Third time's the charm.
The first time, it'd devolved immediately. The second time, he'd managed to twerk in Daichi's face for a full minute before twisting around and humping his leg.
This time, he's determined.
He'll give Daichi + a full lap dance, complete with sensuous body rolls and meticulous jiggles of his ass, and /Daichi/ will be the one to get off! /Not him/. Please, Sweet Baby George of the Jungle, give him the strength to not wrap around those tree trunk thighs.
He's always been supremely confident that he's capable of a professional-level lap dance even without lessons. He always swears to anyone who's listening that he must be a distant cousin of Shakira, because hip agility like his /has/ to be genetic.
Tragically, it's not his skill that's been holding him back from the lap dance of the century.
It's his self-control. Or lack thereof.
"You ready?" Daichi asks as he settles in the chair.
"Yep!" Suga chimes, scrolling through his phone for the right song. "Are you?"
"Very. You're sure you don't need me to cover up my legs with a pillow or something? You can handle it?"
There's blatant smugness in Daichi's voice, and Suga glances over to scowl at him. That glance was a mistake. Dammit. Damn it all, those fucking thighs. Even just glancing at Daichi's face, he can sense them in his peripheral vision. He /knows/ what they must look like wrapped in the material of Daichi's basketball shorts—golden skin and teardrop quads peeking out from beneath thin black fabric.
The tug to lower his gaze is magnetic, compelling, like a needle on a compass being drawn true north. Like the gravitational pull that whips the earth round and round the solar system. It feels like fighting a law of nature. Suga's sweating already.
You haven't even fucking started! he scolds himself. You weak, weak man, control yourself!
"I'll be fine!" He quips, rolling his eyes for an air of nonchalance. He digs his thumb into the play button on his phone and sets it down, turning his back to his boyfriend and rolling his head between his shoulders. I'll be fine, he repeats to himself. As the music begins, he flexes his fingers, letting it settle into him with its twisting, sultry beat, its filthy, rasping lyrics, the bass humming in his chest. He squeezes his eyes closed with one last determination that this is about Daichi's pleasure.
It's something that he asked for. And asked for again when it didn't go so well the first two times.
Suga starts. Slowly. Just delicate swivels of his hips, drawing figure eights, so all Daichi has to focus on is the sway of his ass in these tiny, cotton sleep shorts.
Suga plays with the hem of Daichi's t-shirt he's wearing, running his hand up his own chest and through his hair, dropping his head back.
The first part is about sinking into the moment and letting himself feel sexy. He's always made it this far with no problem. It's all about the instant heat of Daichi's eyes on his body and the thrill of the performance singing in his blood.
He hums along with the music, peeks at Daichi over his shoulder. Daichi exhales heavily.
Suga bites his lip with a half-lidded grin.
He loves the way Daichi looks at him, like it's torture to not be touching him. It makes him feel like one badass sensual motherfucker.
He starts getting into it then. He turns sideways, gives a body roll or two and stretches his arms overhead as he drops low, bouncing provocatively on his heels in time with the beat.
