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Strippers And Sinners

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The lights are stunning; glittering artificial lights that douse the wide streets in fake glamour and false mystery, twisting their subtle winding tendrils of magic into the minds and souls of the unsuspecting visitors. Music spills into the heavy air and wraps the trapped further into the web of greed and gluttony, sending thrills through addled brains and shivers up conned spines. The million different melodies spin with the tiny breeze, as if the mingling tunes are moving in their gleeful dance, and those entranced are hopelessly caught.

But the web is made of the finest silk and none truly want to break free, though all know the spider will soon return. The lie, and that’s what it is; an elaborate cleverly constructed lie, is both magical and enslaving. And those who work here know that, and are taught to remember it.

The casinos are infamous, and the clubs considering seedy, but when delicately mixed like the most precious of perfumes, they become the biggest trap for the unsuspecting flies. And the ones who run these establishments are the most luxurious spiders. And they’ve spun their perfect web, and simply lie back as the translucent threads that are the dancers, the dealers and the debauchery of their patrons reel in the flies and their dirty, dirty money.

The dancers are the real pull, the dealers a subtle aside and the owner knows this, knows that the dance must be alluring and draw a crowd, and that the deal should be quiet and efficient to add a shadow. Dancers are the irresistible pull; dealers add a dangerous glint for those willing to dare their stake.

Behind the scintillating façade, lies the grimy core the proprietors mask so well when the night slithers in. The underbellies of these rich playhouses are the striking contrast to what the owner wishes punters to view, and it sickens those who work there at the flimsy border between the two worlds, with one world being – for the most part – unaware the other exists.

The dancer often thinks he detests it the most – with every damn fiber of his over effeminate body that he flaunts for that same hideous reason that the gullible walk in to his hell, and their dreamland. But, they don’t see what he sees; they don’t have to pander to the whims to those greasing their palms.

That’s what it comes down to in Vegas – dirty money, cold money, illegal money.

What seemed to be a whole world dedicated to the sale of sex, drugs and shows, stripping, drinks and sin.

And he’s for sale.

 

***

 

The lights glint shamelessly off the petite man’s barely concealed, highly glittered chest as he swirls and twists seductively to the crooning music that swells and hangs in the heavy atmosphere of the bar. A black top hat is perched precariously on his dark hair, until it pulled off with an alluring flourish and a bewitching bat of the thick eyelashes that frame his russet eyes.

Tight black trousers encase his legs and a revealing red ringleaders coat covers his back, but leaves his chest bare. Glitter is streaked over him liberally, but as rivulets of sweat dance down over his skin, they swipe the olive porcelain clean. What’s been made bare is a tease within itself, as the beautiful boy is slowly stripped of his final mask.

His sparkling cane seemingly commands eight stunning girls, but even as they flash and flaunt and plump and pout, the boy captivates those watching, as his eyes lazily flutter and his mouth slowly smirks, drawing his audience close with promising eyes and the wonders of lust.

The pink muscle in his mouth teasingly traces lips gleaming with saliva and sweat, the exposed muscles of his abdomen pull taunt and shift as he does, thinly disguised by the tattooed skin that houses the delicate frame. He swings his hips in a divinely erotic manner and shows his teeth teasingly, as if he knows that the show he’s providing is irresistible. It’s almost as if he’s just waiting for the audience to be wholly tangled in his gossamer threads of seduction, and to then give accordingly. Every pair of eyes of is glued to him – consciously or otherwise – and he seems to let the music and adoration seep into his dainty bones, and let the two opposing forces rule him completely, controlling each filthy roll of his hips and every sly grin.

Soon, too soon, the music fades away and the dancers peel away from the stage, the glitter adorned boy becoming just a ghost to be remembered. The illusion shatters into a million pieces, and those spectating leave behind their dirty fantasies in the plush chairs they had watched the stunning boy, and his sensual dance, in. The patrons begin to bubble and flow around the rest of the club, picking up another drink, settling down at one of the many gambling tables, or going to watch some of the more… explicit performances through the black curtain on the right.

The man with green eyes stays sitting in the velvet seats by the stage for a few moments more, smirking to himself. He gets up out of the chair and glides over to a heavy steel door, disguised with red silk. Security is supposed to be here, so the green-eyed man scans over the crowd, to see where exactly the supposed bouncer is. Nowhere. Another damn bodyguard fired. That was the third that month.

He slips through the door, and once again marvels at how silent in becomes in the cold concrete tunnels that house the places he doesn’t want his precious commodity to see. The concrete passageways slide past as he strides through, and eventually comes to the door he was looking for. “Dance stage – backstage/dressing room” has been carved into it, and he knocks twice, before pushing it open and meeting the sight of eight women and the alluring boy in various stages of undress, with the mirrors lit up, and the stage costumes hung on the rail.

“Hel-lo Mr. Way,” the boy purrs, glancing over his shoulder, and the girls all giggle along with him, fluttering their heavy eyelashes at him and simpering, whilst leaning down to show off their chests or turning just so, so their waists look their best. The green-eyed man – Mr. Way – winks back at them, but his eyes don’t linger over their feminine figures.

The boy doesn’t bother with flirting – instead he steps over the mirror lithely, making every step seem like the salacious dance he performed with breath taking ease; before settling down in the chair and wiping his face clean of glitter, russet eyes raking over his reflection diligently and ascertaining the cleanliness of his olive skin.

