Sexual Content, sex work, a lot of negotiation and consent, one use of a possible slur?? 4k words help me
[ I had to drift away from the prompt a little bit, sorry! I hope you enjoy this anyway. Please forgive all sex worker industry inaccuracies; I did my best.
Despite how much I poke fun in this fic, I wrote this entire thing while listening to indie music.
He is a professional, he tells himself, as he discreetly checks the address in the e-mail for the fifth time. That means he's always on time to his appointments. That means he's in-character before the client lays eyes on him. That means he's not at all fazed by the fact that he's standing on an apartment's doorstep at ten in the morning and that the faint music trickling under the door sounds like raspy indie pop. Kuroo's ears have picked up two banjo solos so far.
He can probably make that work for him, Kuroo thinks to himself. He is super hot and has an excellent sense of rhythm besides.
He sets his shoulders back and slips his trademark smirk on his face before ringing the doorbell. "I'll get it!" a female voice calls from inside.
Kuroo blinks. That is not what the e-mail said. His smile freezes in place but inside he's stewing: he hates it when clients break contracts, he's going to have to find a way to bow out of this gracefully, the hour train ride here was all for nothing.
The door swings open and he looks up. He's not sure who between them looks more shocked. Kuroo's in a tight black leather jacket and slashed jeans, ears full of piercings and with a face mask to ward off the early-autumn chill. Meanwhile, the woman in front of him is dressed in pretty pastels and she's...going to be a mother soon, if the size of her stomach is anything to go by.
He slips the mask from his mouth. "Excuse me," he says, using the gentle tone he reserves for children and cats, "is Oikawa Tooru here?"
"Oh, you're one of Tooru's friends? I'm his sister. Tooru!" she calls over her shoulder, "you didn't tell me one of your friends was coming."
She steps back, allowing Kuroo inside. He hears footsteps coming down the hall and wonders what a guy who schedules a lap dance during his pregnant sister's party would look like. "Excuse the intrusion," Kuroo says automatically before kneeling down to remove his boots.
"Neechan, who is it? I didn't—"
Kuroo glances up and his fingers freeze on his boot laces. Of the two of them, he's not sure who looks more horrified.
Kuroo's mouth works for a second before he composes himself. Pointedly he says, "We talked a bit via e-mail, didn't we? About meeting up today."
Something flickers in Oikawa's expression. Kuroo's not surprised he's so quick on the uptake, considering his reputation. "Oh, yes!" he says, his cheer as immediate as it is false. "You're a bit early though, aren't you?"
"I'm right on time," Kuroo retorts.
Oikawa's sister is looking back and forth between the two of them, looking gradually more suspicious. "Did you guys have a fight?" she says.
"No!" they both snap.
Oikawa glances away and takes a deep breath. When he looks back, his smile is breezy and relaxed. "Kuroo-kun," he says, "why don't you come in? We were just about to cut the cake."
It isn't the first time Kuroo's ever eaten cake while on a job, but it's probably the first time the cake has had hand-frosted baby booties on it.
--
"So Nekoma's captain is a stripper now?" Oikawa says once everyone has left. His cheery tone does nothing to hide the sharpness of his words.
Kuroo agreed to help Oikawa clean up so that everyone else could leave, and is now pulling paper streamers from the couch. "And you can't keep your own appointments," Kuroo replies without looking up. "Your e-mail said 10AM."
"It did no—"
Kuroo whips the phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and shoves it in Oikawa's face with the speed of someone who has just suffered through two hours of people happily discussing baby names while listening to unoffensive indie music. Oikawa flinches back before reaching out with one finger to gingerly scroll through the e-mail.
"...Oh my god," Oikawa says in a small voice.
"You're way over time, by the way," Kuroo says. "Don't think I'm not charging you for this."
"I meant ten PM," Oikawa says, but the ire in his voice has been replaced by mortification. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. We can—you didn't have to stay this long. You can go, if you want."
Kuroo shoves his armful of collected streamers into the garbage can under the sink. "Does this mean you don't want me to dance for you anymore? There's an additional cancellation fee for that."
Oikawa stares at him from across the room. "You're kidding."
