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He'd only allowed her to try and convince him to come at all because she'd said the entertainers would be men, but he still hadn't expected to be anything other than bored.
But more than once he finds his gaze following not only the performers on stage (difficult not to, given Nemuri had gotten them seated so close) but those milling around looking for potential clients, oozing with admittedly deserved self-confidence, outfits showing strategically enticing amounts of skin. Nemuri notices him noticing (when she's not rambling on comparing the establishment to others she's been to, or shouting lewd encouragements at the dancers, or striking up conversations with waiters, strippers, and nearby patrons alike), and on multiple occasions he's had to forcefully grab her wrist to keep her from signaling one over to him.
It's not really Shouta's idea of a good time, but he'll admit there are worse ways he could be spending his night. If nothing else, being on the edge of arousal for so long means he's in for a particularly mind-blowing time once he's home later.
It's not an awful place, really. Fancier than most places he winds up letting himself be dragged to. True, there's an overabundance of body glitter and neon lycra, but at least there aren't any belligerent drunks.
Though he wouldn't have noticed them anyway, not with him stepping on stage.
'Present Mic,' as he's introduced, gives just one flick of his golden hair and just one sultry grin to his audience and Shouta no longer has peripheral vision. His world consists only of the man strutting - because how could he do anything else? - over to a pole in impressively high platform heels. Black and gold, matching his practically painted-on shorts (if they could really be called as such given they seemed mostly made of straps).
He's stunning, and he's not even dancing yet, just leaned against the pole, swaying, smiling, one hand trailing down his body. Shouta could watch him just like this the entire night - radiant in the colored lights, face deceptively peaceful, feeling the music, looking more than comfortable, looking at home up there with all eyes on him.
Then he drops to the floor, knees falling open, and Shouta's fingers dig into the arm of his chair.
He's beyond fucked.
Mic is...he's good.
Shouta's sure there are tricks behind it - play to your audience, don't be repetitive, use the space - but he's certain Mic doesn't need any tricks, any help.
He's beautiful.
Every arch of his back has the piercings in his nipples glinting. Every roll of his hips shows off the vee of muscle leading down into those sinful shorts. Every sly glance around at the faces turned toward him comes with a knowing smile.
He barely even touches the pole at first, rolling around the stage, writhing and making faces Shouta's going to be thinking about for weeks. His hands skim over his glistening body - glitter or sweat, Shouta doesn't know and doesn't care, he just watches long fingers trail down over that distracting bulge, over his thighs, up to his chest and into his hair.
Mic finally gravitates to the pole as the next song starts, and his smile feels gentler, not the flashy one he'd been showing but more for himself.
He looks impossibly better with his long legs clenching the pole, spinning smoothly, muscles stark with the effort it takes to run through his arsenal of tricks without ever touching the floor, though his expression is nothing short of serene.
Then on one of his long, slow dips backwards, he opens his eyes and looks directly at Shouta, and his peaceful face turns predatory.
In a single movement Mic is upright and off the pole, on his knees, slinking toward his target.
Shouta swallows heavily as Mic leans close enough for him to see that even his eyeshadow is glittery before he leans back, spreading his knees, one hand braced behind him while the other directs Shouta's attention downward.
Not that he needs the encouragement; they're so close he can see everything, down to the thin line of light hair on his inner thigh that had escaped depilation, down to the perfectly vertical scar on his left knee, down to the-
He's pierced. That's the outline of a ring running through the head of his cock.
Mic's hand slides back up, and his grin is back to that viciously crafty one, which is all the warning Shouta gets before Mic is turning around, pert ass close enough to touch, and lowering himself into a split, thrusting his hips against the stage in a pantomime that would have had Shouta hard if he weren't already achingly stiff.
He's suddenly aware of something being pressed against his palm - money. Right. This is a strip club and he may as well be getting a lapdance.
As if on cue, Mic sits up again, looking over his shoulder as Shouta reaches out.
He hesitates, unsure if he's allowed to touch even just for this, but Mic waits, posed with the prettiest arch in his back, until Shouta tucks the bill under the straps of his shorts.
