Work Text:
The first time he had seen him, he had been sitting at one of the furthest tables facing the stage – nursing a bottle of beer, fingers wrapped around the neck of it loosely, in an almost elegant, nonchalant manner that for some reason had caught his attention in the three seconds of darkness that hid himself, and made all of the costumers visible.
Dave never really cared for the men that sat at the club: if he was to be honest, they seemed to disappear from his mind the moment he started his act. Even when he shot a wink, or curled a finger beckoning one man or another to come to him (a tease, since the three massive security guards that are around at all times would make a pretzel out of anyone who tried), it was an act, faces never registering.
What registers is the desire he sees in his eyes, the feeling of being wanted, to know that most of them would fuck him if he let them. That’s the rush that feeds him, his hands that caress the pole as he poses artistically, his hips as they roll sultrily to the heavy bass of the song he chooses to dance to any particular night.
Sometimes some end up buying a private show in the Champagne Room, and even then it’s what they exude that thrills him: not the man himself.
Sometimes they may be handsome, the fleeting thought that he would actually let them bend him over and take him swimming in his head while he dutifully follows their commands – “bend over”, “play with yourself”, “pull the panties down just a little, slowly”, “moan a little” – making the tension in the room rise and he… well, he eats it up.
But in the end, they are just thoughts, nothing more, never the preamble to actions.
In the end, they never really captivate his attention besides a sliver of curiosity and nothing more.
So the fact that this one man, with light ridiculously styled hair and wearing shades in an extremely dimly lit room, manages to make him blink in interest shocks him a little.
The fact that the fingers seem to caress the neck of the bottle as his head is turned – probably not even looking at the stage, and this irks him – makes something in him writhe.
The bass kicks in, and it’s his time to shine: he walks to the center of the stage, nothing exaggerated, hips moving elegantly to the beat, gloved hands sliding over his naked chest almost shyly – a contradiction to the confident stride that ends close to the pole, motion silkily dripping into his stockinged leg coming up to wrap around the metallic pole, anchor for his body arching back as his hands become greedy in their grope and he twirls until he’s on the floor, upside down visage facing the viewers, a lip bite as eyes open slowly to reveal brilliant reds.
There are some hoots, some claps, one guy is clearly blushing to the tip of his ears: and the man in the back is watching him now and for some reason that excites him more than it has any business doing.
He misses a beat before he realizes he’s staring at dark lenses pointed right toward him – his heart does the same and it confuses and excites him even further – but he continues his act, both high-heeled feet planting on the floor, hips moving up and down slowly as he rubs himself on the pole like a cat in heat, eyes dropping even further as his lips part.
He tries time and time again to drag his eyes away from the seemingly non-reactive man, but he fails spectacularly. He wants to see him shifting too, he wants to sense something from him, anything, like he usually can with others.
He risks more than usual, reveals more than usual, seduces more than the almost disinterested way he usually does and if he was paying attention to some of the regular patrons, or even the rest of the staff he would have seen some extremely surprised faces.
But he isn't, because the asshole in the back is stock still, face impassive behind shades, not even a fucking twitch of his lips and… fuck if it isn't making him angry and frustrated and so damned horny to the point of his dainty lace panties threatening to slip from his half hard on.
He finishes his act – gloves on the floor from when he took them off, something he never does – bending down to pick them up and it’s only then, as the music trickles to an end, that he sees the man’s lips twitch. Victory makes his chest full, his lips parting without him telling them to as he caresses the back of his own legs slowly, to keep watching, to make sure that was indeed a reaction, before he pulls himself up finally and walks right out, the music ending way before he passes the curtain.
He is met with the almost comically wide eyes of one the other boys as soon as he does.
“Holy shit Dove, what was that?”
He raises his eyebrows, his expression schooled into nonchalance as he walks past him to the dressing area. Dany, of course, follows him.
“That was my Friday act, tha fuck did it look like?”
“No it wasn’t, that was a full on you fucking the pole on stage, holy crap, do you have any idea of how many boners you popped in there holy fuck!”
______________________________
The first time you'd seen it, it was a matter of chance and not of search.
You only needed a drink, and nothing more - the place was not unknown to you but not familiar either.
Actually, you are pretty sure you remember the layout of the building, before it was now this dimmed lights lace and velvet nest of pseudo luxury.
The first time you'd seen it, you had an inkling of what you were going to see, and yet, there was no way you would have guessed at what it would do to you. To your schedule, to your wandering mind in one rare self-pleasing moment, and even in "aided ones" - excuse the term.
The very firm time, on that Friday at 10:15pm, when the heavy velvet burgundy drapes' edges were breached by a slender lace covered hand, followed by a stockinged leg, you were officially, albeit unknowingly lost.
Your eyes, hidden behind triangular lenses - that in the dim lighting made some double-take glances your way - were inadvertently glued to the figure walking seductively towards the chromed pole in the center of the round stage.
The bottle of beer you had been nursing was forgotten, as you watched the motion, as your body felt more than just the low thrum of the bass reverberating through the floor.
He was all but androgynous albeit his dressing - or in this case, lack thereof;
You want to fucking destroy him. Want him bound and gagged and at your mercy: you want to hurt him.
Garden a multitude of wicked flowers in the planes of his body: make them blossom under your lips, through your teeth as you bite and suck, nurse them with your tongue as they gain a vivid red, sickly green and vibrant purples.
It's sick and depraved.
And it's sweet because you want to protect as much as you want to destroy and it's driving you batshit insane.
You want to clap your hand over his luscious ass until it's crimson, and then kiss it and lick the sting away.
You want to watch his eyes water as you shove your cock down his throat - wiping the twin streams of tears with your thumb, as lovingly as your fucking his mouth is vicious.
You want to punish him for making you want him so much, you want the burn in your heart as you bring him pain because it also hurts you - you don't know what sense is anymore, for you are more than certain you make none whatsoever.
You just want everything when it comes to him, and you can hardly keep it together because this is the most you have ever felt, feared, lusted, wanted - needed in your whole life.