawa nods, walking towards what seems to be the back of the pit. Oikawa follows him, the liquor starting to seep into his bones and turn the awkward out of place feeling into curiosity. His eyes travel up from the blinking floor to see a dancer in front of him. And right away, he knows that this one has to be Kuroo.
He’s surrounded by a small crowd of people, all of them with some kind of alcoholic beverage in their hands, and every time he does something, Oikawa swears this crowd is reborn again. Black hair, messy and jagged and falling over his face just enough to call him an enigma, with both a beautiful physique and height to match, all he needs to do is smile to capture his audience. But there’s more than that, because he’s a dancer, in a popular strip club, and he’s a fan favorite. Oikawa feels something swirl in his belly when Kuroo straddles someone’s lap, rolls his entire body forward in one fluid motion, tilting his head back and letting his lip curl up into a smirk as a pair of hands glide along the flat of his stomach to push his shirt out of the way.
Oikawa is sure his face is cherry red when Kuroo tilts his head back forward and turns it over his shoulder to look at him. It may or may not have been Kuroo’s intense, seductive gaze that hit him like a ton of bricks, or it could have been the way Kuroo’s eyes rolled shut all thanks to a pink tongue sliding along the dips of his abdominals. Oikawa isn’t sure at this point. The inebriation has him blurring out reason and replacing it with reaction.
“You were right about that no-touch thing,” he mutters to Matsukawa.
“Ah, not quite. The lap he’s sitting in is another dancer. Bokuto.”
Oikawa looks at him, seeing the two toned hair messy and disheveled as Kuroo runs his fingers through it. “They seem…close,” he swallows thickly.
Kuroo suddenly pulls off of Bokuto’s lap and whirls around, his smile widening. Bokuto pushes out of his chair and follows, the two of them reaching for Matsukawa. Oikawa watches them exchange pleasantries, quietly waiting on the side and trying to let the red in his cheeks dissipate. The color doesn’t drain fast enough. It comes right back when his chin is lifted by Kuroo’s knuckle and he’s staring into sharp, golden eyes.
“Who is this?” Kuroo asks over Matsukawa’s shoulder, pulling away and smiling at Oikawa. “He’s cute.”
“Yeah, he is,” Bokuto grins.
“Kuroo, Bokuto, this is Oikawa. Good friend of mine. Oikawa, this is Kuroo, and Bokuto. They’re two of the top dancers here.”
“I see why,” Oikawa smiles. Yeah. The alcohol has definitely kicked in, he thinks as his hand falls into Kuroo’s as a greeting. He can’t help the rouge in his cheeks. He also can’t help the things that are going to fly out of his mouth tonight. He’ll have to blame it on Kenma for that extra shot.
Kuroo’s lips slide into a crooked smirk, clearly pleased with Oikawa’s response. He lets go of Oikawa’s hand and reaches to tug at Matsukawa’s tie. “You’re late.”
“This guy took more convincing than I thought.” Matsukawa gestures to Oikawa, ignoring Oikawa’s sneering behind his back. “Anyway, where is Iwaizumi?”
“Aw, you’re asking for him tonight?” Bokuto whines, looking almost disappointed until Kuroo nudges him with his elbow and looks right at Oikawa, his devious smile widening to a full on grin.
“I don’t think that was for Issei.”
“Oh!” Bokuto’s happy-go-lucky demeanor switches over in a flash, his eyes growing dark like Oikawa has yet to be let in on some big juicy reveal.
“Will someone tell me what the big deal is,” Oikawa sighs, not paying any mind to Kuroo who has pulled him to sit down in one of the booths. Bokuto plops down next to Oikawa and slides an arm around him casually, like they’ve known each other for five years versus five minutes. Oikawa doesn’t mind it too much, he’s a little more fixated on the way Kuroo slides into Matsukawa’s lap like it’s a spot meant for him.
It didn’t dawn on Oikawa until just now, watching Kuroo tug Matsukawa’s tie loose and snap open the first two buttons on his shirt. “Are those two…?” Oikawa asks Bokuto quietly.
“Nah. We just fool around.”
“We,” Bokuto repeats. “You can join us if you like. Kuroo’s the most fun to tease.”
“Shut up, Kou,” Kuroo growls, slapping away Matsukawa’s hand that attempts to reach for his waistline. “Also, he’s off limits. Right?”
“Right,” Matsukawa replies, still pouting that Kuroo rejected his advance.
“Aw man… well. You’ll still have a good night. Iwaizumi never disappoints,” Bokuto says, and goes to flag down one of the waiters walking by.
Well, Oikawa knows a few things for sure. Matsukawa is setting him up with a dancer. Probably a good one, by the way everyone keeps talking. He really wishes they would just skip all of the theatrics and cut to the chase. It would be kind of cute if Matsukawa were playing drunken match maker at a friend’s house party, but no. He’s tossing Oikawa into the arms of one of the favorite—probably more expensive—dancers tonight and for what? Because he didn’t want Oikawa to sit on his couch and binge watch Sense 8? Yeah, Iwaizumi is probably hot. Gorgeous. Words probably can’t describe what rippling muscles must be resting beneath his shirt. But Oikawa can’t find himself to be hyped up about getting a lapdance while partially drunk off his ass.
“Oh? Look who is on his way down,” Kuroo juts his chin out towards the entrance to the pit. Oikawa whips his head around, probably faster than necessary, but he’s getting bored of this secrecy thing. There’s not much to hide when you go to a strip club. There’s dancers, money, liquor, and sometimes mistakes.
Oikawa watches this so called Iwaizumi head down the stairs into the pit, and his stomach drops through the floor and leaps back into his throat.
He’s wearing a snapback spun backwards, a t-shirt that has some kind of symbol on it, with a jacket tied around his waist. Oikawa watches him shove his hands into his pockets and weave his body through the crowd, and all he can think about is the tawny skin of his collarbones underneath all of these lights. He bites down on his lower lip when Iwaizumi smiles. The smile isn’t for him, it’s for one of his friends or frequent VIP goers probably. But still, the pearly whites that flash all in a row underneath pink lips and an adorable scrunch of his nose shoot right through Oikawa’s heart.
