Because I am Iwaoi trash. Also being the prince of a harem would fit Oikawa so well and I'm just a sucker for bodyguard fics. Enjoy!

Oikawa comes quickly, far too quickly, and Iwaizumi wonders why that bothers him so.

If it were he,he thinks, when he doesn't have anything much to do and he actually lets himself sit down and think, if it were he, he'd drag things out a bit more, give it to Tooru a little slow, a little tender, then a little harder till he begged for release, and then he'd grip on tight to that tantalising, throbbing cock and just -

He always stops himself there. He knows it's dangerous when he starts thinking in that direction, knows how futile it would be to get any sleep that night because he'd be jacking off, dreaming of breathy cries and kiss-marked skin and desperate hands clawing at his back. He knows life would be much easier if he just got out of this fucking empire, jumped on the nearest camel and rode as far and as hard as possible away from Aoba Johsai, but one, he can't go back home, and two, he just can't leave Oikawa behind.

Oikawa, who he's known since they were both babes in arms - Oikawa, who convinced him to sneak into the forest at night to hunt for forest elves - Oikawa, who had stolen and hidden his only pair of serviceable shoes the day before he had had his Royal Guard inauguration ceremony - Oikawa, who, the day he had gotten his first slave, had invited him in to watch.

Iwaizumi shudders as he recalls the memory, more out of fear than of lust. Fear, because he hadn't been turned on by the slave's large bosom and her alluring, almond-shaped eyes, but by the one pearl-pink nipple he had glimpsed peeking out of the robe Oikawa had been wearing. It had been fear that had sent him fleeing, out of that darkened room into the sunlight, into sanity and safety, while he desperately tried to calm the erection in his pantaloons. One thing he had learned that day? It was devilish hard to run with a hard-on. Also, that Oikawa's lazy smile did something to his insides, twisted him all round and upside down till he didn't know if he was standing upright or on his head.

And now they were both twenty-one, of age, and Iwaizumi's been Oikawa's personal bodyguard since, it often seems, forever. It has always been Iwaizumi tagging along behind Oikawa, making sure he doesn't do anything stupid (because that would be so in character, wouldn't it), making sure he doesn't fuck anyone's life up (because he's a fucking spoiled brat, that's what he is) and making sure he doesn't get himself killed. Because things aren't going very well in the capital, politically-speaking, and there are people who'd rather see Oikawa dead than sitting alive on the throne of Aoba Johsai. The scars on his chest and his abdomen bear witness to that. He can't count even on both hands the number of times he's had to disarm a prostitute, manhandle a slave, pin down a possible assassin, all for the crown prince - and in the end, what had he gained? Nothing but a body marked with scars, scars he'll never dare show Oikawa because he just wouldn't be able to understand why.

How could he, when Iwaizumi can't even understand why himself?

(of course, he knows the reason why he throws himself in front of anything and everything because of the prince, why he'd willingly take a knife or a poisoned dart or a bludgeon to the head, because it's something to do with the way Oikawa's face crinkles when he smiles, how he throws back his head and the golden brown strands of his hair glint in the sunlight -)

Iwaizumi is startled out of his reverie by the creaking of the bed, the quiet murmurings of the voices behind the curtains. He thanks heaven that they're made out of thick fabrics, because he doesn't know if he could stand it if they were more translucent.

The slave climbs lazily off, shaking out the bright ringlets of her hair. She is naked, her skin glistening pale and sleek, and Iwaizumi averts his eyes. He doesn't want to see the come on her stomach, doesn't want to see the evidence of Oikawa's satiation on her body, doesn't want to see the numerous bite marks and red spots on her skin because, goddammit, he doesn't think he'd be able to handle it.

He calls for the guard standing outside the door to enter, all the while aware of the slave pulling on her discarded garments, watching to make sure doesn't have a weapon concealed under those blousy clothes. He can't even remember the number of slaves who've drawn a knife on the prince, tried to stab him before they could be apprehended and executed. When she's finally gone, with a whiff of perfume and a final coy glance back at the bed, he finally breathes a sigh of relief, and turns to look at Oikawa.

God, he's beautiful, is the first thing that comes to mind. He's sitting up in the bed, running his fingers through that beautiful head of hair - it should be illegal to have fingers that erotic, but for once Iwaizumi just wants to stop and stare - and the curve of those kiss-puffed lips is absolutely sinful. He looks like an angel reborn, which is, of course, exactly what he isn't.

"Iwa-chan," he calls, and his voice has that sleep-roughened edge it always gets when he's just had sex, "has she left?" Oikawa stretches his arms above his head lazily, and Iwaizumi tries not to let his eyes follow the long slender line of his triceps.

He bows, formally, something Oikawa has always laughingly told him to forego, but he just can't let go of these small rituals that characterize their relationship as prince and royal guard. "Yes, my prince, she has left. Would you prefer I order the guard to bring another slave for your pleasure?" he asks, even if it makes his chest clench, because it wouldn't be the first time Oikawa has asked him for something like that. Oikawa smiles, a lazy smile, and shakes his head.

"I think I've had enough for today," he purrs. He gets up off the bed, and Iwaizumi automatically lifts the linen robe in his hands, slipping it carefully over Oikawa's shoulder. His fingers ghost over the pale white surface, and he doesn't miss how Oikawa shudders at the touch to his oversensitive skin.