Then before he can lean back into his seat, Mic is reaching over and running a finger teasingly along his jaw, under his chin, a fleeting touch paired with a smile that's suddenly playful instead of sultry, and then he's gone, standing and walking off the stage. Shouta hadn't even noticed the song ending.
He sits back with a long exhale, the spell broken. From the corner of his eye he sees Nemuri turned toward him, and he can imagine the pleased look on her face.
"So-"
"Don't," Shouta interrupts, covering his face. "Don't say anything."
She laughs. "How are you gonna handle it when he comes over to offer you a private show?"
"He's not coming over here, he's got a room full of people to choose from."
"With what you tipped him, he's definitely coming back to see you."
Shouta looks at her, alarmed. "How much was it?"
"Enough," she says. "Oh, and I also wrote your number on it."
"You what?"
"You're welcome."
"What if he texts me? Or calls me?"
Nemuri raises an eyebrow. "Then you answer it?"
Shouta reaches over and grabs her drink, downing half of it while she protests.
"You obviously have the money," he says. "Buy yourself another."
"Maybe I just spent all my cash on you."
"Why?"
"You should be thanking me, Shouta."
"Because he thinks I'm that desperate?"
"Who cares what he thinks," Nemuri mutters, a deceivingly sweet smile on her face, eyes focused over his shoulder, and Shouta has mere seconds to prepare himself.
It's not enough.
He feels like a flustered teenager as Mic sits on the arm of his chair. He's put on some kind of...dress? Robe? Either way it doesn't do much, as it's made entirely of lace and those little black and gold straps are still on display, and the long leg that he props up on the armrest as he looms over Shouta is bare and enticing.
"Enjoy the show?" Mic asks, his voice smooth even while he's raising it to be heard above the music.
"You were so good!" Nemuri shouts. She kicks Shouta's leg, breaking him out of his reverie caused by Mic's grin as he thanks her, and he remembers the question was directed toward him as well.
"You're very talented," he says, and immediately wants a do-over. He could have said Mic was beautiful, or sexy, or that he'd absolutely ruined Shouta's ability to ever be attracted to anyone but him. But no; he'd only told Mic he was good at his job.
Not that Mic seems to be taking it that way - he lights up, grabbing Shouta's hand and saying "C'mon" as he slips off the chair.
"Have fun!" Nemuri calls out as Shouta is dragged away toward a back hallway.
It's maybe a little awkward to be walking around when he's sure he's still tenting his pants, but when Shouta manages to take his gaze off Mic's backside for a moment, he sees nobody is looking at him. Most of the patrons are focused on the stage or the entertainer chatting them up or sitting in their lap, and the few looking in their direction are focused entirely on Mic.
He can't blame them.
Shouta is led to a small room with a large padded chair in the center, which he's abruptly pushed into as Mic shuts the door behind them.
"Aggressive," Shouta says, exhilaration pushing him to talk as Mic straddles his lap.
"Oh, I think we both saw something we wanted out there."
Right. He's referring to the money.
Don't forget he makes people feel like this all the time. He's paid to do it.
"You don't need to-" Shouta flounders, struggling to keep his hands glued to the arms of the chair when Mic starts moving his hips, hovering just above his obvious erection. "It wasn't my money; I don't even know how much my friend gave you."
"Oh?" Mic hesitates. "I thought you..."
Gone is the self-assured glow, replaced by an uncertainty that borders on painful to see on Mic.
"Whatever it was, you're worth it," Shouta scrambles to tell him, and wants to touch him for an entirely different reason as his eyes soften for a moment, smile returning. "You're gorgeous."
"Flattery will get you far," Mic says, lowering his hips to grind against him.
Shouta swallows hard, knuckles gone white with his grip while he struggles to keep still. "That so?" he asks, voice husky.
Mic hums, biting his lip, his whole body moving with his rolling hips. His lacy robe falls loose around his thighs but clings to his torso, showing just hints of skin, teasing glints of his piercings.
"You want to touch me?"
Shouta's eyes go wide, and he glances behind Mic at the sign on the door warning him to keep his hands off the performers. Out around the stage he'd seen patrons either reclining and grinning with their hands behind their heads, or some even sitting on them in order to comply with the '(Finger)Tips Only!' rule.