Oikawa doesn’t even flinch before he blurts, “he’s hot.”
“I wish you luck tonight.” Bokuto claps a hand against his shoulder.
Oikawa doesn’t answer him, partially too enamored with Iwaizumi and also because he’s curious now. Just what can this guy do when he’s not fully dressed?
“Oi, the hell are you doing here, stranger?” Iwaizumi asks Matsukawa, clapping their hands together in a rehearsed handshake. Oikawa mentally kicks himself for wanting to know what his voice sounds like when there isn’t a bunch of loud music and chatter to drown it all out. He kicks himself again when the alcohol has taken over his logic and reasoning, and switches on his charm right when Iwaizumi turns to look at him.
“You hardly ever bring a plus one,” he notes, eyes running up and down Oikawa. It looks like he’s trying to figure out what he is to Matsukawa, rather than why he’s already pink in the face or dressed like a University student.
“This plus one, is for you,” Matsukawa grins.
Oikawa hopes he doesn’t appear to be too mortified; Matsukawa did just talk about him like he was up for sale, and Iwaizumi seems to be smiling about it a little too mischievously.
“For me, huh?” Iwaizumi presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth in thought. “Why me?” He doesn’t sound like he’s disinterested, but rather curious as to why Matsukawa selected a specific dancer for Oikawa, instead of just nabbing one of the free ones out on the floor as they walked by.
Oikawa kind of wonders that himself for a brief moment, but that quickly dies out the longer he stares at Iwaizumi. He must have been staring too hard, because Iwaizumi turns to look at him, catching him before he can peel his eyes away.
Oh well , Oikawa thinks. Now that he’s been caught, he can ogle at him freely. Plus, Iwaizumi doesn’t seem turned off by the curious eyes. On the contrary, he meets them head on, lips curving into a small smile when Oikawa feels his face heat up.
“I have a feeling you two will get along well,” Matsukawa interrupts their little stare-off. “Could you do me this favor?”
Oikawa holds his glare for Matsukawa later. He makes him sound like this hermit that’s in desperate need to get laid, rather than a poor soul that got dragged out of his comfortable element.
He decides he can’t hold Iwaizumi’s gaze anymore, now that he’s being dangled in the air thanks to Matsukawa. A huge part of him hopes Iwaizumi will agree, and a very small part of him hopes everyone can just sit in this room and drink until they forget their inside voices.
Oikawa does look up after a long stretch of silence, watching Iwaizumi give him a once over, like he’s sizing him up and determining if he’s worth the free dance. His eyes are sharp, trapping Oikawa in a staredown and holding him pinned to the couch. Oikawa’s skin betrays him again and flushes a deep crimson, his hands wringing the hem of his shirt and lashes fluttering with an attempt to escape Iwaizumi’s gaze.
Iwaizumi clucks his tongue and rocks back on his heels, pulling his hands out of his pockets and adjusting his snapback.
“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says. “But that means you three have to go.”
Oikawa perks up at Iwaizumi’s agreement. Hell, he’ll be whatever Matsukawa needs him to be if he gets to look at Iwaizumi longer than this.
“What?! We wanted to watch the newbie!” Bokuto whines.
“He already looks like a deer in headlights,” Iwaizumi snorts, ushering the three of them off of the couch and towards the exit of the round booth. “Besides, you said he’s all mine.”
Oikawa doesn’t recall those exact words being said, but he doesn’t argue. He’s a little too drunk to respond as fast as he normally would have, and he’s also reluctant to voice his own opinion as he watches Matsukawa leave him with this gorgeous stranger. He kind of…wants to be left alone with this guy for a bit. Matsukawa says something about not having too much fun before Iwaizumi gets him and the others out and around the corner. Once he does, he reaches his hands up and to the left to latch onto a thick, dark, bundled up fabric. Oikawa lifts his eyes to follow him and finds a curved rod towards the exit. Curtains.
The VIP private shows happen right here, behind thick navy curtains.
Things are moving too fast and Oikawa’s head is starting to spin. This guy has barely said five words to him and now he’s going to put on a show? Normally private shows are expensive, and there’s a room with doors and sharp eyes to make sure that the no-touch rule stays in place. All Oikawa can see is a gorgeous man who’s soon going to start peeling himself out of clothes and gyrating his hips in ways Oikawa probably won’t be able to handle.
“Nervous?” Iwaizumi asks him, pulling his jacket from around his waist and tossing it next to Oikawa.
“You could say that,” Oikawa mumbles, leaning and pressing himself further against the backrest.
Iwaizumi smiles at him, reaches his hand out, beckoning for Oikawa to place his hand in his palm. “What’s your name?”
Oikawa places his hand into Iwaizumi’s, body freezing when Iwaizumi runs his thumb across his knuckle bed. “Oikawa. Tooru,” he clears his throat.
“Hmn. Nice name. Don’t be nervous.” Iwaizumi tilts Oikawa’s hand towards his lips as though he’s about to kiss across his knuckles, but he stops just shy and peeks up from the hand to meet Oikawa’s gaze. “We’ll take it slow.”
Oikawa can feel the heat rising into his cheeks. All of his insides jump around when Iwaizumi’s lips press lightly against his knuckles, thumb swiping across the skin in a sweet gesture, something that feels more cozy than seductive, and yet it’s doing so many favors for Oikawa.
“You kicked them out pretty fast,” Oikawa mentions, eyes flickering to the curtain and back. All Iwaizumi is doing is holding his hand and measuring him with his eyes, and somehow that’s just enough to make him wiggle.
“I’m letting you get used to me. To this. You’re tense,” Iwaizumi replies, “an audience only makes that harder.”