“Any particular reason the greatly charismatic, fabulously wealthy and breathtakingly handsome Mr. Gerard Way has granted us his presence in these concrete slums?” The boy’s tone is light, radiating happiness, but the thorny undertone of the message is obvious to everyone in the room. He doesn’t look at the man he’s addressing, but continues to examine his face. Gerard raises a dark eyebrow, and studies the boy for a moment.

“I could have you arrested for that, as a homosexual statement, y’know, Frank.”

Smirking ever so slightly and resting his shoulder against the metal doorframe, Gerard continues watching the boy continue to wipe glitter off his effeminate body, taking time on his chest and abdomen. As the glitter continues to be removed from the pretty skin, the intricate tattoos are revealed properly. Black inked lines, flowing script and bold images are all his chest and arms, adding a hint of the exotic to his skin.

“But you won’t, because I make you a ridiculous amount of money, don’t I?” Frank flashes that signature unconsciously seductive smile at the dark haired boss in the doorway, and gracefully stands up from the chair, idly stretching and seemingly oblivious to the nine pairs of eyes that rake over his lightly toned body. He pads over to his locker, hips rocking slightly; before he reaches up to punch the rusty metal, and all of the women and Gerard watch as the muscles shift under his skin. He rummages in it for a moment, before standing up straight with a jacket in this arms. He turns to face Gerard and closes the locker with his hip.

“Now, if you really don’t have anything of importance to say to us, I’d really like to go. Sir.” Gerard smirks again, and stands up straight, eyes lazily sweeping over the half naked man in front of him and his female counterparts. Frank’s eyes bore into his, clearly demonstrating the message that he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Well. Sam’s gone and called in sick tonight.”

Frank doesn’t need hear anymore than that – Sam’s the resident male stripper. And Gerard is asking him to fucking strip, which is not part of his job description. And knowing his damn boss, if he turned out to be any good at shedding his clothes, he’d be coerced into carrying on to make a bit more fucking money for the greedy bastard in front of him. At the same time, he doesn’t want to say no – he may be one of Gerard’s biggest attractions, but dancers are not particularly uncommon in Vegas, and he could be replaced if he pissed Gerard off enough. But the idea of taking off nearly all his damn clothes in front of a darkened, albeit tiny, room – him being unable to see who had their hands down their pants – made him want to be sick.

“I need someone to replace him Frank...” Gerard’s voice is still friendly, almost sing-song, but all of them can hear the soft threat underneath the cheerful tone. Now apprehension creeps into Frank’s mind, a tiny voice whispering to him to remember that Gerard is ruthless and will do anything he needs to in order to make Frank get into that booth. Green eyes look intently at Frank, secretly enjoying the beautiful sight in front of him. Frank’s sucked his pouty bottom lip into his mouth, biting on it lightly, and his russet eyes look wary and conflicted. Then they become empty and his lips upturn in that irresistible smile.

“Do you want me to get ready now, Mr. Way?” It was nearing midnight, that was when all those looking for a good time would roll into the club, get hot from the dancers and either pick someone up or choose a willing girl from the dozen “escorts” that were permanent fixtures. Stripper’s prime time was between eleven thirty and two. Gerard had balanced his club perfectly to ensure maximum profit throughout the night, and drilled into his employee's head so they knew when to arrive and leave.

“Yes." Gerard pauses and looks Frank over in a calculating manner, before abruptly stating: "Use excessive glitter; it seems to attract the crowds quite well, if the size of your audience earlier was anything to go by. Actually – go in your ringleader costume. Then… do what you do and just lose the clothes as you carry on. No nudity though. This isn’t a porno.”

Frank nods idly, taking in all the information, before walking over to the rail with his usual hip swaying saunter. He slides the costume off the rail and unabashedly begins to change right there and then. Once changed – again, seemingly unaware of how Gerard’s eyes are glued to him – he steps over to the dressing table and sets aside a stick of eyeliner, a tube of mascara and a pot of glitter. He outlines his eyes, strokes gentle and artistic, and the result makes the russet orbs seem huge and lusty. Eyelashes become darker and heavier with mascara, giving his eyes a sleep ruffled and easy look; as if he’d just tumbled out of bed with someone and was willing to tumble right back in if you so much as winked at him.Glitter gathers in the hollows of his collarbone, and swirls down over his chest and stomach.

It’s virtually impossible to keep your eyes from the scantily clad boy, and Gerard knows he’s made the right choice. Sam’s not coming back after tonight, Frank will be able to make much more for him; with his eyes that scream sex and his raunchy demeanor that would make even the most straight-laced homophobic man want to ravish him completely. But that’s what he’s counting on.

“You know how to get to the booths, right?”

Frank nods again, and quickly scoops up his hat and cane, before walking towards the door. The girls have all long gone by now, and he’s feeling uncomfortable being alone in the same room as his boss. He skirts around Gerard, and begins to head down the concrete tunnels towards the booths; completely unaware that Gerard’s green eyes are hungrily following every unintentional swing of his delectable hips as he walks away.

 

***

 

Frank already hates the booth, and he’s only been sat in it for ten minutes. At least on stage, he’s constantly moving, and free to move as he sees fit. Here, he has to wait for some filthy pervert to fucking pay to see him get nearly naked.

The booths are dimly lit, with a pole and chair in each. Gerard never said he couldn’t smoke in here though, so he’s halfway through his second cigarette when someone knocks on the door at the back of the booth and informs him quietly that someone’s paid for thirty minutes. He murmurs back in an affirmative murmur and leans back in this chair, waiting for the tell tale noises of someone settling down in the chair.