"Oh that's just a safety thing," Mic gathers his hair up off his neck only to let it drop again - ethereal. "Some creep starts getting too handsy, we just point to the sign," he says, jabbing a thumb behind him, "and he thinks what we already let him have was a special allowance, just for him."
He leans in closer to Shouta. "You won't get in trouble," he murmurs. "I promise not to tell anyone."
Shouta pries his fingers from the chair and his palms settle on Mic's glorious thighs, content to stay within relatively innocent territory since even with the robe between them, Mic feels warm beneath his hands, and the pleased noise he makes has Shouta's cock twitching even as he reminds himself it's just an act - it's for the money; Mic does this all the time. It's part of his job to look amazing, to sound incredible, to make men feel like they're being given a gift just by paying attention to them.
And he's just wickedly good at his job.
"I said you could touch," Mic says with a touch of laughter, "not hold on for dear life. You trying to make me have to waste my good foundation on my legs?"
As exhilarating as the thought of leaving his mark on Mic is - a zap of desire down his spine - Shouta relents immediately, his touch barely enough to rustle the fabric.
"Sorry."
Mic only laughs again, a softly musical sound. "Didn't mean to scare you off."
How it is possible for a person to sound so unaffected, so effortlessly inviting, when he's gyrating in someone's lap?
"Anywhere?" Shouta asks, trying to achieve even the bare minimum of debonair confidence.
"Here." Mic puts his hands over Shouta's and pulls them up to his hips, keeping them there as he undulates harder.
"Here." He slides their hands around to his ass, squeezing his fingers so Shouta can feel him tensing as he rocks.
"And here." He moves Shouta's hands up to his chest, where his nipple piercings are just barely visible through the lace.
Shouta rubs his thumbs over them and can only hope the expression on his face doesn't showcase how awed he feels when Mic arches into the touch, soft moan escaping him.
He wants to taste him, glitter and all.
"You want to take this off me?" Mic asks, his voice pure sex, and Shouta can't answer; his eyes immediately dart around searching for a zipper, buttons, ties, where was the-
"Rip it."
Shouta nearly chokes. "What?"
"Just tear it off me," Mic whispers, grinning. "I can replace it, c'mon, it'll be so worth it, just rip it."
So he does.
Shouta gathers a small fistful of lace, pulling it tight across Mic's chest, then yanks. It comes away with a ripping sound that shouldn't be erotic, but when it's coupled with Mic's stunned look of bliss and that airy moan of "Oh fuck, that's hot," Shouta can only agree with him.
Mic isn't so much grinding on him anymore as he is humping him, his face for once dropping its veneer of craftiness and showing only desire as Shouta tears the rest of the robe off and goes back to toying with his piercings, pinching and tugging.
"Yes, shit, yes, keep doing that." Mic's fingers clutch at his own hair, face caught in ecstasy, and how real it is doesn't concern Shouta - he can only think about what it'd be like to fuck him. Whether he'd look just like this riding his cock.
Mic's hands are suddenly on his chest, trailing downward as he leans forward enough to make Shouta feel even more entirely pinned beneath him with that dazzling stare.
"Can I touch you?"
Shouta hopes he hasn't actually whimpered, and nods.
Within moments, those long fingers have his pants undone and are pulling his cock out with a pleased hum and a satisfied bite of his lip that has Shouta preening.
Mic toys with him, fingertips spreading pre and sliding down his length with only a teasing touch. It's both too torturous and too glorious to stand for long, with Mic eyeing him with such penetrating judgement, and Shouta pulls his hips back down, grinding against the slippery material covering his cock.
The performer doesn't look like he's acting anymore - he's watching Shouta through half-lidded eyes, the edges of his eyeliner just smeared enough with glittery makeup to make him look not quite so infallible, so untouchable. His perfect pink lips are parted and tantalizing, breath leaving him in little "oh"s. His palms are firmly planted on Shouta's chest, and he wants to lean down and suck on those fingers.
Shouta must be gripping him too tightly again, he has to be, yet Mic doesn't stop him or pry him off. He only bites his lip and sighs, eyelids fluttering.