“Huh, I figured the whole assimilation thing would kick in. Y’know, the introvert at a party takes the spotlight, sort of thing?”
Iwaizumi snorts and turns Oikawa’s palm skyward, lacing their fingers together slowly. “I like this method better,” he answers. “So, what brings you here?”
Oikawa is pretty sure conversation isn’t normally part of the show, but he’s not opposed whatsoever. “Mattsun dragged me.”
“Dragged you? You had other plans?”
“If…Netflix and popcorn count as other plans, then yes.”
Iwaizumi stops, his fingers paused on tracing across Oikawa’s wrist, dancing around the hem of his sleeve. “You like to stay at home?”
“It was my one night in a while for myself, if I’m honest.”
“Okay. I’ll give you a reason to be here.” Iwaizumi bounces his head in understanding, leaning forward and down and drawing his face close enough to Oikawa’s that the latter has to press himself back into the couch to keep their noses from touching. “Do I make you nervous, Oikawa?”
“Do you like making me nervous?” Oikawa retorts, doing a mental cheer when he watches Iwaizumi’s lips curve into a smile, those pretty teeth flashing for just a moment.
“I haven’t even done anything yet,” he says quietly, almost inaudible against the thumping music in the background, but Oikawa hears it whispered so close to the corner of his mouth, and it makes him shudder. He’s right. All Iwaizumi has done is talk to him, and he’s so on edge he might just leap out of his seat right now. The alcohol is probably the only thing keeping him from saying something because of nerves. Thank you Kenma for that third shot.
Iwaizumi stops drawing lazy circles on Oikawa’s wrist and grasps it in his hand, pressing his fingertips against the seam of his jeans and pushing upward, letting Oikawa feel the hot, contoured skin beneath.
Iwaizumi presses a finger to his lips. Oikawa stares a little too long at how pink they are, and he would definitely love to bite down on that bottom one. Iwaizumi does it for him, snagging it between his teeth and leaning forward into Oikawa’s palm. Oikawa pushes his hand up further, experimenting with this rule violation—because that somehow makes this whole thing that much better—by dragging his hands along Iwaizumi’s chest back down to the top of his jeans, taking in every dip and ripple he comes across. HIs hands stop just over Iwaizumi’s waist, watching his hips shift. It’s subtle, but definitely intentional, and Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to be denying it either, by the way he does it again, all underneath Oikawa’s palms. Oikawa didn’t even notice that music started playing, not until Iwaizumi’s hips sway to a beat count. “Don’t be shy,” Iwaizumi encourages, guiding Oikawa’s hands along his own body.
Oikawa swallows thickly, not sure if he should continue to indulge himself in all that is underneath Iwaizumi’s shirt or bring his hands back into his lap. “Hold this for me, will you?” Iwaizumi presses his snapback onto Oikawa’s head momentarily, leaving his hands to choose on their own as he lifts to peel his shirt off his back. Iwaizumi pulls the cap back onto his head and pulls the shirt thin, wrapping it around Oikawa’s neck. Oikawa’s heart leaps as Iwaizumi straddles his lap and sits down, tugging at the zipper hoodie and pulling it wide open.
“You can take it,” Oikawa offers, mind turning to mush between staring at the body of Adonis and inhaling warm cologne from the shirt around his neck. He helps wiggle himself out of his jacket, cheeks rouging when Iwaizumi laughs at how eager he must look.
“Do you get out much, Oikawa?”
“I really look like a hermit, huh,” Oikawa smiles. He watches Iwaizumi look at him for a moment too long, but Oikawa is a veteran when it comes to reading people’s eyes. And this dark hazel gaze of Iwaizumi’s has intrigued written all over it. Oikawa takes that as a compliment. “I told you, coming here was really last minute.”
“Any reason why Matsukawa brought you here?”
“He said, get dressed we’re going somewhere.” Oikawa shakes his head. He hasn’t forgotten that his hands are still resting on Iwaizumi’s abdomen, he just hasn’t felt the need to move them. Until now, where he moves them up towards his chest and throat. “Then he made me a present for you. Whatever that means.”
“I think that part you’ve got backwards,” Iwaizumi mumbles, tilting forward and bringing his lips so close to Oikawa’s, the liquor on his breath is almost tangible. Oikawa stiffens when Iwaizumi pulls fingers through his hair, lifting his glasses off of the bridge of his nose and popping his jaw open wide enough like he might just kiss him. Oikawa knows that this is definitely against the rules, but with that giant curtain cutting them off from everything outside, nothing but the music in here and good, inebriated vibes, he’s not sure it feels wrong. “You don’t waltz into a place like this and ask for the one of the top two most requested dancers without some status and money. Tonight, I am your present.”
Oikawa shivers, feeling Iwaizumi’s voice trickle across his skin, so close to his lips he can almost feel them. He wants to kiss him. He wants to bite down on Iwaizumi’s bottom lip and hear him sigh.
Iwaizumi presses a hand to the back of Oikawa’s head and breathes deep, practiced, in time with the music playing around them. It’s something with deep bass and a rhythm fit for gentle, sweet love making and it does enough to Oikawa’s already inhibited conscience to make him fall completely for whatever Iwaizumi wants to do next.
That doesn’t mean he’s ready for it, however.
Iwaizumi bites down, teeth together, just shy of Oikawa’s lips. Oikawa’s hands slide down the length of Iwaizumi’s torso when he feels him roll his body from head down to his lap, one fluid motion with all the emphasis pressed into his hips. Iwaizumi grabs Oikawa’s hands, pressing them over his head against the back wall and rolling his entire body again. Oikawa’s hiss catches in his throat when Iwaizumi laces their fingers together, mouth curved into a smile just barely against his skin, somehow still leaving a warm tingle in his wake as he descends from Oikawa’s mouth down to his throat.
“A favorite, huh?”
“Mhm,” Iwaizumi stops just shy of the shell of his ear and brings Oikawa’s hands back to his body, securing one on his ass and the other on his thigh.