He can’t their face – that half of the room is pitch black and a glass pane separates him from them anyway. The music starts, and so Frank slowly takes a slow drag from his cigarette, before blowing out a smoke ring, knowing it made his lips look pouty. He may act like he was unaware of everyone’s eyes always following him, but his mother had been a whore, and she’s taught her effeminate son how to look seductive as if by accident. It had served him well, especially since he’d come out to Vegas.

He ran his hand down his legs slowly, peering up through his lashes at the black room in front of him, giving his faceless audience his best come hither look accompanied by his slow alluring smile. He batted those heavy black lashes, and slowly got up off the chair, and swayed over to the pole, and latching his leg around it coyly. As he began to grind against the pole, he let out a few breathy moans as he very obviously groped himself; sweat began to drip over his chest, cutting streaks through the striking glitter.

He stubs out the cigarette, and breathes out the last of the smoke, losing his coat by letting it fall from his shoulders and shimmying it over his arms. Eventually the red material is piled carelessly on the floor, and hands now free, Frank runs them slowly over his chest, teasing his nipples gently, and then continues, ghosting his fingers over his abdominal muscles. Fingertips brush the thin trail of hair that leads down, and a gasp slides past his lips. Frank realizes that he’s very obviously hard now and decides to play this to the hilt; teasing himself through the cloth and grinning in satisfaction as the pants of the patron slip thorugh the holes in the glass.

“Take… take everything off…”

Frank bites his lip, and tips his head coquettishly. His tongue laps over his lips and he smiles slowly, enjoying the desperate noises that he can hear.

“No can do, sugar. As my boss put it, this isn’t a porno.” He grins playfully and dips his hands just past his waistline.

“Then stop acting like you’re in one.” The voice is raspy with lust and desire and Frank lights up a little more, loving the undivided attention.

He lets his eyelids slide shut over his eyes and shoves his hand past the waistline, palming his erection, and letting a loud moan glide past his wet lips. His hat’s abandoned on the floor, his cane’s propped up next to the chair and his coat’s crumpled by the pole, but all Frank can focus on is the heavy breathing from the other side of the glass and the way his member is aching with pure need.

Deciding the trousers need to go, Frank begins to tug them down his legs, all the while making sure to give his audience a show to remember – moaning and grinding against the pole, whilst twisting and shaking his hips to let the cloth slide down to his ankles. He slips the trousers over his ankles; and now only clad in black silk boxers, he crawls seductively up to the glass and runs his eyes into the darkness that faces him as if he was running his eyes over someone attractive. He winks, and then stands quickly but gracefully and begins to dance.

It’s subtle and slow at first, swaying gently in time to the music, until he begins to lose himself within it. Then he starts to run his hands all over his body in the filthiest manner he can muster and twirls with abandon, submitting to the music and the moans from the darkened room. The lights in his booth dim, just as he hears a groan from the other side of the glass that he can only assume was made because whoever was his little audience just came. Hard.

And in the darkness, Gerard Way smiles in satisfaction, chest heaving, enjoying the afterglow caused by the infatuating glitter doused boy. Frank is fucking perfect for the job. He knew it.

 

*** 

 

Frank was sitting in his favourite armchair, thinking about how he’d been stripping for about a month now, and was still surprised at himself at how much he enjoyed teasing the helpless sod in front of him. He couldn’t see any of their expressions, but the noises were often enough alone to make him want to fuck them senseless.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear his head of thoughts like that. If anyone caught him even thinking about it – well, he’d damn well be imprisoned, or worse, carted off to the asylum. And no one ever came out of those places the same. If they came out at all. Sometimes, he was grateful that he couldn’t see his audience.

The clock informed him that the time was twenty to six – he’d have to leave in a couple of minutes, to make sure he got there on time. Gerard was always on his ass about every damn thing recently, even though he knew some of the female dancers were whoring about again – something they weren’t supposed to do – and that the bouncers were lazy and fairly useless. And yet Gerard gave him hell about three minutes late! The club hadn’t even opened. The bouncers weren’t even there yet! It made him want to punch his boss then slide to his knees and - no.

Remember, he cursed himself, might end up in the asylum. He didn’t want shock treatment – or worse. He wasn’t sure how it got worse than forcing an electrical current through your brain, but apparently, there was much more severe horrors that haunted the halls of those places.

Apart from the dressing down he got at the beginning of every shift, he didn’t see that much of Gerard. Usually the green-eyed man milled around, making sure everything was in its correct place, including them, the dancers. At the end of the day, he all but owned them, and they were treated as such. But recently, he’d hardly seen him. It was odd. He mused as to why that would be; even if they were Gerard’s “possessions” they were still his biggest pull and made his club different from the others, and the man often spent a little time with them every week or so.

Even if was just twenty minutes each week; in order to maintain his unshakeable faith that he had the prefect troupe that complimented each other and worked brilliantly as a unit. Eventually deciding not to bother pondering about why Gerard was avoiding their dressing room, Frank glanced at the clock again and groaned out loud at what he saw. He’d been so lost in thought that he’d failed to realize that ten minutes had slid past and he was late leaving his flat.

He was supposed to be there at quarter past six, and it took him half an hour to get to the damn place. “Unlucky For Some”. Fucking unlucky for me was Frank’s final thought as he stumbled out of his front door. He hurried down the street; grateful he didn’t have to bring anything with him.

 

***

“Frank! You’re late! Again!”

