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It’s evident immediately that you must not be the habitual clubbing type he is used to dealing with. Ghost contemplates this within the first minute he spots you in his line. You’re stuck with an awkward gait and uncomfortable smile, sandwiched in the gaggle of girls who are obviously more than a bit tipsy. It’s not uncommon to notice the ones who are out of place, standing outside in the breezy, cold London night air outside Club 141. But there’s something about the way you shift yourself when your friends pull on your arm and make endless comments about the music tonight. You’re so not into this. It is clear you are accommodating to the needs of your pushy companions- your unease simmering underneath a facade of pleasant smiles; getting along for the sake of not losing your spot in this girls' night out.
If it weren’t clear from that disposition alone, then it would be obvious in the way you rush forward when he signals for you to come close. Your hands had been so agile in presenting him your ID. You had it in your grip, ready as if being told to present a gold offering to a relentless God; as if you were uncertain you’d be let into the busy nightclub. It makes him smirk under his balaclava. He watches as you sheepishly stare at his chest- avoiding his eyes as he flicks the plastic piece in his hands, checking it’s authenticity (All for show, of course- you don’t seem like the type to carry fakes, much too anxious for that). He knows he’s menacing. Tall with such a strong build, he’s been given a reputation for being one of the more recognisable bouncers in and around the area. He lingers on your card a little longer than usual, enjoying the slight way you seem to hold your breath- like a mouse being cornered by a cat, worried he’s going to pounce; reject your entry as your friends breeze through quickly.
“Go on through, love” His voice is clear but gruff, and he is humoured by the way your eyes widen. He sees the tension visibly disappear from your face- you’re blushing as you quickly take it out of his gloved hand and shove it back into your handbag before rushing to join your group, disappearing into the crowd.
He’s not a bit surprised when you shamble out less than an hour later into the outdoor smoking pit, trailing your overly loud friends as they scramble to pull out smokes. The evening is still young, and he witnesses what seems to be you fantasising and planning an escape route; your eyes drift often to the road beyond the fabric barriers that mark the club’s space, as if yearning to get up and leave. Despite this, you continue to nod and play friendly as your friends whinge about the overpriced alcohol or about the attractiveness of the DJ playing tonight (He will definitely be letting Gaz know he’s made new fans later). You’re dressed up nicely- Ghost appreciates that you aren’t a carbon copy of many of the nightclub hoppers he sees, but it makes him a tad concerned at the way you tug and rub your arms trying to warm yourself up; It’s why he is confounded when you politely shake your head at your friend’s offers to go back inside. You’re rejecting the call of pulsing lights and blaring grime music, preferring to freeze rather than to associate yourself with the drunken messes inside. He tries not to think about it- to turn his attention back to his work, but you interrupt his attempt with your small voice:
“Is-uh, is it alright if I stay out here? Even if I’m not smoking…?” You asked with such well-mannered uncertainty that it almost had him snort. You’re definitely too nice to be out here.
“It’s a free country, love, just don’t make my job harder.” His reply makes you smile softly, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as you lean against the brick wall, obviously enjoying the moment away from the crowd, soaking in the environment. When Ghost ends up having to kick a few rambunctious idiots out later that evening, he feels a bit disappointed when he returns to his usual post to find you’ve already disappeared. He doubts he’d see your type again.
A week later, Ghost tries not to pull a face when you stand before him, waiting for entry again. This time, your outfit seems more in tune with the crowd- a little bit more revealing and more reminiscent of a club-goer. The only thing that makes it easy to discern that you’re still not quite a clubber is the fact that you’re clasping a fashionable jacket under your crossed arms; you’ve learnt your lesson this time round. Your demeanour throws him off, too. This time, you don’t panic when he asks to see your ID, and you have the confidence to even look him in the eyes. Ghost bites his tongue, thanking his mask that you’re unable to see how you pique his curiosity. When you go in, you nod your head at him and shoot him that same gentle smile- it's fleeting as you once more get distracted by your friends.
He tries not to draw attention to the way he stiffens up a little, as if trying to posture a bit more, when you come out to the smoking pit again. This time, you’re unashamed about wanting the fresh air, and he can see the results of alcohol in your cheeks and hears it in the slightly buzzed humming of your voice when you tell your friends you just need a few minutes. You take the spot near him again, almost as if you want him to drift his gaze onto you again. You adjust your outfit before putting on your coat and Ghost, against his better judgement can’t help but comment.