Oikawa half sputters, tilting his head down to hide the embarrassed giggle. “That’s cute,” Iwaizumi smiles, tilting Oikawa’s head up with his chin. He starts to move again, rolling in his lap, under the feel of Oikawa’s hands. He smiles wider when Oikawa’s hand cups the curve of his ass and grips, pulling Iwaizumi tighter into his lap. “You look so shy, but you’re really into this, aren’t you?”
Oikawa’s eyes travel slow from the seam of Iwaizumi’s jeans to the sharp gleam in his eyes. He’s not sure how to respond, but his face probably does the talking for him by the way it turns a deep carmine any time Iwaizumi speaks in the low voice he’s been using for the past two minutes. Of course he’s into this, a hot guy grinding and rolling his body all in Oikawa’s lap, whispering behind smiles, sweet nothings in his ear… who wouldn’t be into this?
“Oikawa, do you want me?”
Oikawa’s throat closes. He bites down on his cheek and waits for Iwaizumi to add anything onto that. Maybe a just kidding, or a “that’ll cost you extra”. But nothing. Iwaizumi just hovers in silence, pulling Oikawa’s hands down to the button and zipper on his jeans and leaving them there, eyes twinkling with some kind of intention.
Wait, is he serious? In this little private room? Oikawa’s eyes flicker around for a drawer of some kind, maybe one that holds condoms, lube, toys even. Oikawa wonders about that. It’s pretty judgmental, but how kinky is this guy? He is an exotic dancer, fancy term for stripper, whatever makes you feel more comfortable. He did just effortlessly walk into this room, shut the curtain and seduce Oikawa without knowing anything more than his name. What’s he into? What’s his favorite color? Does he like cats or dogs?
Oikawa hadn’t even thought twice about how hard he was, erection straining against his jeans. It was kind of a given that he’d be this turned on with what Iwaizumi has been servicing him with for the duration of this first song. But now he notices it, painful and in need of stimulation, and Iwaizumi is sitting right here, offering.
Oikawa mentally shakes the thoughts loose. He’s falling for it, the whole fantasy thing where you want the person in your lap to become something more than that because they made you feel good and important for five seconds. He’s really falling for it, because the more he tries to dissuade himself from being honest, the more he starts to wonder. Does Iwaizumi top, or bottom? Has Matsukawa been with him before? Have other clients been with him before?
“Do you?” Iwaizumi asks again, and Oikawa snaps out of his thought. He gives Iwaizumi his answer by silently popping open the button on his jeans and peeking up at him.
Iwaizumi smirks, and before Oikawa can reach for the zipper, he reaches down and snags his hands, forcing them into Oikawa’s lap.
Oikawa bites back a groan and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling.
Idiot. He played right into his hands.
Of course there was no way Iwaizumi was going to give into him.
“A fan favorite. I get it now.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’ll take it as a slash at my pride,” Oikawa grumbles, heart stopping when the next song starts to come on.
“You’ve got one rule,” Iwaizumi winks at him, “No touching allowed.”
Oikawa almost whimpers. Now that he knows what that body feels like, this is going to be ten times harder than he thought to keep his hands to himself, especially now that Iwaizumi’s movements aren’t limited to trying to reel Oikawa into his trap. So when Iwaizumi slides out of Oikawa’s lap and brings his mouth close to Oikawa’s inner thigh, you can’t blame him for audibly gasping and digging his fingers into his jeans to keep from grabbing at Iwaizumi’s shoulders. A tremor runs through Oikawa as he tries to keep whole body still, watching Iwaizumi snake his way back into his lap.
Iwaizumi twists around and it takes every bone in Oikawa’s body not to rake his nails from his shoulder blades down to the dimples in his lower back. He should be more concerned with why Iwaizumi’s hips are even allowed to move the way they do, but he’s still stuck on the anatomical perfection in front of him and the awful rule in place restricting him from feeling each and every divot and curve along Iwaizumi’s back. Oikawa isn’t sure what made him harder; the thought of Iwaizumi bouncing in his lap, on his lap, or just his lusting after Iwaizumi’s physique.
When Iwaizumi faces him again, Oikawa’s lips curl into a smile as Iwaizumi reaches for his chin, tilting it up from his waistline to look him in the eyes directly.
“I think you’re enjoying this just as much as I am.”
Iwaizumi says nothing, but then, he doesn’t have to. Oikawa half yelps as he’s ripped out of his seat and turned around, spread across the table in one fell swoop. His hands reach out to grip the sides of the table, jaw popped open like he’s about to protest, only his protest falls silent when Iwaizumi’s mouth is so close to his he can begin to imagine what he must taste like. Iwaizumi doesn’t feel like giving him any breathing room either, dangling Oikawa between heavy breathing and an almost kiss, arms flexed with hands pressed flat against the table on either side of Oikawa’s torso.
Oikawa audibly groans at the feel of Iwaizumi between his hips, wanting to tilt his head back as though Iwaizumi might attack his throat with his teeth if he does. It feels too real. The only thing keeping Oikawa grounded is the tight friction of his erection trapped against his jeans. Iwaizumi has to know about it at this point, with his hips pressed just shy of it. It’d be painfully obvious even without looking down. Oikawa is red as a cherry, jaw slacked open and eyes heavy lidded, desperately hanging on the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth and silently pleading that the no-touch rule be broken.
“You’re right,” Iwaizumi breathes, bringing one hand to run through Oikawa’s hair and tilting him back, breath like fire against Oikawa’s throat, “I’m thoroughly enjoying this.”
Oikawa’s breath gets caught in his throat, heat pooling in his lower abdomen. Music pulses across his skin in waves, in time with Iwaizumi’s movements and Oikawa forgets all about the curtains being the only thing sealing them off from the outside. Thankfully the music out there is just about as loud, because his hurried shift knocks one of the glasses from the table and shatters it against the floor.