"I bet you'd feel amazing inside me."
Shouta cums.
It's blindingly and consumingly good, and the noise he can't help making is nothing short of embarrassingly helpless, but Mic's gentle voice saying "There you go, baby" wrenches another weak sound from his throat as his cock spasms.
When the stars clear from his vision, Mic is smirking, cleaning him up with a tissue he's miraculously produced. Something rattles in the back of Shouta's mind about the room being stocked for just such an occasion as this - does the chair get washed? - but he can't be bothered to focus on it.
He's somewhat more preoccupied by the thought of his time with Mic coming to an end. This'll be the part where he tucks Shouta's cock back in his pants, says "we should do this again sometime" and gives him that sweet smile as he walks away, and goes to wash his hands and fix his makeup before prowling off to find some other poor helpless soul to ensnare.
Shouta's not ready for this to be over.
Mic tosses the tissue aside and sighs as he settles back on Shouta's lap, but before he can speak, Shouta beats him to it.
"Can I?" he asks with a glance down to where Mic is straining against his tiny shorts.
There's a moment of slight surprise, a slight raise of his eyebrows, but Mic recovers quickly. His eyes narrow and his sly smile slides easily into its rightful place, and he rises into a kneel, palming his bulge and rubbing slowly.
"You want this?"
Shouta slides down in the chair, face level with his goal, and glances up, licking his lips just enough to draw Mic's attention to them.
It's his turn for a knowing smirk.
"Oh," Mic breathes out. "You know exactly what you're doing, don't you..."
He pulls his cock out, the metal through the tip shiny with pre. He's so wet - is that a compliment, that he's so affected even when he does this all the time?
What it means doesn't matter; Shouta pulls him forward eagerly. His eyes close the instant the salty taste hits his tongue, the gentle vibration of his moan pulling a gasp from Mic.
The entertainer readjusts, propping his foot up beside Shouta's head on the armrest, unfairly flexible - a product of his career or the other way around?
Mic's already close; it's easy to tell from the waver in his breath and the jerky motions of his hips as he tries not to thrust deep into the warm throat inviting him in. One hand is combing haphazardly through Shouta's hair as if he doesn't want to grab it but can't keep his hands off.
And he's babbling. That slinky, provocative purr has become shamelessly indecent, words slurring together as Shouta sucks harder, feeling the piercing slide against his tongue and hit the back of his throat with every bob of his head.
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum, shit, oh shit, I'm close..."
Shouta hums, pleased with his ability to dismantle that veneer so entirely, and that's all it takes - Mic shoots into his mouth, filling it until Shouta's forced to swallow around him rather than let a single drop escape his lips. It gets him a gasp and a final twitch of Mic's cock, one last drop spilling out that Shouta eagerly licks away.
"Oh, wow..." Mic murmurs, still catching his breath, though he tries to compose himself when Shouta looks up at him.
"You ask to suck off every stripper you meet?"
"I could say you're just special, but it's not as if I've met many strippers."
"Oh? Not your usual scene?"
Shouta sits back up, his neck starting to ache from the angle, and watches Mic tuck himself back into his shorts. "I think you've given me unrealistic expectations for anywhere else I get dragged to."
Mic pouts dramatically. "Aw, and here I was hoping I'd convinced you to become a regular here."
"It's certainly tempting," Shouta says, a watered-down version of 'I'd come back every night if you asked me to.'
Mic smiles, softer now, his persona dimmed a little to fit the afterglow. "Actually..." He tucks his hair behind his ear, a nervous gesture that's both endearing and jarringly out of place.
"I don't know if you'd be interested at all; I know a lot people aren't really...You know, because this is what I do and all..."
He climbs out of Shouta's lap, still rambling as he picks up his torn robe and folds it as best he can. "But if you maybe ever wanted to...I don't know, maybe sometime we could-"
"Yes," Shouta says.
"Yes?" Mic finally looks at him again, eyes wide.
"You already have my number," Shouta says with a smile, but Mic only tilts his head, confused. "My friend said she wrote it on your tip."
"Oh." Mic laughs softly. "Honestly, I didn't even look at the money."