“Prepared this time round.” He mutters nonchalantly, eyes still trained on watching the smoking area. You almost don’t realise he’s speaking to you, but when you do, you quickly straighten up and lean to double-check.
“What- pardon?”
“You were here last week. You looked cold as fuck.” He mentions, as if stating an obvious fact of life, hand barely gesturing to the coat you’ve shrugged on.
“Oh, right. Yeah- knew I was gonna be dragged out again.” You seem pleased he remembered, and Ghost tries not to examine the nice feeling he gets in his chest when you readjust to stand closer to his posting. Neither of you speaks- you respect his job too much to try and make conversation with the club bouncer, and when you leave, you simply give him another gleeful smile that has Ghost thinking about you. He wonders why you bother coming to these places.
You answer that question for him the next time you see him. It’s like you notice the quirk of his eyebrows when he’s checking your ID again, clearly remembering him and knowing, for a fact, he remembers you.
“Payday night out.” You say it so plainly, the explanation making him grunt a simple ‘ah’ as he waves you in. Ghost tries really hard not to actively turn his head to watch you move. Later that evening, when you inevitably make your way to the smoking zone, you don’t even try to hide your contentment to saddle up near him. You seemingly take an interest in watching him tell drunk people off, and he doesn’t comment when he hears you gasp when he ends up pinning some guy's arms behind his back and escorting him onto the sidewalk away from the building. He likes the way you observe him, makes him feel weirdly proud- as if putting his best on display in front of an adoring audience. He’s not usually keen on people watching him, but the way you tilt your head and laugh when he makes offhand comments and snarky comebacks to angry drunks has him basking in the publicity of his work.
The way you stick around becomes normal- ever so slowly, you become a regular at the club; still always accompanied by your friends, but you always make time to sneak away from the pack and give him some unspoken company. Your awkwardness melts away as you get more familiar with the London nightscene. He learns your name from Soap, his bartender friend, who had gained the intel when he set up your tab on one of the nights; it sticks in his brain, and Ghost finds himself always subconsciously waiting to give you the nod when he watches the entry line build up at the start of a long Friday night.
Unfortunately, on one of the nights that seemed to be rowdier than normal, you don’t show up at the usual hour; there’s no sign of you or your chattering companions. Ghost frowns, the expression hidden as he continues to man the long line. Eventually, the crowd decides to push his patience when Price’s voice ticks and buzzes on his security radio, telling him to go deal with some fucker whose been caught selling dope on the dancefloor, and he misses your late arrival.
It’s only when he’s supposed to be telling Soap to cut off service to some drunks that he spots you leaning on the bar, sipping a brightly coloured drink mid-convo. Despite all the loud beats of Gaz’s mix blaring in his ear, your voice floats above it all into his head. You talk about your plans for the evening- and when you notice his presence, you’re quick to shoot him a slight wave. Your friends giggle and whisper something, and you go bright red, smacking them slightly before quickly finishing your drink so you can be dragged back into the sea of sweaty dancers.
“Ey Ghost, she asked ‘bout ya earlier.” Soap teases as Ghost shakes off the encounter.
“What?”
“The lass you were staring at, she asked if you were working tonight when she ordered earlier,” He winks and has a shit-eating grin that has Ghost rolling his eyes. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t- you were probably just annoyed that you had to show your ID to someone new. Besides, He doesn’t mix with the clientele, no pleasure with his work if he can help it. That mantra doesn’t stop his guilty want to see you again, though. Ghost is about to go back to his usual spot- maybe catch your gaze again when Price signals once more on the cursed radio. You’ll just have to see him next week.
He almost chokes when he next sees you- while you’ve definitely been coming out more and more comfortable in your own aestethic, this new outfit you have on has Ghost uncomfortably too interested. It is much too early for him to have a hard-on, and he grimaces at the idea of Price or any of the other staff catching him lusting over a customer. You’re all dolled up in a way that is still unmistakably you, and as he rakes his eyes over your body, he miserably fails to pretend he’s just checking if your ID matches your face.
“Oh hey, you’re back tonight.” You make small talk, and he can’t help but lean closer when you say it, uncharacteristically letting you distract him some more.