“Oops.” Oikawa is hardly apologetic for knocking over a glass in the middle of trying to grind himself against Iwaizumi.
“Don’t mind it.” Iwaizumi replies with just as much disinterest. It sounds like glass is broken a lot in this place, or maybe worse than that. “You haven’t broken the no-touch rule yet, I’m impressed.”
“You sure as hell have confidence in those words,” Oikawa retorts, mentally cheering for himself. He was so close to breaking the no-touch rule five seconds ago it wasn’t even funny. “Did you think I was going to break that easily?”
“I almost had you,” Iwaizumi snorts, moving to straddle Oikawa’s lap, sitting further back on his thighs instead of his hips to avoid the painfully obvious tented fabric between them. “Making you forget where you are, how to think… making you forget the one rule I gave you.”
“Makes you like me even more,” Iwaizumi boasts, and then, his hands are burning hot against Oikawa’s skin, having slipped underneath his shirt and pushing it towards his chin. Oikawa exhales with a laugh to try and remain calm, despite the touch shooting electricity straight to his cock and nearly short circuiting all of his thoughts.
“Pulling out all the stops with me, huh?”
The music switches to what Oikawa thinks might be the last song. He can’t tell how many have passed, or how long he’s been in here with Iwaizumi. It could be five minutes—which would be a real blow to his ego—or thirty. That part doesn’t matter. He’s more focused on the mere fact that some denim, a bottle of lube and a condom are the only thing keeping Oikawa from the rapidly growing fantasy of Iwaizumi on top of him.
Iwaizumi snatches the balled up fabric at Oikawa’s collarbones and dips down into his personal bubble, breath fanning across his cheek. “I like it when my clients are obedient.” Iwaizumi drags his free hand down the length of Oikawa’s torso, blunt nails earning him a pleasured grunt and Oikawa’s stomach flexing. He smirks at the reaction and brings his dark hazel gaze back up. “But it’s more fun to test that obedience.”
“I think I like you,” Oikawa says, words tight between feeling Iwaizumi’s fingers dance at the hem of his jeans and feeling his voice, honey on his skin from his ear down his throat.
“I know.” Iwaizumi shoots him a wink and it does no favors for any of Oikawa’s insides. The heat across his skin melts away the tension in his shoulders and Iwaizumi catches it. He tugs hard at the top of Oikawa’s jeans and rolls his hips down hard, purposely grinding on Oikawa’s hips this time. He catches Oikawa by his jaw when his eyes roll shut and he bites down on his lip to keep from moaning. “You already told me you want me.”
“Mhm,” Oikawa nods, unable to form a response with words at the moment. His head is spinning and the colors in the room are whirling into one, music becoming nothing but dull thuds that pulsate inside his bones.
“Tell me how badly, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi hums against his cheek. “Show me.”
Not fair. Not fair, not fair, Oikawa thinks, and it’s the only thing he can think, with Iwaizumi’s weight bearing down on his dick and fuzzing out the rest of his thoughts. He wants to show him, by ripping him out of these jeans and repeating what they did on the table one song ago.
Oikawa looks down and finds Iwaizumi to be a bit more excited than he thought.
“You really are enjoying this,” Oikawa manages to say, watching Iwaizumi’s smug look falter for a brief moment. “I’ve been told I’m a real sight to see when I’m turned on.”
“Who sounds cocky now?” Iwaizumi quirks a brow at the comment.
Oikawa sits up on the edge of the table, taking one good look at their state currently. His shirt is disheveled, glasses discarded somewhere back on the couch, hair a tousled mess, rock hard and trapped beneath Iwaizumi’s thighs. Iwaizumi is hovering over him with tawny skin illuminated underneath the mood lights, rumpled jeans begging to be pulled off by Oikawa’s teeth, snapback as crooked as his smile, and his own erection pressed tight beneath restrictive fabric.
“What happens if I break the rule?”
Oikawa curls his tongue against the roof of his mouth, clearly not pleased with that answer, but putting up no protest. “Technically I broke the rule before you even put it in place.”
“True,” Iwaizumi nods softly, no longer gyrating his hips or doing anything along the lines of a lap dance. “You never showed me, you know.”
“Showed you what?” Oikawa asks, feeling Iwaizumi’s thumb trace across his lower lip, closing the gap between them with his eyes trained on Oikawa’s mouth.
“How badly you want me.”
Oikawa tilts up from Iwaizumi’s thumb, scarlet rushing over his skin for what feels like the millionth time. At this point, he just embraces that he’s going to be red for the rest of the night. He just got an invitation to do all the things to Iwaizumi that most people would only dream of getting to do. Besides, he knows Iwaizumi likes to see him like this.
“Want me to?”
Iwaizumi doesn’t need to reply. Well, he does, just not with words. Instead, he seals his mouth against Oikawa’s, drawing out an audible, heavenly sigh and feeling hands grind their way up his thighs towards the seam of his pants. The kiss is searing, and it’s only purity is in the first few seconds. Once Oikawa bites down on Iwaizumi’s lower lip, all bets are off. Oikawa hears Iwaizumi groan slightly, and his obedience disintegrates, replaced with visceral desire. He tastes better than Oikawa thought he would; he almost loses himself on Iwaizumi’s tongue. The electricity of Iwaizumi’s kiss on his own, Iwaizumi’s fingers running across his arms and down to his fingertips rejuvenates him. Oikawa is suddenly hyper aware of all of it, wanting to drink it all in and savor it.
Iwaizumi laces their fingers together and presses them against his chest, kissing Oikawa harder as he drags them up and away from his jeans and around his neck. Simultaneously, he slides out of Oikawa’s lap, but Oikawa forces him to do it without breaking the kiss. He’s been wanting to kiss him all damn night, there’s no way he’s going to let go right now. Iwaizumi doesn’t break the kiss at all. He brings Oikawa up from the table and spins them back towards the couch, once again climbing into his lap. Only this time, each roll of his hips has a meaning. Not a free show as a favor to Matsukawa, but with a selfish desire to ruin Oikawa underneath his frame.