"I'm a professional," Kuroo snaps, straightening and folding his arms. "When you hire me, you get what you pay for."
Oikawa's eyes narrow, speculative. "A professional stripper," he says.
"The term's 'male performer,'" Kuroo sighs, walking back towards the couch, "but you know what, close enough. Get off your high horse, anyway, you're the one who hired a stripper."
Oikawa turns red. "You're the one who crashed my sister's baby shower!"
"You're the one who invited me in," Kuroo drawls. He's grinning now; back-and-forth banter is comfortably familiar territory. He steps forward until he's in Oikawa's personal space, his hips jutted forward in clear invitation with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "Seems like you're the one who didn't want me to leave."
Oikawa''s slightly shorter but Kuroo's slouching, so he's able to look Kuroo in the eye without tipping his chin up. He doesn't give room but he takes in a short breath at the closeness, his teeth worrying at his lower lip.
That won't do. Uncomfortable customers give shitty tips. Kuroo tips his head to the side, dragging his eyes down Oikawa's body. "Then again," he says, "I kind of wanted to stay." Oikawa's eyes widen slightly at that, and Kuroo's smirk broadens.
Kuroo steps forward again, nudging Oikawa back towards the couch. "What's a handsome guy like you doing hiring someone like me, anyway?" Kuroo says. "You could probably get any guy you want."
Oikawa's smile turns sharp, self-mocking, even as he allows Kuroo to push him back. "I don't like attachments."
Kuroo hums. "I can appreciate that."
"What about you, stripper-san? What brings you to this business?"
"I like mixing work and pleasure," Kuroo replies, which is the answer he always gives when he's asked. Oikawa's eyes narrow, and something in the look prompts an extra push of honesty. Maybe it's their shared history; maybe it's the fact that he just spent an entire afternoon in the midst of Oikawa's private life, watching him give genuine smiles to people he actually cared about.
Kuroo shifts to a more neutral expression and steps around Oikawa to sit on the couch. "I'm good at reading people. It's interesting work, I have a good time, and it pays the bills. Law school isn't cheap."
"Law school?" Oikawa seems to consider this. He's relaxed now that Kuroo is below his eye level; Kuroo's not surprised. "So stripper-san has brains as well as looks."
"Tetsurou," Kuroo offers. Oikawa blinks at him; Kuroo rolls his eyes. "If you won't call me Kuroo, at least call me that." He leans forward, splaying his fingertips across the narrow stretch of Oikawa's hips. He smiles up at Oikawa, slow, and watches the look in his eyes shift from surprise to cautious interest.
"Your e-mail said to call you something different," Oikawa says, but the corner of his mouth is tilted upward. Kuroo chuckles.
"You can call me whatever you want," he says, his gaze going heavy-lidded as he smiles up at Oikawa. "Why don't you sit down? You've got a nice couch, it'd be a shame for me to enjoy it all by myself."
Oikawa huffs a laugh at Kuroo's awful and transparent flirting, and some of the tension around his mouth eases. He remains standing, though.
Kuroo thumbs the arch of Oikawa's hipbones. "Come on, take a load off," he murmurs. His voice drops low, practically a purr. "Let me give you your money's worth."
Oikawa finally allows himself to be pulled down onto the couch. Kuroo climbs into his lap, bracing his hands against Oikawa's shoulders and the backrest beneath them, spreading his thighs wide to bracket Oikawa's waist.
"Better, right?" Kuroo says, settling back so that his weight pins Oikawa's legs. He shimmies a little, getting comfortable, and grins at the slow flush that fans up Oikawa's neck and floods his cheeks.
The hesitation fades from Oikawa's eyes to be replaced with that firm determination that Kuroo's seen before, on TV news clips and across gym floors. Oikawa's hands rise to grab a hold of Kuroo's hips, fingers digging into the curve of his ass. Kuroo grins, tipping his head back to expose his throat, and begins to reach for the metal pull on his zipper. Then he pauses.
"...Unless you'd like to do the honors?" he says with a small grin. He expects Oikawa to laugh or turn red again. Instead he gets a long, measuring look that makes the mirth fade from his face.