“Never left. Was busy the last time you came,” he excuses. You take the bait instantly.
“Hauling out the shitheads no less?” You near purr with a smile he hopes you only reserve for him and none of the other nightclub staff.
“Mhm.’ course. Why? Missed me, love?”
“Missed people-watching the pit with my favourite bodyguard.” You shoot him a cheeky smirk before taking back your ID straight from his hand- it leaves him a little breatheless and he lets himself stare when you stride away into the swarm of people. He has to cough and re-establish his demeanour when he goes back to focusing on the impatient line in front of him. He counts down the minutes before he can excuse himself to hang around the smoking pit. His shift is much better this time round; much better when he gets to watch you flit about, talking to all your friends- vibes high and light as you joke. It’s some work party of yours- and you seem so in your element as you converse and lazily sip on another damn straw. Your lips are so distracting, and Ghost is thankful that, since it's a weeknight, he can devote his time to hovering near you under the guise of being a responsible staff member.
Some of your friends seem to enjoy watching the strange, addictive tension between the two of you. On this particular night, one of yours decides it’s a good time to start chatting to him. They’ve dragged you before him like a sacrifice- giggles plentiful as they insist you twirl for him (“Just showing off the new look!”). You do so with your ever-present people-pleasing attitude. They are entertained by the way Ghost has to play unimpressed. They eventually whine when he acts uninterested, but as they go off to pester Soap and Gaz back inside, you glare at Ghost- as if you know he was secretly grinning beneath the mask.
“No time off, huh?” You snark out, half joking as you’re about to turn to rejoin your friends.
“Not even for you, pretty girl.” his backhand compliment has an immediate effect on you, and Ghost thinks it was worth sacrificing some of his professionalism as he watches you seemingly bloom- blush on your cheeks, highlighting your makeup. You give him a coy laugh and pat him on his tattooed arm as you leave him be. A few hours later, your party comes out, making their way to the exit- all of your gang huddling over phones trying to book an uber. You make a passing comment about how you’re having to move locations for the birthday girl- you’re pouting, and Ghost really hopes for your sake the next club is worth it.
When a minivan Uber pulls up, and all of you clamber in, you’re the last to try to squish into the vehicle. You almost teeter, like a doe with shaky legs, and Ghost finds himself moving forward quickly, grabbing your hand and holding it as he helps you climb in, the other lightly on your waist to guide you. You give him that special smile and whisper a ‘thanks’ as the door slides closed. His hands flex when they drop to his side as he watches the car pull away.
It’s a rough 3 am when Ghost finds himself being roped into clean-up duty. The nightclub lights are on, and it’s eerily quiet as the gang starts picking up lost items, closing the bar and packing up the DJ equipment. It’s Gaz who breaks the quietness.
“Did you guys see how fit the birds were tonight?” He lets out a low whistle, and Soap jumps in enthusiastically.
“Aye. Even the regulars were all dolled up to the tits.” A bit vulgar in his statement, He elbows Ghost, eyebrows wiggling. Ghost merely shrugs and passes another unclean glass to Soap.
“You on about that one hen he’s sweet on? I reckon she was putting it on for him tonight” Gaz pokes at him, catching onto Soap’s intentions. When he doesn’t answer, purposely trying to dodge his friend's words, they try to goad him even more.
“Aw come on, mate! Price didn’t say we can’t flirt with them- no shame in admiring the show.” His mind tunes back into you, the lilt in your voice and the expressions you always wear when you come in. They were right- it wasn’t technically against company rules to chat up the patrons, so long as it didn’t get in the way of their work.
He files this thought in the back of his mind for later.
You’re drunk. He had let you in earlier when you had been much more sober, but this time round, when you come to see him in the outdoor smoking pit, it’s clear something has happened. Call it drunken shenanigans or foul play, but he can tell you’re not in a good state. Not when you’re moving sluggishly and looking too pale in the face. When he shoots you a concerned look, looming over you slightly, you hiccup. You have only one word that is announced with a miserable mewl before slumping down to crouch on the sidewalk in shame:
“Tequilla.”
He winces at the thought, giving you a mocking ‘ouch’.