Oikawa has his own plans of course, with the way he pulls his shirt from over his head and pushes it to sit on top of his jacket, discarded in a pile far enough to keep from getting dirty. A sigh pours from his mouth when Iwaizumi finally does what he’d been threatening to do all night. Latching his mouth onto his throat and sucking hard at the skin, hard enough to ignite a burn low in Oikawa’s belly and make his eyes roll shut.
“Eager,” Oikawa pants, a groan catching in his throat when Iwaizumi’s hips drop down and drag hard against his own. He needs to get his cock free of these jeans before he loses his control completely. There’s a side of him that wants Iwaizumi to do anything and everything, purely so he achieves that hot ascent into orgasm. The other part of him wants to drag it out and find out just what kind of things Iwaizumi likes.
“Says the one that won’t stop blushing,” Iwaizumi hums against his collarbone, his hands popping the button of Oikawa’s jeans open. Oikawa won’t let Iwaizumi leave him behind. He rushes his hands forward to do the same, barely managing to brush the zipper before Iwaizumi’s hands are taking them away. That seems to be a repeated pattern tonight; Iwaizumi always taking Oikawa’s hands in his own and directing them. Oikawa doesn’t really mind it, but right now he wonders if he may have overstepped a boundary. They are breaking official club rules right now, and the only thing keeping them from being discovered are some thick curtains across the small room.
Oikawa’s eyes flicker to the spot where Iwaizumi tied and secured the curtain in place. Obviously there aren’t cameras inside this room, or Iwaizumi wouldn’t be sucking a spot near purple on his throat and dragging their entwined hands across his thighs right now. Oikawa’s eyes flicker towards the ceiling just to be safe.
“No cameras.” Iwaizumi breathes, as if he knows what Oikawa is thinking.
“You know from experience?”
“Word of mouth.” Oikawa lights up. So he’s the first customer that Iwaizumi has tried anything with? Probably not, but he’ll let himself believe that as long as he has his hands full of Iwaizumi.
Iwaizumi pulls off of the spot on Oikawa’s throat and meets his gaze, holding it while he undoes the fly on Oikawa’s pants, pulling them apart enough to give Oikawa a bit more breathing room. His eyes flicker down once for a moment to take a good look at damp shorts stuck tight to Oikawa’s skin, and he smirks, reaching his thumb forward and pressing down against the black seam. “You said you were gonna tell me how much you want me. But I think he’s doing all the talking for you.”
“Not even,” Oikawa snorts, his reply quicker than his brain. He slams his lips shut when Iwaizumi laughs. It’s both humorous and flattering to hear such an honest reply like that, and it must have worked in Oikawa’s favor, because Iwaizumi uses his own hands to undo his jeans, shimmying them low enough to show the tent of his own arousal. The room is hot, hotter than Oikawa thought it could get back when Iwaizumi was grinding him into the glass table.
Oikawa is probably flushed from his head down to his chest, but that doesn’t keep him from trying to touch Iwaizumi again. His hands duck around Iwaizumi’s waist and into his jeans, gripping tight on Iwaizumi’s ass and pulling him closer, close enough that he can bite down gently along those tawny collarbones. “So, with this position are we…?”
“Cute. But I don’t plan on bottoming for you,” Iwaizumi tilts into Oikawa’s touch, not resisting hands kneading into his ass beneath denim. “Hardly think you could handle that right now.”
Oikawa pouts, wanting to defy Iwaizumi by being given the chance to prove he’s actually damn good when he tops. His silent protest never makes it past his lips when Iwaizumi presses his thumb down on them, smoothing across the pink, slow and deliberate, pushing in and down onto Oikawa’s tongue. Oikawa reciprocates by whirling his tongue around his thumb, a small gesture that says “I can do more if you’ll let me”. Oikawa might also be telling Iwaizumi he wants him to push further up on his knees, because that’s all he needs to do for Oikawa to get his mouth around his length and use his tongue in the same way.
Iwaizumi doesn’t respond—though he probably knows what Oikawa is up to—and instead uses his free hand to pull Oikawa’s cock free of his shorts, holding him warm and heavy in his hand. Oikawa subtly jolts around Iwaizumi’s thumb, sensitivity on high as Iwaizumi strokes him slow, grip not tight enough to get him off but just enough to have Oikawa’s focus shatter. He tries to focus on the pleasure of Iwaizumi’s hand on him, thumb swirling pre-come at the head and dragging it along his shaft, the pressure only fanning the flame burning hot and low between his hips. But then there’s the way Iwaizumi presses his thumb down against the flat of his tongue—a silent request that he wants Oikawa to suck as though it’s his cock instead—and Oikawa feels the pleasure double.
It’s embarrassing how quickly he is put at Iwaizumi’s mercy. Usually his libido is something to boast about. But Iwaizumi made it clear in only a few seconds. He’s in control. Iwaizumi smiles just as Oikawa comes to the same realization, pulling his thumb away and replacing it with his mouth. “You were right before. You really are a sight to see when you’re aroused,” he mumbles against Oikawa’s slacked jaw.
“Mhm,” Oikawa huffs impatiently, hips twitching up into Iwaizumi’s hand for more friction. Iwaizumi just snickers at him. “Wasn’t the lap dance enough teasing?” Oikawa whines.
“For you, maybe.” Iwaizumi lets his fingertips trail down Oikawa’s chest and stomach. “I’ll let you touch me. If you ask nicely.”
“You want me to.” Oikawa says it with confidence. Both of them know it’s true, otherwise Iwaizumi wouldn’t have even put the offer on the table, but Iwaizumi isn’t going to admit something like that easily. He’s having fun watching Oikawa come apart underneath him, and regain just enough energy to be defiant, only to have Iwaizumi do something more to him.
“Yeah, I do.”