"Iwa-chan," he whines, drawing out the words, as Iwaizumi reaches around him to fasten the belt, "I need your advice." He prattles on, heedless of whether Iwaizumi is listening, and Iwaizumi is listening, because the sound of Oikawa's voice is like a river, lazy and continuous and calming.

"I don't know if I should ask Father for a male slave the next time, because Makki was telling me the other day at the party that he's just gotten a male slave of his own, and that it's just so much more pleasurable with a man, so I didn't know if I should try it or not, I mean, I didn't know if I could actually fuck a man - ow! Iwa-chan!" The last comes as a sharp cry - Iwaizumi had unconsciously tightened the belt around his waist too tightly, his fingers automatically clenching in an effort not to - to what? Put them around Oikawa's throat?

He makes an effort to calm himself down, to consciously loosen his grip on the belt, and glares at Oikawa over his shoulder at the familiar pout he's giving him. "Shittykawa," he grumbles (and he definitely does not revel in the sound of those words on his lips, because he, and only he, is allowed to call Oikawa that) "Don't drag me into your love affairs. I don't want to hear about your sex life."

Oikawa laughs his tinkly, faerie-like laugh. "Iwa-chan, you're such a monk," he teases, "You're still a virgin, aren't you? You know how easily I could remedy that. I wouldn't mind if you took a few slaves from the harem every now and then for yourself, you know I really wouldn't mind, because you're my best friend, after all!"

Iwaizumi wants to kill him. Really, he does. His mind runs through several methods of execution he could carry out, right here and now, but instead he forces the familiar scrunched-up glare onto his face and picks up the headdress on the nearby table. He wraps it carefully around Oikawa's brown locks. The prince is still babbling on.

"Really, I was inspecting the newest batch of slaves the other day, and some of the males were really quite good-looking. Not as pretty as me, of course, but I wouldn't mind fucking them. I didn't want to say so to Father, I don't know what he'd think, but Makki's words really got me thinking, you know? And then of course he brought me to see the slave that day when I accompanied Father to his palace, he really is quite beautiful, you know? Tall, dark, handsome - though he did have pretty thick eyebrows, of course Makki says that's his charm point - and Makki said he'd let me try how good it felt with a man!"

Iwaizumi feels his heart stop. He remembers that day, when Oikawa had shooed him out of the visiting chamber. He remembers the slave, tall and stately, with lazy hooded eyes and curling black hair, and they had made eye contact for a startling moment, something like a dawning understanding in the other man's eyes. Now, he tries to make his voice even, tries to stop his heart from stuttering, but at the same time he can't quite help the quiver in his fingers as he asks, casually, "And did you? Try it out, I mean?"

Oikawa squeals - actually squeals - and glances back at him through those awfully, sinfully long eyelashes. "Naughty Iwa-chan!" he crows. "You want to know, don't you? Well, if you really want I could ask Makki to let you join in, I did say at the time that it was rather mean to kick you out of the chamber, but Makki insisted - he said you weren't worthy, or some shit like that, because it obviously isn't true, you're my best friend of course!"

Iwaizumi growls. He growls, because the number of commas in that long sentence was brutally high. "Oikawa, did you or did you not have sex with him?" he says exasperatedly.

Suddenly, there is a curious look in Oikawa's face he cannot fathom, something that flickers like the flame of an oil lamp and is time the next instant. He blinks, not sure if it was a trick of the light or if it had been a figment of his overeager imagination.

There is an awkward beat of silence between them, a moment that stretches too far, too fast, then Oikawa pouts.

"Of course I didn't," he says, turning his face away, and Iwaizumi could almost swear that he's sulking, "Makki said he only did the fucking, and I don't want a man fucking me! I mean, imagine it! A mere slave, putting his dick inside a prince?" His voice has gone back to normal, that hint of drama ever pervasive, and Iwaizumi lets out a breath he didn't know he's been holding. "I don't know how Makki takes it up the ass, I was absolutely just scandalised, but he was actually pretty fierce about not letting me fuck him. I thought about pulling rank on him for a moment, because really, he's just the son of a duke and I'm practically the king already, and I could tell that the slave had a really nice ass, but in the end Father came in and we had to leave." Oikawa says it as if it were the climax of the story, when really it's an anticlimax.

Iwaizumi just hums in response. He fastens the band of the headdress around Oikawa's forehead and steps back, feeling the distance between them as a tangible line of tension. Oikawa feels him pull away, and turns, touching the soft fabric of the robe unconsciously. "Iwa-chan," he says, almost dreamily, as if he doesn't really know what he's saying, "I've made up my mind. I want that little orange-haired slave from the last batch. He had a feisty look in his eyes I liked."

Iwaizumi remembers the slave Oikawa's talking about, and he feels a nasty twisting feeling in his chest. He's talking about the one with the big orange-brown eyes, with the fiery hair that stuck up in at least five different places, with the tender untouched skin and innocent, naive aura. He had been one of the few slaves who hadn't been crying their eyes out or cowering in a corner, and Iwaizumi remembers admiring his strength, his courage, that indefatigable look in his eyes as he had looked Iwaizumi straight in his. Now Iwaizumi just feels sick, thinking about Oikawa and that poor helpless innocent slave, barely a man, hardly a child, thinking about Oikawa's long slim fingers carving bruises into that white unmarked skin and teasing colour into pale red lips. But it is his not to reason why, his but to do or die; so he bows, and steps out of the chamber to deliver his message to the kitchens, where the slave is kept working.

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