FILL: Team Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, E
4k words help me
[ I had to drift away from the prompt a little bit, sorry! I hope you enjoy this anyway. Please forgive all sex worker industry inaccuracies; I did my best.
Despite how much I poke fun in this fic, I wrote this entire thing while listening to indie music.
Part 1 of 2. ]
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Kuroo Tetsurou is a professional.
He is a professional, he tells himself, as he discreetly checks the address in the e-mail for the fifth time. That means he's always on time to his appointments. That means he's in-character before the client lays eyes on him. That means he's not at all fazed by the fact that he's standing on an apartment's doorstep at ten in the morning and that the faint music trickling under the door sounds like raspy indie pop. Kuroo's ears have picked up two banjo solos so far.
He can probably make that work for him, Kuroo thinks to himself. He is super hot and has an excellent sense of rhythm besides.
He sets his shoulders back and slips his trademark smirk on his face before ringing the doorbell. "I'll get it!" a female voice calls from inside.
Kuroo blinks. That is not what the e-mail said. His smile freezes in place but inside he's stewing: he hates it when clients break contracts, he's going to have to find a way to bow out of this gracefully, the hour train ride here was all for nothing.
The door swings open and he looks up. He's not sure who between them looks more shocked. Kuroo's in a tight black leather jacket and slashed jeans, ears full of piercings and with a face mask to ward off the early-autumn chill. Meanwhile, the woman in front of him is dressed in pretty pastels and she's...going to be a mother soon, if the size of her stomach is anything to go by.
He slips the mask from his mouth. "Excuse me," he says, using the gentle tone he reserves for children and cats, "is Oikawa Tooru here?"
"Oh, you're one of Tooru's friends? I'm his sister. Tooru!" she calls over her shoulder, "you didn't tell me one of your friends was coming."
She steps back, allowing Kuroo inside. He hears footsteps coming down the hall and wonders what a guy who schedules a lap dance during his pregnant sister's party would look like. "Excuse the intrusion," Kuroo says automatically before kneeling down to remove his boots.
"Neechan, who is it? I didn't—"
Kuroo glances up and his fingers freeze on his boot laces. Of the two of them, he's not sure who looks more horrified.
"Kuroo Tetsurou?" Oikawa asks, sounding faint. "From Nekoma?"
Kuroo's mouth works for a second before he composes himself. Pointedly he says, "We talked a bit via e-mail, didn't we? About meeting up today."
Something flickers in Oikawa's expression. Kuroo's not surprised he's so quick on the uptake, considering his reputation. "Oh, yes!" he says, his cheer as immediate as it is false. "You're a bit early though, aren't you?"
"I'm right on time," Kuroo retorts.
Oikawa's sister is looking back and forth between the two of them, looking gradually more suspicious. "Did you guys have a fight?" she says.
"No!" they both snap.
Oikawa glances away and takes a deep breath. When he looks back, his smile is breezy and relaxed. "Kuroo-kun," he says, "why don't you come in? We were just about to cut the cake."
It isn't the first time Kuroo's ever eaten cake while on a job, but it's probably the first time the cake has had hand-frosted baby booties on it.
--
"So Nekoma's captain is a stripper now?" Oikawa says once everyone has left. His cheery tone does nothing to hide the sharpness of his words.
Kuroo agreed to help Oikawa clean up so that everyone else could leave, and is now pulling paper streamers from the couch. "And you can't keep your own appointments," Kuroo replies without looking up. "Your e-mail said 10AM."
"It did no—"
Kuroo whips the phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and shoves it in Oikawa's face with the speed of someone who has just suffered through two hours of people happily discussing baby names while listening to unoffensive indie music. Oikawa flinches back before reaching out with one finger to gingerly scroll through the e-mail.
"...Oh my god," Oikawa says in a small voice.
"You're way over time, by the way," Kuroo says. "Don't think I'm not charging you for this."
"I meant ten PM," Oikawa says, but the ire in his voice has been replaced by mortification. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. We can—you didn't have to stay this long. You can go, if you want."
Kuroo shoves his armful of collected streamers into the garbage can under the sink. "Does this mean you don't want me to dance for you anymore? There's an additional cancellation fee for that."
Oikawa stares at him from across the room. "You're kidding."