Oikawa’s eyes widen. He was totally expecting Iwaizumi to say something more like “you wish” and then tease Oikawa some more until he turned into even more of a mess. The honesty throws him through a loop, and it does something to his insides that makes him even weaker under Iwaizumi’s touch. Iwaizumi wants him, it’s no secret. All Oikawa did was repeatedly forget how to speak and breathe beneath mood lights and good music and Iwaizumi’s hips, and Iwaizumi wants him.
Iwaizumi lets Oikawa go, letting Oikawa bring him further up onto his knees, kissing at the base of his stomach where his skin disappears beneath his shorts. He pulls back on the fabric and snaps it against Iwaizumi’s skin, chestnut eyes drifting up to meet Iwaizumi’s dark ones. “C’mon,” Iwaizumi whispers, snagging his lower lip between teeth and running fingers through Oikawa’s hair. “Show me.”
Oh, Oikawa intends to. He works Iwaizumi’s jeans further off of his hips and uses his teeth to peel back the shorts, smiling with the fabric between teeth when Iwaizumi holds his own cock steady for him. Oikawa doesn’t tilt back, but instead, presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the underside of the base, his breath turning the spot cold and sending a shiver up Iwaizumi’s spine. His tongue drags a slick line from base to tip, sucking generously on the head.
He doesn’t need Iwaizumi’s moans to tell him he’s good at what he’s doing, although they are a nice little reward. Oikawa takes a peek upward to find Iwaizumi with his head tilted backwards, snapback having fallen off, the skin of his neck exposed to the purple light overhead. Iwaizumi brings himself back to look down and hold Oikawa’s gaze as he sinks down over Iwaizumi’s shaft again, pushing him further towards the back of his throat. Iwaizumi combs through Oikawa’s hair, eyes tightening at the same time his cock jumps on Oikawa’s tongue. Oikawa bobs his head further and Iwaizumi lets him move on his own until his lips hit the base, eyes rolling shut to focus on breathing through his nose and allowing his throat to accept Iwaizumi.
Something about the control of his gag reflex—or lack thereof—really must have been a turn on, because the low, guttural groan from Iwaizumi makes swallowing his thick length worth it. Oikawa would be a liar if he said that he didn’t love giving head, because the way Iwaizumi is pushing at the walls of his throat right now has his own cock leaking between his fingers, begging to be touched. The flame beneath his skin is licking at every nerve ending and threatening to put spots in his vision if he doesn’t continue.
He pulls away to catch a full breath of air into his lungs, eyes heavy and glazed over with hunger. The pop noise Oikawa gives is completely dramatic, but the suction off of the tip has Iwaizumi clenching. He says something that doesn’t quite reach Oikawa’s ears.
“Pretty,” Iwaizumi murmurs, using his thumb to smear a mixture of pre-come and spit across Oikawa’s bottom lip. “You look good like this, all disheveled and kiss-red.”
“I thought that sappy side of you was for show.”
Iwaizumi settles back down into Oikawa’s lap, shaking his head and kissing away all of the air Oikawa had just gathered. “Kind of.”
Oikawa groans, body involuntarily jerking when Iwaizumi’s cock slides against his, the both of them trapped underneath his hand. His teeth clack against Iwaizumi’s clumsily, a move he quickly apologizes for, and flushes a deep carmine when Iwaizumi laughs harder than he should have. “Show me,” he whispers as he begins to move his hips like he did earlier. Oikawa’s mind blanks out when their shafts slide together between his grip, tight enough that Oikawa doesn’t have to try hard to think about the euphoria they’ve both been clawing at.
“Show you what?”
“What that pretty face of yours looks like when you come.”
Oikawa’s chest heaves as his entire body feels like it’s being pulled inward, an explosion of stars behind his eyes waiting to happen as Iwaizumi brings them both closer to the edge. “Feels, good ,” he rasps, hands unsure of where to dig in. He ends up clawing them at any spot he can, in Iwaizumi’s hair, along his jawline, down his shoulders, anywhere to give him enough leverage to thrust harder into Iwaizumi’s hand. He’s right there, they both are, panting hard into each other’s mouths and feeling the impending orgasm shake their bones tense.
It hits Oikawa first—more like a tidal wave than the usual heat that pools across his lap when he’s alone—his hips jerking upwards hard and white hot flooding into Iwaizumi’s hand, smearing across his palm and their shafts. He lets out a shout, muffled underneath Iwaizumi’s free hand, but he’s hardly aware of how much noise he’s making with his body twitching and thrashing about. It pulls all the tension from his body and leaves him boneless and breathless, the last tendrils of pleasure dwindling out through his cockhead and turning into a shock because Iwaizumi isn’t done. “Sensitive,” Iwaizumi bites down at his lower lip, “you looked so good, so good,” he repeats the words between kisses along Oikawa’s jawline, hearing him whine and letting him fidget beneath his hands as he brings himself to his own release.
It takes Oikawa few moments to blink the bleariness from his eyes and come back to complete coherency, and when he does, he tilts his head to the left and smiles against Iwaizumi’s cheek, feeling him rest on his shoulder to catch his breath and come down from the peak of his orgasm. “You looked good, so good,” Oikawa whispers. His insides flutter with a warning when Iwaizumi flashes him a toothy smile.
They both stop smiling when they become suddenly aware of how quiet their private room is.
“Shit,” Iwaizumi hisses, lifting his head to look around. “We gotta get out of here.”
Oikawa’s legs still feel like jelly. Somehow Iwaizumi is fine, quickly shimmying out of Oikawa’s lap to his feet. He stops to look at the come stuck to his hand, wrinkling his nose a bit. It’s starting to get cold, and that’s when it becomes gross and unwanted. Oikawa wishes he didn’t blush so easily, because his slight embarrassment has him turning pink.
Iwaizumi reaches for his shirt, deciding that will have to substitute as the cleanup rag, and hurriedly cleans himself off, throwing it at Oikawa to let him use it. Oikawa follows suit, forcing energy into his legs to push himself to his feet and hike his pants up.