Frank sighs at the usual yelling he got from Gerard, and bobs his head to show he had acknowledged the taller man’s rant. Before he had starting dancing in the booths, Gerard hadn’t even noticed he was alive – barring watching him dance on stage every now and then to make sure his performance was up to scratch – but now, the green-eyed man was harassing him every damn day.

After absent-mindedly listening to his boss’ repetitive rant for a few minutes, he mumbled his half assed apology and made his escape. He slides into the familiar concrete tunnels and walks quickly towards the dressing room, being greeted with the familiar simpering smiles and emphasized chests of the female dancers. Frank nods politely toward them all, before sauntering over to the rail with his usual costume.

He supposed every other man would have loved to be in his position, with eight highly attractive women ready to spread their legs for him, but Frank (privately – very, very privately) found them mildly repulsive. Frank begins his nightly ritual: costume, hat and cane to be followed by the make-up. But he’s not sure if he can be bothered to slather himself in glitter just yet. He can hear all the footfalls and voices of the various other employees as they scurry past the door, dancing into the endless abyss that resides under the (in)famous club. There's only an hour until the club opens, the minutes slinking by in a continuous motion, and the footsteps speeding up as the minutes dwindle. He can faintly hear Gerard yelling at what sounds like some of the bouncers, and the dealers muttering amongst themselves. Frank’s not particularly surprised by the snatches of conversation he can hear about double dealing; after all, this is a club, and money needs to be made.

And it’s not like Gerard’s the most… law-abiding boss in Nevada.

A loud knock jolts Frank out of his reverie and all the dancers – the women had finally “dressed” themselves in their skimpy outfits – looked towards the door to see Gerard leaning against the doorframe, with his signature smirk on his features. Of course, the bloody females start to pout and bat their lashes, and Frank wants nothing more to stick his head in a bin and empty his guts several times. Their boss doesn’t look even mildly ruffled by the attention lavished on him; his green eyes stay utterly calm and professional, with the air of a man who had spent much of his adult life looking at half naked women and their no doubt inviting bedroom eyes. But instead, his gaze seeks out the boy in the ringleader coat slumped at the dressing table.

“Frank?” A slight incline of Gerard’s head told Frank that this was not going to be a group conversation.

Russet eyes meet the green ones, and part of Frank screams at him to stay in his seat and hold whatever conversation Gerard wants right there, in front of the brightly lit mirror and the eight women. But Gerard seems to want him to step outside with him, and the rational part of Frank’s brain is begging him to consider the consequences of being alone with a man that could land him in an asylum or with a lengthy prison sentence. He’d always thought his boss was attractive – ugly, sinful, dangerous thoughts – but up until recently, it hadn’t been a problem. He’d interacted with a number of truly stunning men in his twenty-one years, and concealing the disgusting part of himself had quickly becomes second nature, essential to survival. But dancing in that booth, removing nearly every last stitch of clothing from his body, grinding and touching himself to an anonymous audience he could only hear… It had awakened something inside him, something that he’d never been able to explore before and suddenly his control was that little bit harder to cling to.

The green-eyed man coughed once and Frank’s head snapped up and he gracefully rose from the seat and walked over to his boss, hips moving in that rhythmic action that drew so many spectators into the club. The younger man peered up at Gerard through his lashes, and tipped his head to the side, giving the illusion he was giving the taller man his undivided attention. Gerard’s mouth twitched, fully enjoying the show Frank was (apparently) unconsciously giving him. He simply nodded his head towards the door again before striding out; Frank immediately following him. The small boy leant against the cold concrete walls – not that he noticed the temperature down here anymore – and dug a packet of cigarettes out of one of the coat’s numerous pockets, and drew a packet of matches out of another. The cancer stick is withdrawn from the pack smoothly and placed between pouty lips, before the match is lit and flickers, and then the cigarette is smoking. Smoke curls from the pout, and russet eyes are just about illuminated by the lit end.

Gerard’s eyes run over the delectable body in front of him, the intense gaze fixating one some of his favourite features – the inviting of hollows of Frank’s hips that were begging to be gripped, the plump lower lip that Gerard wanted to bite on so desperately and the delicate ink dyed into that smooth olive skin that he wanted to trace his fingers over like nothing else. Frank was so dainty, like a doll, but at the same time he was captivating, demanding all of Gerard’s attention every time he was nearby. And as much as he wanted the tempting man in front of him – damn it being illegal and wrong – he knew he couldn’t risk everything he’d worked so hard for, just because of his heady lust.

At the same time, his mind was imploring him to press his lips to the pretty pair that belonged to Frank and take him against the cold concrete wall, right here and now. This club was his own little world, and he controlled every single part of it, except the want for the smaller boy in front of him. But what he wanted was immoral in the world outside the walls of this place. It could place him and the dancer in a ridiculous amount of danger, just by the action of giving him a chaste kiss.

So, rather than acting on his hidden attraction, he leant against the wall and drew a cigarette from his pocket. He flicked the tip against Frank’s lit one, and then placed the cancer stick in his mouth, letting the smoke swirl down into his lungs, and felt a sinking weight in his stomach. He’d seduced men before, and then killed them after he got what he wanted.

But he didn’t want that for Frank.

“You look like you’re thinking hard.” The velvet voice from the pouty lips surprised him, but he grinned down at Frank, letting himself trace his eyes over the delicate features next to him.

“Just a little.”

“Wanna tell me why I’m standing in this freezing tunnel instead of coating myself in glitter and mascara for the show?”