"I'm a professional," Kuroo snaps, straightening and folding his arms. "When you hire me, you get what you pay for."
Oikawa's eyes narrow, speculative. "A professional stripper," he says.
"The term's 'male performer,'" Kuroo sighs, walking back towards the couch, "but you know what, close enough. Get off your high horse, anyway, you're the one who hired a stripper."
Oikawa turns red. "You're the one who crashed my sister's baby shower!"
"You're the one who invited me in," Kuroo drawls. He's grinning now; back-and-forth banter is comfortably familiar territory. He steps forward until he's in Oikawa's personal space, his hips jutted forward in clear invitation with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "Seems like you're the one who didn't want me to leave."
Oikawa''s slightly shorter but Kuroo's slouching, so he's able to look Kuroo in the eye without tipping his chin up. He doesn't give room but he takes in a short breath at the closeness, his teeth worrying at his lower lip.
That won't do. Uncomfortable customers give shitty tips. Kuroo tips his head to the side, dragging his eyes down Oikawa's body. "Then again," he says, "I kind of wanted to stay." Oikawa's eyes widen slightly at that, and Kuroo's smirk broadens.
Kuroo steps forward again, nudging Oikawa back towards the couch. "What's a handsome guy like you doing hiring someone like me, anyway?" Kuroo says. "You could probably get any guy you want."
Oikawa's smile turns sharp, self-mocking, even as he allows Kuroo to push him back. "I don't like attachments."
Kuroo hums. "I can appreciate that."
"What about you, stripper-san? What brings you to this business?"
"I like mixing work and pleasure," Kuroo replies, which is the answer he always gives when he's asked. Oikawa's eyes narrow, and something in the look prompts an extra push of honesty. Maybe it's their shared history; maybe it's the fact that he just spent an entire afternoon in the midst of Oikawa's private life, watching him give genuine smiles to people he actually cared about.
Kuroo shifts to a more neutral expression and steps around Oikawa to sit on the couch. "I'm good at reading people. It's interesting work, I have a good time, and it pays the bills. Law school isn't cheap."
"Law school?" Oikawa seems to consider this. He's relaxed now that Kuroo is below his eye level; Kuroo's not surprised. "So stripper-san has brains as well as looks."
"Tetsurou," Kuroo offers. Oikawa blinks at him; Kuroo rolls his eyes. "If you won't call me Kuroo, at least call me that." He leans forward, splaying his fingertips across the narrow stretch of Oikawa's hips. He smiles up at Oikawa, slow, and watches the look in his eyes shift from surprise to cautious interest.
"Your e-mail said to call you something different," Oikawa says, but the corner of his mouth is tilted upward. Kuroo chuckles.
"You can call me whatever you want," he says, his gaze going heavy-lidded as he smiles up at Oikawa. "Why don't you sit down? You've got a nice couch, it'd be a shame for me to enjoy it all by myself."
Oikawa huffs a laugh at Kuroo's awful and transparent flirting, and some of the tension around his mouth eases. He remains standing, though.
Kuroo thumbs the arch of Oikawa's hipbones. "Come on, take a load off," he murmurs. His voice drops low, practically a purr. "Let me give you your money's worth."
Oikawa finally allows himself to be pulled down onto the couch. Kuroo climbs into his lap, bracing his hands against Oikawa's shoulders and the backrest beneath them, spreading his thighs wide to bracket Oikawa's waist.
"Better, right?" Kuroo says, settling back so that his weight pins Oikawa's legs. He shimmies a little, getting comfortable, and grins at the slow flush that fans up Oikawa's neck and floods his cheeks.
The hesitation fades from Oikawa's eyes to be replaced with that firm determination that Kuroo's seen before, on TV news clips and across gym floors. Oikawa's hands rise to grab a hold of Kuroo's hips, fingers digging into the curve of his ass. Kuroo grins, tipping his head back to expose his throat, and begins to reach for the metal pull on his zipper. Then he pauses.
"...Unless you'd like to do the honors?" he says with a small grin. He expects Oikawa to laugh or turn red again. Instead he gets a long, measuring look that makes the mirth fade from his face.
"Actually," Oikawa says, "yes, I would."