“What should I do with it?”
“Keep it. We lose clothes all the time here, and if the boss catches me with a come stained shirt he’ll skin me alive.” Iwaizumi slides his jacket over his shoulders and zips it up halfway, throwing his snapback on. Somehow he looks even better than he did when he first walked in. Oikawa would have taken a moment longer to stare if he didn’t have to put his own clothes on.
“Take it home, wash it.” Iwaizumi makes a waving gesture over his head as a sign that Oikawa needs to fix his hair.
“Do you not want it back?” Oikawa asks, perching his glasses on his nose.
“Are you really that slow?” Iwaizumi spins around and reaches for Oikawa’s back pocket, pulling his phone out in one swift move. “It gives me a legitimate reason to see you again, idiot,” he says as he taps his phone number in. He shoves it back into Oikawa’s hands and turns back around to move towards the curtain, like he hadn’t just told Oikawa he likes him enough to see him again outside of work, like he hadn’t just put his number into his phone.
Oikawa remembers the kiss mark on his neck and his skin reddens, hands flying up to adjust his collar and hood to conceal it. He tucks the gross shirt between his own shirt and his jacket and zips it in place, nodding when Iwaizumi looks back at him, waiting for the signal to pull the curtain open.
They both step back out into the party scene to find it still as active as ever. Oikawa follows Iwaizumi around the corner and back out of the VIP pit, leading him back to the bar where Kenma is swirling a rag around in a glass.
“Probably still in the pit with the other two. He’ll probably come up here shortly.”
Oikawa takes a seat at the bar, beaming at Kenma.
Kenma takes one look between the two of them, and then he’s sliding a water across the table to Oikawa. “You look like you had fun,” Kenma says.
“What can I say, he’s good at what he does,” Oikawa admits.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Kenma doesn’t even skip a beat. His cat-like eyes are trained on Iwaizumi, and before Oikawa can come up with some kind of excuse, Iwaizumi just admits to it with a snarky, lopsided grin.
“You sure are sharp…” Oikawa mutters over his water.
“I wish I could stick around, but this is my job. I’ve gotta get ready for the next show.” Iwaizumi pivots on his heel, tapping the bar counter and leaning towards Oikawa. “Take care of my shirt,” he mumbles, low enough that Kenma can’t hear him. Not that it would matter, since Kenma has already figured the two of them out in five seconds flat, but it’s polite to spare him the corny exchanges when he’s standing just a counter away.
“Don’t have too much fun after I leave.”
Iwaizumi hovers close, eyes lingering on Oikawa’s lips. He seems to favor that part of him.
“You wanted me that badly, huh?”
Iwaizumi tilts his lips towards Oikawa’s ear instead. “Why do you think I agreed to a free show?”
Oikawa fails miserably at trying not to smile with his whole face. Iwaizumi pulls back and taps Oikawa’s chin with his knuckle. “Don’t be a stranger,” he reminds him gently about the phone number now in Oikawa’s phone. Oikawa watches him until he disappears around the bend, probably back to the backstage to prepare for the next stage show. Oikawa kind of wishes he had seen what he looks like up there with all the other favorites.
“Drink up,” Kenma blurts, snapping Oikawa from his ogling of Iwaizumi, who is no longer in sight. He slightly wrinkles his nose. “I can feel your thirst.”
Oikawa gets about halfway through his water when Matsukawa comes back out from the VIP pit, his suit a bit disheveled but his smug smirk unchanging.
“You look like you had a damn good time,” Matsukawa notes. “Not that I’m surprised.”
“Mattsun, thank you,” Oikawa says, “this was so much better than my original plans.”
“Obviously.” Matsukawa thanks Kenma when a water gets passed towards him as well. “You can ask for him next time, or switch things up. I usually ask for Kuroo and Bokuto.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Oikawa quips. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands off. I don’t think I’ll be asking for anyone else.”
“You liked Iwaizumi that much, huh? I figured you would, but...” Matsukawa stops his sentence short and shrugs, not needing to verbalize his underestimation of just how much Oikawa would enjoy tonight.
“I didn’t peg you for the type to play matchmaker. Honestly, I got a little nervous when Bokuto asked me to join you three.”
Matsukawa freezes over the rim of his glass, eyes shifting from Oikawa to Kenma and back. “Wait a second… you don’t think I… with them?”
“ No! ”
“Oh, well. Oops.” Oikawa sheepishly takes another sip.
Matsukawa claps his hand against the counter and leans forward, his eyes tight and his full of questions. “Are you telling me you hooked up with Iwaizumi?”
Oikawa blinks his eyes down towards his water, cheeks turning a deep cherry when he thinks about what went on back in that private room. “Well… I do have his number saved to my phone. And, his shirt is tucked in my jacket right now. So…”
“Holy shit. You of all people managed to get Iwaizumi to break the house rules.”
“That sounded like an insult.”
“You wanted to sit at home and play hermit. It is an insult, you lucky bastard.” Matsukawa is grinning though, like he’s also sort of proud that Oikawa is the one that got to do it.
“Well, do you want to head home? Their next stage performance is up in about twenty minutes,” Matsukawa jerks his thumb across the way to the dark stage with seats filled in all around it.
Oikawa thinks about the disgusting shirt tucked between his own layers of clothing and honestly, he kind of wishes he could run home to ditch it and not worry about keeping it pressed tight to his skin, but he also wants to know what Iwaizumi would look like doing all those body rolls and tugging at his clothes on stage. There’s something about it, getting to watch Iwaizumi do his job and knowing that everyone in that crowd will be pining for him, but Oikawa is the one that gets to call Iwaizumi when the night is over and everyone else is battling hangovers at their desks in the morning.
Oikawa would give up more than a night with his favorite TV shows in the comfort of his home if it meant he got to see more of Iwaizumi.
He downs the last of his water and slides it back to Kenma for a refill, swivelling around his barstool to face the stage.