Gerard knew he had a reason for bringing Frank out here, but he couldn’t quite remember; too hooked on the other man’s beauty. He felt like punching himself in the face – he’d taken so many attractive men before and never had these… ridiculous feelings for someone else. It was, quite frankly, terrible for his reputation. And yet, despite being in the business where stunning half naked men were plenty, Gerard had never been truly ruffled by one single man in all his time of running clubs, bar and casinos. He’d seen hundreds of strips shows – some increasingly more explicit that the ones Frank performed – and never gotten further than lust. So what was so different about the boy in front of him?

“Yeah, I considering putting together a more… commercial… strip show – rather than having just having the booths, having a show on the stage.”

“And let me guess, you wanted me to take part in this.” Frank drawled, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips and taking a drag. Gerard's eyes were caught on the motion for a split second, before he took a quick breath and continued.

“Actually, I wanted you to be the main performer.” One of Frank’s perfectly groomed eyebrows lifts, but inside his mind was tumbling and spinning. A month ago, he would of considered punching Gerard in the face for this proposition, but now, the recently awakened exhibitionist in him desperately wanted to flaunt himself on that stage and revel in the attention that would be lavished upon him. Every eye in the place, following his every move with lust glazing the watching orbs… It was beginning to make him hard.

Which was a really bad idea in front of the boss-you’re secretly but definitely not supposed to be attracted to. Sticking around was no longer an option, no matter how much he wanted to stay around Gerard. So, instead, he nods and lets that smile slide on his features, before turning and walking away from his green-eyed boss, making his hips do the familiar and bewitching sway. At the dressing room door, he pauses and looks over his shoulder. He sees Gerard still standing there, cigarette in hand and so Frank bats his lashes at his boss, and then slides into the dressing room without seeing the reaction.

Gerard curses. His lack of attention led him to ignore the cigarette, which burnt his fingers. Damn Frank and his distracting hips.

 

***

It is, for once, quiet in the club, but then Frank supposes he doesn’t usually end up being here until three in the morning. Then again, he doesn’t usually do three shows in one night. He kind of misses the days where he just did one damn dance and buggered off home again. At the same time though, he has a feeling all the newfound exhibition-ism is making his control slip. And he doesn’t seem to care.He’s disgusting, he’s a pervert, he’s a sexual predator, and he can’t bring himself to care. He wants men – he wants Gerard. A man whom is undoubtedly straight and likely to have him arrested for being a sexual deviant.

The dressing room is empty apart from him, and he curses the irritating glitter. The silence is creeping him out a little, and whilst he’s no wimp, the eeriness of the usually bustling club is making his skin crawl. His very exposed skin, actually, his whole costume (barring the black silk boxers) was currently being hung on the rail. So, the knock on the door makes him jump out of the chair he’s perched on, and fall on to the floor. A chuckle rings out into the dressing room and Frank is confronted with green eyes, lit up with mirth. Gerard extends a hand to the scantily clad Frank, and pulls him off of the cold floor.

Frank purrs his thanks, and then turns back to the mirror and continues with the brave task of removing the glitter. The green-eyed man watches the muscles shift under Frank’s decorated skin, and the silence of the air in both the dressing room and beyond makes Gerard reckless. He wants that pretty skin under his hands, he wants the gorgeous boy in front of him to yield to him and he wants those perfect plump lips pressed up against his. And he’s always gotten what he wants. Frank’s body is practically singing to him, and Gerard lets the last of his control slide away, abandoning all possible consequences.

He strides towards the alluring dancer, spins him around by the shoulders and crushes lips together frantically. Frank’s pout collides with Gerard’s smirk, and the two pairs of lips mesh, skin sliding over skin, nerves frazzling with both need and intent. Gerard’s move slower, testing the dancer’s reaction, but Frank gives everything into the kiss, allowing Gerard’s now wet mouth to lead and loving the feeling of hunger that runs thorough the pair of them. Every inch of skin Gerard touches sends another shiver down Frank’s spine – a reminder that this is perversion, but is a guilty pleasure that can’t be ignored – and the boss begins to back Frank towards the dressing table and pressing kisses down his neck. The smaller man can feel Gerard’s hot breath being panted onto his neck, and all he wants is for Gerard to keep kissing him until he melts.

The green-eyed man sweeps all the make-up off the crowded dressing table in a frantic gesture, and all the tubes and pots and bottles tumble and clatter onto the floor, the product they once held bleeding across the floor. Pale hands lift Frank onto the cleared dressing table, and Gerard wraps Frank’s effeminate legs around his waist. Frank groans softly at the feeling of Gerard's hard cock presed against his stomach, and tugs the more defined, but still delicate, body of Gerard closer by tightening his legs around the other man’s hips. Gerard runs his hands over Frank’s inked skin with desperation, needing to feel the younger man’s compliance. Wanting to take the boy for himself, he began to ghost his hands lower and lower, over Frank’s chest and then his abdomen, until he was tracing the outline of Frank's cock through his black boxers. Frank feels Gerard’s fingers dip below his waistband and the realization of what he’s doing shoots though his head like a bullet.

He’s kissing a man, he’s filthy and tainted and perverted, but he couldn’t help himself, and Gerard’s leaning back in to capture his lips again, and he can’t help himself, he can’t, this is a drug he wants, and it could kill them both. The mesmerizing sensation of Gerard’s lips against his almost make him want to abandon any fear, any shame, but he can’t bring himself to – this is a man, it’s Gerard and, no, he can’t. Not to either of them. But he wants to, oh god, he wants to.

