Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this. I mean no offense.
A/N: Who knew that Fleetwood Mac could be so inspiring, that, and Written?Kitten? This is an atmospheric piece. There is purposeful repetition and vagueness. It isn't meant to be high quality, but hopefully it is enjoyable. Let me know, please, review.
He hates this place. The music's too damn cheerful, for one thing. Doesn't match the color scheme - blood red and midnight black, or the late-goth decor. It grates on his nerves.
He wants heavy metal or Depeche Mode, not Fleetwood Mac's, "Second Hand News," with it's snazzy upbeat rhythm. It doesn't suit his mood at all. No dissonance, or wicked guitar solos to match the darkness that's simmering inside of him.
Fuck.
His feet are moving, independently of his will. Fingers tapping the bar. Eyes catching those of someone swaying on the dance floor, caught up in the catchy beat. The dancer's not paying attention to the woman that he's with, some blonde, big-breasted, long-legged number that probably only has half a brain.
He contents himself with watching the pair dance, all loose-limbed and bordering on utterly ridiculous - reminds him of "Charlie Brown" cartoons.
He takes a sip of his beer and admires those dark eyes, the way they continue to watch him, locked on his lips as he nurses his beer. The blonde tries to snag those eyes back, reclaim them for her own, pushes her breasts up into the man's face, but she gets ignored.
Fuck.
He leans forward, presses a hand to his groin and breathes heavily through his nose.
One, two, three deep breaths.
Those eyes burn a hole right through him. Beg him to come out to the dance floor and join the throng of bodies sweating in sync to the music.
Fleetwood Mac's, "Chain," pulses out of the speakers, drowning thoughts, making speech impossible. Making it difficult for him to concentrate.
Hips gyrate. Breasts bounce and tease. Asses bump and grind.
Fuck.
He practically falls off the stool, regains his footing, makes it appear almost casual. He's good at that. Lets those eyes drag him out to the dance floor.
He shoves Bambi over, ignores her startled cry and the stinging slap. He grabs the dark-eyed dancer and locks their hips together.
It's, "I Don't Want to Know," now, and he's content with not knowing.
Lips crash against lips, accompanied by the sound of a cymbal. Hands find places to reposition themselves - squeeze ass cheeks, tweak nipples, rub hard, weeping lengths.
"Oh Daddy," has their bodies pressing close, grinding against each other, making love on the dance floor.
Fuck.
He's reaching for hair that's not there, teeth tugging on lips, begging entrance for his tongue.
He's not denied.
The dancer tastes like smoke and hard liquor, tastes like a goddamn liquor store, and he's happy to stay there awhile. Happy just to lick and nip, but not to buy. That'll come later. After he's sampled the wares and is satisfied that he's not getting something that's got a cheap, slutty aftertaste.
The dancer gasps for air, presses a hand between them, looks at him with doe eyes, thick lashes giving him an almost feminine look. The fairly large bulge that's pressing against his thigh belies that innocence, gives the boy-man a definite edge.
Fuck.
He pulls them off the dance floor, toward the back room. Fumbles with the handle, gets it open, slams it behind them.
It's dark.
Blind, they shove pants down past hips, hands groping, lips glued to skin slick with sweat. Bodies moving to the beat of music that's thrumming through their veins.
The dancer shimmies down his body, his mouth's wet velvet, encasing him, pulling the darkness out of him and making him come undone.