“You good, pretty girl?” You make a pitiful whimper, and you lull your head down to the ground, and Ghost even abandons his post to crouch beside you. You shake your head, you’re on the verge of what he suspects is vomiting, but you don’t move besides some slight swaying. Your eyes flutter shut as you try to breathe, embarrassed at how you must look, but Ghost simply doesn’t say much more. Instead, his large rough palms go to rub circles on your back- professionalism be dammed. He even pulls back some of your hair when you're nearly lurching forward.
“You’re alright, love. Got you covered.” He murmurs, gently as if cooing at a small creature. He lets you lean into his touch, and he tries not to move when you rest your tired head against him for a bit. He ends up calling Price on his comms, asking for someone to find one of your friends to take you home. In that moment, he wishes he wasn’t tied to his job- a bit too on edge at the image of you miserable and pouty on your night out.
You’re all too cute when you try to apologise to him the next time you see him. It’s an easy night, and the club is at medium capacity, so he can spare you a second to chat. He waves off your drunken stupor from that night. You leave him be, and he no longer hides the fact that he enjoys watching you as much as you like watching him. You’re stolen away by some male friend of yours, who doesn’t quite remember ever seeing you with, and while he likes the way your hips move, he nearly glares daggers at how close your company presses against you. His boss, who also happens to be the nightclub’s owner, John Price, seems to take note of this interaction- a rare moment when he’s out on the floor checking his establishment. Just like the rest of the staff, Price has seen you around enough to know you’re a good one and to know that Ghost takes a shine to you.
“She’d make a good hostess. Maybe we should put her on the bar.” Price wonders out loud, strategising about new staff, smirking as the two of them watch you continue charming the other man.
2 reactions burst out of Ghost’s brain in that moment:
- He’s never wanted to punch his boss and a stranger more in his life.
- You’d look so good bent over the counter pouring him a drink.
“Sir.” He practically growls, and Price just shrugs and laughs, patting him on the shoulder.
“Just kidding, son.”
Ghost feels territorial after this moment, and he finds himself even a bit more agitated than usual- a little harsher in the way he tells people to fuck off, and there's tremendous satisfaction when he has an excuse to pull the guy you were talking to earlier by the scruff of his neck and escort him out.
You become a staple of the club. He’s convinced you don’t even really go to any other establishments, and when you start showing up with less and less of your usual gaggle of girls, he thinks you’re coming here just to mess with his emotions. Being a regular at 141 gives you unofficial privilege; Soap knows your drinks off by heart, and Gaz knows when to queue up one of your favourite tracks. Hell, Price even lets you walk behind the bar and sneak into the staff room after a few months of your constant presence around the team. What had started of as merely jokes amongst the staff about being an unofficial host, turns into a delectably too-close-for-comfort reality for Ghost. The first time you saunter into the staffroom before shift officially opens, he’s slipping on a black shirt and nearly drops his radio comm when he catches you entering the backroom.
“The fuck you doing here?” His words snap out slightly flabbergasted- he’s never caught off guard so easily, but alas, you always keep him on edge. You shrug, you’re in a cute club dress, only really covered by an oversized hoodie you’ve thrown on to avoid being looked at on the tube. He tries to stay focused when you explain yourself.
“Johnny said I could hang out here rather than outside in the line.” He doesn’t argue, but Ghost can’t help but stare as you lounge on the staff couch- hair pulled up above your neck and legs barely covered; it's torturous. He’s seen you in so many different moods, but this takes the fucking cake. He doesn’t say a word when he passes Gaz and Soap at the bar with their shit-eating grins.
It starts off as guilty cave-ins of his conscience. If the others are willing to let you bend the rules of the sacred patron and establishment relationship, then who are they to stop him from touching you the way he so desperately wants to for the entirety he’s known you. As you spend more hours hanging around the club during the after-hours on the weekend, Ghost learns more about you. Despite your loyalty to 141, you have a relatively normal day job. You have a copious amount of hobbies and could probably talk his ear off about all the movies and shows you follow. This version of you only makes you more endearing- and so when he starts allowing himself to press the small of your back when he gently moves you out of the way, he revels in the way you let him. He indulges in the way you walk around his nightclub, all confident, knowing each nook and cranny as if you were bred to be among them. You don’t shy away from the gradual change in his movements as well- he notices you pulling on his shoulder more often when trying to signal for him to deal with a creep; he notices the way you always lean towards him when he comes to settle next to you at the end of his shift.