He moves his hands up over Gerard’s hips and slides them over his boss' sides, knowing this could be the last chance to touch the delicious man he’s wrapped around. Once his tiny palms reach Gerard’s pectorals, he knows his time is up.He shoves against his boss as hard as he can, letting his lips go reluctantly, and the green-eyed man stumbles back, eyes lit with lust and confusion.

“I’m not a whore.” Frank’s face is earnest and flushed, eyes betraying how he feels about the stunning specimen of a man in front of him. Gerard smirks, seeing the desire and desperation writhing in the russet eyes facing him, before he steps closer to the dancer again and presses their lips together in the most bone melting kiss either has ever experienced. Both men moan, and press their bodies together again. Frank’s head was a mess on conflicted thoughts and feelings. Lust, panic, desire, fear, frustration, disgust; all were squirming through his mind, each one trying to win out and convince him what to do. It was made more difficult by Gerard’s body being so close and the revolting throbbing between his legs that the hideous actions were causing. Fear and panic won out – a lifetime living in a homophobic society overruled his carnality.

“NO! I’m not a whore, Gerard, I’m not!” And, with that, he ran past the stunned (and stunning) man in front of him an down the cold concrete tunnels that lay in the underbelly of Vegas' most infamous club.

Chapter Text

Frank had forgotten how beautiful the Strip was. The desert was bright from the glaring sun, and the warm air was a chorus of delirious shrieks and disappointed groans, accompanied by the constant clinking of coins.

 

The afternoon was balmy, with only a hint of a breeze to take away the humidity. Not that Frank really noticed. He’d been living out here for a good seven years now, and mundane details such as the weather made little or no difference to him anymore.

 

His feet lead him up the glamorous Strip by default, and without noticing, he’d ended up outside “Unlucky For Some”. He wondered for a moment whether his unconscious was telling him to talk to Gerard – Mr. Way, any kind of familiarity could put some suspicion on both of them, particularly as the green-eyed boss was notorious for treating his employees like they were his toys – and try to secure his job.

 

Part of him cringed at the thought of having to face the hauntingly beautiful man, and yet another – utterly insane – part of him was coiling in excitement at seeing his pretty boss.

 

How awkward a conversation would that be? Oh hey there, Gerard, Mr. Way, whatever, I’m sorry I haven’t been dancing and stripping like a whore for you in the last week, but you see, your incredible kiss gave me such a disgusting erection that it took a week for me to rub out. Also, the damn memory of it has me fleeing for a bathroom, so you know. That’s why I’ve been calling in sick.

 

Not fucking likely. He’d rather die than have to admit the disgusting hold that his boss had over him.

 

So Frank just looked at the club for another minute, taking it in from a tourist’s view. It wasn’t currently lit up, the light being wasted as the desert sun beat down on the Strip, but red paint coats the front rather the usual white, and has been decorated with snake-eyed dice and crumbling stacks of poker chips, accompanied by paintings of shady looking dealers and suggestively posed dancers.

 

It seemed the club was promoting loss and lust, rather than the usual glory and prizes, but the whole scene drew Frank in, without him registering it. The building had a dangerous air about it, and it openly tempted anyone with the nerve to taste what it was like to be seduced by the very best.

 

It was a good reflection on Mr. Bloody Way actually – it was dark and captivating, and hinted slyly at being predatory. The memory of green eyes flashing with dark lust sent shivers down Frank’s spine and chills shuddering thorough his stomach, the competing feelings of desire and fear still spinning and twirling his head. He shook his head irritably, and dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, before he averted his eyes from the lewd gaze of the painted dancers and walked away.

 

“Frank!”

 

The mentioned man’s head snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice. Quick footsteps rush up behind him, and a hand is laid on his shoulder. Frank turned slowly and is faced with the green eyes that had poured through his mind like liquid lust only moments ago.

 

Then he recalled that those eyes are attached to and part of his boss. The one he’s trying to avoid. He steps away.

 

“You don’t look very sick.”

 

To be fair, he hadn’t been.

 

“Well, I am.”

 

He didn’t really mean physically. The unspoken “and you are too” hung uncomfortably in the air between the two men.

 

Mr. Way’s eyes raked over him, with the absence of lust and with a sense of shrewd examination. Every inch of Frank’s skin – tattooed or otherwise – prickled under the probing gaze, but he kept his head up and his eyes defiant. The uneasy feeling still lingered over his body after the intense look, and Frank wondered what the hugely unpredictable man in front of him was going to do.

 

After a moment, the green eyed boss chuckled, but once again gripped Frank’s shoulder and guided him forcibly back towards the club. The smaller man squirmed, but Mr. Way only tightened his grip and nodded at the black clad doorman to push open the gothic, grandiose doors that led inside.

 

It was dimly lit, plush and luxurious as always, but had more people floating around the space than Frank had expected for the middle of the day. The tables that were usually pushed up against the walls had been put together in the middle of the room, and a skinny man was slumped in one of the seats, smoking a cigar and surrounded by brawny men. A card game had apparently been in attendance, from what Frank could see; complete with similar stacks of money either side of the table and glasses with amber coloured liquor in them.

 

The scene was something to be expected from a casino in Las Vegas, for fuck’s sake, but Frank’s gut told him there was a dangerous hint to this seemingly innocent little meeting.

 

“Gerard! Are you coming back here to let me take all your money, or do I have to have one of my boys here take it by force?”

 

Frank glanced at one of the men standing near the burly guy, his nasty hunch proved right when he saw a revolver strapped to the guy he was peering at. The man slumped in the seat had spoken, and Frank could begin to feel fear prickle his skin and he wanted nothing more to leave this bloody building.

 

“Of course I am, Bert. Let me just talk to my employee for a few moments.”

 

Mr. Way’s voice is smooth and controlled. The man in the seat – Bert – turned in his chair and glanced at the casino owner a moment, before letting his gaze sink to Frank. The smaller man began to feel a little violated after only a moment, when the man’s initially intrigued gaze became heated and lewd.

 

“He better be a special fucking employee.”

 

Bert licked his lips slightly and Mr. Way’s voice matched the perverted gaze Frank had been subjected to seconds ago.

 

“Oh, he is.”

 

The sudden – and increasingly – predatory look he was getting from both of the men filled Frank’s stomach with apprehension, and the unwavering certainty he was going to be forced to perform some risqué act. Mr. Way’s hand clenched around Frank’s shoulder once more, and he spun Frank towards the door that led to the concrete tunnels.

 

Once there, he faced Frank, and looked at him seriously at him for a moment, although there were wisps of hunger tainting the professional mask.

 

“I want you to change into your work outfit and strip for Bert and his company.”

 

Frank opened his mouth to protest, but he was shoved against the wall, green eyes boring into his, and soft lips hanging inches from Frank’s own. He began to lean in closer, making Frank’s breath catch, before moving to Frank’s throat, and sliding his nose down the olive skin.

 

Mr. Way glanced up from where he’d buried his face in the hollow of Frank’s throat and grinned manically, and bit down. The action caused the smaller man to squirm helplessly, and the writhing was made worse when the boss began to suck the spot he’d bitten.

 

Then he abruptly stopped, and straightened up. He caressed the side of Frank’s face for a moment, taking in the sight of dilated pupils and the thin sheen of sweat on the boy in front of him. He grinned and kissed Frank’s forehead briefly, before looking him in the eye, once again conveying his position as the man in charge.

 

“Any problems?”

 

The tone was hard and guarded. Frank looked into Mr. Way – Gerard’s – eyes and found none of what he’d seen moments before. He shook his head mutely.

 

“Good. And cover that mark up.”

 

Frank knew what he meant; he could feel where he’d been bitten because the spot was throbbing pleasantly – not unlike his member, he realized belatedly. Mr. Way scanned over Frank, licking along his lower lip absent-mindedly when the saw the bulge in Frank’s trousers.

 

Frank was pressed up against the wall again before he knew what was happening, and all he could register was the warmth and solidity of his boss’ body, and the hand that was cupping his cock. Then that hand began to palm him through his trousers and Frank whined and scrabbled at the green-eyed man’s shoulders.

 

“Mr. Way…”

 

The filthy moan that is ripped from Frank’s mouth only caused the other man to press harder, and kiss Frank equally earnestly.

 

“No one’s here, Frankie, it’s Gerard, for fucks sake.”

 

Frank wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to his usual easily seductive self, but suddenly, he realizes he’s back in control, that the fear from seeing the revolver is gone, and that he can charm his dangerous audience outside the way he can with every other audience he’s performed to.

 

He pushed Gerard away from him (internally squirming at the decision), and muttered, “I thought you wanted me out there and performing?”

 

Gerard seemed surprised at the sudden rejection, but he smirked anyway and trailed his hand along Frank’s cheekbone, more gently than either of the men expected. Frank pointedly stepped back and turned, walking toward to the familiar dressing room with his back to his boss. He swung his hips as he walks as usual, and let his pretend-natural confidence flow back through him.

 

Once he reached the door of the dressing room, he held the doorframe and turned back towards Gerard, who was still staring at him unabashedly, and winked; relishing the surprise etched on his boss’ face at the action.

 

*

 

He was suitably glittered, and his body bared accordingly. He could do this. He could hear Gerard and his company talking over their game – it sounded amicable, and Frank was only grateful he wasn’t going to be caught in angry verbal (or worse) cross fire – until he heard Gerard talking about the club in his promotion voice, and how he offered the best entertainment for those… “willing to dance down the line of danger and the best sins you can enjoy”.

 

It wasn’t the first time that Frank had heard that line before a performance at the club, and it never failed to make him roll his eyes. Strippers were a dime a fucking dozen – it was Vegas, for crying out loud – but Gerard had to make it sound like there was going to be fucking unicorns on stage with them.

 

Bert also seemed amused at Gerard’s words, but from backstage, Frank could hear the challenge in Gerard’s words when he offered to show Bert what exactly his entertainment consisted of. There was a pause, and then he heard a guffaw of laughter and Bert consenting to sample what “Unlucky For Some” had on offer, with a mocking tone curling unpleasantly around the words.

 

There was a sudden snap of fingers and Frank recognized the music that swelled from the speakers, as well as his cue to enter the stage.

 

He was in his element almost instantly – he sashayed over to the pole, making sure his hips swayed in the most alluring manner possible. He latched a leg around the pole, before he flashed his audience a coy look from under his eyelashes, before letting his lips curl up in the most innocent manner he could fashion. He twirled around the pole, grinding against the cold metal, and letting a moan slide past his lips.

 

Frank had decided not to fix the erection Gerard had left him with, and now he playing it to the hilt, palming himself and tipping his hips forward, and groaning quietly. He could feel the sweat sliding down over his chest, leaving lines of his tattooed flesh streaking through the glitter.

 

The coat slid off his shoulders, and he rolled his shoulders, and quickly spun, so his back and ass was on display to his little audience. He continued to sway his hips in time with the music, twisting just so, so that the muscles in his back flexed and the glitter shimmered in the lights over the stage.