It’s overdue when you finally kiss him. It’s a straight tease- a small peck on the cheek as you prance past him one night. He’s in the middle of dealing with some boring bag checks, and you had (as usual) cut the line, this time clutching the hand of another girl. Your willing victim reminded him of when he first spotted you- a newbie whose not used to nightlife. You had given him your best puppy dog eyes- words sweet with that honey tone you use when you want Soap to put extra sugar syrup in your cocktails:
“Can you let my new friend in Ghost? Please?” and Fuck, when you use that stupidly hypnotising tone, he can do nothing but relent and nod. You kissed him- a quick thanks; a show off to the rest of the crowd waiting in line for the power you had over one of the most intimidating bouncers in SoHo. You are testing his resolve and when you later show up in the smoking pit, hands all over another new friend, voice spouting nonsense compliments to the idiot, he realises your game all along; You’re dragging your little show out- eyes glued to his as you purposely put yourself in between two guys who are much to drunk to have any gentlemanly thoughts about you.
He yanks you out of the crowd and shoves you into the staff room the second he gets a break.
The club music is vibrating the room above you two, and the shitty staff basement is not the nicest place he wishes to do this, but he can’t stand it anymore. You don’t even seem to hide the fact that you’re like a cat who caught the canary. You’re smiling as he manhandles you against the door, and he kicks it closed and locks it quickly.
“You’re a fucking tease tonight.” He’s whispering it into your ear as he crowds against you, his hands heavy and firm as he starts moving them down your sides. You’re wearing a stupidly short skirt, and your perfume has him near drunk as he goes to press himself against you. You don’t reply to his rambled words- only gasping as he goes to kiss your neck, and he shoves his hand to grab your ass and pull you closer.
“Making my job too hard pretty girl. You’re bloody distracting.” He nearly bites you, and he keens when you go to wrap your arms around his neck- letting him hold you even more.
“Just keepin up the party vibes.” You give the lame excuse, but he’s not having it. Not when this is months in the making- countless weekends of watching you go from shy to shamelessly grinding on guys in front of him. He tuts, and he really wants to pull your panties to the side, but the way you look up at him, so pleased with yourself, has him reeling. He pulls you off him and you’re about to complain when he commands.
“Get on your knees.”
“Ghos-”
“Now.” He thinks he’s going to have to push you down himself, but you obey so well. Your compliance has him mesmerised, and he is quick to weave his fingers into your hair as you stare up at him, all content. He mutters something about how he’s done with pretending he doesn’t want this- that he’s tried so hard to be professional with you, but the words get lost when you willingly go to mess with his belt buckle, and you slip your hand in his boxers, palming him gently.
“Fuck- holy shit.” He nearly stammers, his usually level-headed facade broken as you pull him out. You’re not meant to be here- no matter how soft the rest of the staff are towards you, it’s clear that fucking you in the staffroom on his short break is beyond their kindness. But he doesn’t care. Not when you let him shove his jeans down, and you look at his dick like it’s a gift. You somehow look even more naive- a corrupted innocent little treat as he watches you, suddenly a little nervous when you go to stroke him. Fuck he’s so hard. And there’s so little time- he’s meant to be back outside checking IDs, but when your lips go to take him, he can’t seem to remember routine. You’re addicting, and he feels utterly condemnable as he goes to push the back of your head further- thrusting needily into your wet and warm throat. He lets out groans of pleasure- hoping that the music upstairs is too loud to pick up on your joint depravity. Any of the staff could walk in- he could be fired, and you could be barred entry forever if you get caught-
“Pretty girl-” The nickname for you rolls off his tongue so easily as he moans and fucks your dainty lips; he shoves any thoughts of the consequences out the fuckign window, “Ah- Shit- Shit..SHIT,” he feels his body pushed to the brink- pleasure filling up his thoughts as he is close to coming. His cock twitches, and you can feel him tensing. When he finally cums down your throat, he can’t help but pant and stare as you swallow. The end of it all has both of you slumping- you still have that cocky smile on you, and he huffs a satisfied noise at you as you both try to dress up, hiding any evidence of your activity.
“Does this mean I’m a 141 VIP now?” You ask jokingly.
“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”