 

Inked hands slid down over the rapidly warming metal of the pole, and Frank’s body followed them down, until he was on his haunches, ass being showcased in the tight black shorts that he wore. His rocked his hips back and forth, turning his head to wink at the captivated audience, and slid his fingers under the waistband teasingly.

 

The music cut suddenly, and Frank smirked slyly into the darkened club in front of him, before sloping off the stage, blowing a kiss as he approached the wings. Once off the stage, he paused and caught his breath slightly. He used to hate performing like a whore. Now he couldn’t get enough.

 

He wondered idly about why the music had been shut off before he’d completed his routine as he went down the steps that led him back to the tunnels from the stages wings. He’d made it back to the dressing room before he came up with two scenarios; one more likely than the other. The first was that Gerard was only sticking to his word, and only giving Bert a taste of what the club had to offer. The second was that Gerard was jealous.

 

Frank shook his head at his silly ideas and closed the dressing room door; feeling glad that he could cover himself up and go home now.

 

*

 

Frank was glad and, at the same time, oddly disappointed to be out of his “uniform” and back in his usual clothes. In a fit of unusual laziness however, he had neglected to remove all the glitter, so his arms and face still shimmered slightly under the blinding lights of the mirror he was facing.

 

He looked tired. Tired and worn out. He tried flashing a bright smile, the kind he used on stage to encourage everyone to tip his little show, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He shook his head, and quickly flipped the mirror lights off, and went to leave the dressing room, but the sound of slightly raised voices just outside of the room stopped him.

 

“C’mon Gerard. I’ll offer you a nice little amount for one night with the boy. One night.”

 

Frank felt dread pool in his stomach at the thought of having to be… with the skinny man. Even for a night. He couldn’t hear Gerard’s response, and suddenly, he felt pure terror. Frank knew he wouldn’t be able to fight off Gerard, let alone all the security the skinny man had bought with him, and if Gerard gave his consent… 

 

He couldn’t hear Gerard’s reply, the tone too low for Frank to catch the words. He didn’t seem to be explicitly agreeing, butBert’s answer was booming, full of laughter and that alone made Frank think his boss hadn’t exactly prohibited the suggestion either. He glanced around the now dark room, hoping to find an escape, but the damn tunnels were underground, and the only way out was the door.

 

The door which Gerard and Bert were having a discussion about whoring Frank out to grease Gerard’s palm behind. Frank felt sick, the dread in his stomach quickly becoming nausea, and he had to swallow, hard, to keep his attention on the conversation between his boss andBert.

 

Suddenly, there was a crash.

 

It sounded like someone was being thrown against the door, and both Bert and Gerard’s voices could be heard through the door without Frank even straining his ears.

 

“This is a club and casino! Not a brothel for personal needs! I’m going to have to decline your offer Bert, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises. Now.”

 

“I think you’re fucking forgetting who the hell supplies this place, Gerard!I want that boy on his fucking knees for me, and if I don’t get him for the night, let’s just say some nasty shit might happen to your precious little club and casino.”

 

There was a long pause. Each second seemed to make the air a little thicker, and Frank found it harder and harder to breathe with ever passing second.

 

Frank felt the panic and bile rising in his throat desperately, clawing at his chest cavity and churning his guts, all whilst he was unable to move from his spot in the darkened dressing room. His breath alternated between frantic gasps of fear to a chilling lack of breath, and in his blind fear he’s not sure which is worse.

 

The continued silence from behind the door kept filling Frank with dread. His boss seemed to be stuck in a Catch 22; yet there was no relenting murmur, like Frank expected to hear.

 

Instead, Gerard was talking rapidly, again the tone too low for Frank to catch what he’s saying, but he could take an educated guess. They’d probably be arranging prices, dates, fucking motel addresses for Frank’s little whoring session. He wasn’t fucking stupid. Bosses didn’t risk their businesses for the pole-humping stage-sluts like him. He was utterly expendable.

 

He might as well open the door, get on his knees and open his mouth immediately.

 

Until he heard the words “plenty of fucking hookers on the fucking Strip, and you want the one boy that brings in the most fucking revenue for me” leave Gerard’s mouth.

 

The sickening sound of a fist smashing into someone’s face bled through the door, and Frank tensed in terror. If Bert’s men had apprehended Gerard, Frank wasn’t going to be whored out simply for the night. He was going to end up as the huge man’s personal sex slave until he was bored, and then he was going to end up in dumpster in a back alleyway.

 

A sudden roar made Frank nearly jump out of his skin. When he realizes who’s doing the yelling, however, he nearly buckled with relief.

 

“You might supply the place, Bert, but that boy is my main fucking attraction, and if he’s driven away by your fucking predatory” – the word was spat out – “needs, both of our businesses are going to suffer!”

 

“I can find other places that’ll be willing to do business with me – you always forget that you’re not the only club that deals with me, Gerard. What you’re going to find is that the only suffering that’s going to happen here will be on your behalf; when I burn this place to the ground and smash your reputation.”

 

From what Frank can hear through the door, Bert’s tone has that self-assured ring to it – the one of a person who is certain they’ve won. Gerard’s silence says it all.

 

The door swung open.

 

Frank managed to catch Gerard’s eye through the crack of door – his boss’ face is composed, but there’s a tensed muscle in his jaw that gives away how he feels about this whole thing. The next thing he knew, Bert nods his head, and two of his huge bodyguards have Frank under their arm and they walk past Gerard’s tensed body, into the settling gloom of dusk.