Hold both hands right over my eyes, deafen me with music [3/10]

[mitsubishievo]

It was lazy, and early enough that the crowd wasn't very big, and Kavinsky was jittery with nerves. Newt hadn't actually said when he was coming, just that he was, and that was half of the appeal of this. At the same time, Kavinsky wished he had a little bit of something to go off of, a little foundation so he could quite fidgeting between sets.

He checked his phone. Nothing since he'd told Newt that he was heading into work.

All he could do was do his job, he supposed. And it was his turn to get up there, to be consumable, to be desirable. Kavinsky liked doing this. He knew it kept him good and honest. The attention boiled under his skin pleasantly, the control he had of when and how he showed himself off. And, if he was honest, he liked this variety of showing off.

His music started. He let the anxiety of not knowing if and when Newt was coming wash away as he started to dance.

Comments

[thebloodyglue]

Newt slips into the club and Kavinsky's already up on stage. There's not much skin on show, yet, so he hasn't been up there for long. Newt takes his time, doesn't head for the stage straight away. First, he buys himself a drink, watches his husband for a distance before he wanders closer and takes a seat where he's sure Kavinsky will be able to pick him out.

[mitsubishievo]

There were enough people that worked here that had seen Newt come to watch Kavinsky that the waitresses would keep Newt's drink full if he wanted it.

Kavinsky saw Newt shortly after his shirt came off, and his heart fluttered in his chest. He kept dancing, paid equal focus to everyone that was paying attention to his stage, but his eyes kept glancing back toward where Newt had put himself.

He worked his way around, teasingly easing his clothes down, down, a temptation as much as a promise.

[thebloodyglue]

Newt sips his drink, cold and a little harsh, and he watches Kavinsky strip and there's a flicker of warmth in his belly at the thought of the others watching him and knowing that he'd seen him already, that he could see him anytime he wanted.

He sips his drink. He doesn't look away.

[mitsubishievo]

Eventually, Kavinsky ended up in front of Newt. He lingered no more briefly, nor longer, in front of him as he did in front of anyone else. His hips moved, a filthy gyration that Newt had watched him practice more times than he'd watched him perform.

He stripped off his pants, down to tight, dark red shorts underneath. He licked his lips, and started to move on.

[thebloodyglue]

A smile catches the corner of Newt's mouth, but he makes no move to make Kavinsky stay in front of him - not in this moment, anyway. Half the game is that feeling that they don't know each other - that, right now, he's no more important than any other patron.

[mitsubishievo]

So Kavinsky slipped away. He worked around. People tipped him, and he leaned in and flirted with them, even the women. He danced, on the floor of the stage he was on, and on the pole. And when his music ended, he blew kisses to a couple people that had tipped him particularly well, and then slipped off the stage for someone else to move up, and so he could slip his jeans back on.

[thebloodyglue]

Newt finds himself watching Kavinsky move around the club, watches him put his jeans back on. When he passes close enough, Newt reaches out and brushes his fingers against the back of Kavinsky's hand.

"How much for a lap dance?"

[mitsubishievo]

A shiver worked its way up Kavinsky's arm from the brush of Newt's fingers. He sounded just a touch different in the din of the club. Kavinsky put on a polite, personable, professional face. His voice was slinky.

"Strip tease or just the shorts, sir?"

[thebloodyglue]

Newt pretends to think about it for a moment.

"Strip."

[mitsubishievo]

"Eighty," Kavinsky said, easily, hurting just a little that he was going to quote his husband the rates he'd give any other wandering eye in this club. "Plus whatever you want to tip."

[thebloodyglue]

"Alright," says Newt, eyebrows raised a little, but it's not he can't afford it. "And what exactly does that get me?"

[mitsubishievo]

"Private booth, and a full strip," Kavinsky said. He looked at Newt through his eyelashes, the fall of sweat-damp hair. He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans a little and dragged them down, just to show the cut of his hips a little more. "No touching except for tips."

[thebloodyglue]

He loves Kavinsky's hipbones and he knows that Kavinsky knows it and it's all he can do, in that moment, not to look up at him and smile.

"Sounds fair," he says.

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky smiled, that playful, still professional smile. He pointed to one of the bouncers near the bar. "You pay him, and he'll get you set up in a booth. What are you drinking? I'll get us something from the bar, sir."

When he was giving a lapdance was one of the only times he was allowed to drink on the clock. People tended to tip better. He wasn't worried about it with Newt.

[thebloodyglue]

Newt knocks back the rest of his drink and holds out the empty glass, ensuring that their fingers brush when Kavinsky takes it.

"Scotch," he says. "I'll be waiting." He turns to the bouncer and goes ahead to get himself situated.

[mitsubishievo]

It took a couple minutes. He got Newt his scotch, got himself a shot of tequila at the bar and then a second tequila sour to drink in the booth. The bouncer pointed him over, and Kavinsky made sure to put his shirt on before he went. It wasn't much of a strip tease if he was only wearing the jeans, shorts, and a jockstrap.

He smiled as he came into the booth, shutting the little screen that blocked them from the main room of the club. He handed over the scotch. "Do you want some music?"

[thebloodyglue]

It raises heat under Newt's collar when the game keeps going even when they're in private. He takes the Scotch, takes a sip and makes himself comfortable in the booth.

"Sure."

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky chewed on his lip a little bit. He wanted to kiss Newt, wanted to laugh about how ridiculous they were both being. Newt had just paid eighty dollars to see something he got to see any time he wanted to. That, in itself, was sort of thrilling.

He pulled his phone out and hooked it up to an auxiliary jack, putting on some music and letting it thrum in the background. He sipped his drink and smiled, coming over to Newt's chair and starting to dance for him.

[thebloodyglue]

"No touching, right?" says Newt, his fingers curling loosely against his thigh as he leans back in the chair and watches Kavinsky dance. It feels ridiculous that he's paid to watching his husband dance, but it also feels a little bit like he just bought Kavinsky and that makes his head spin.

[mitsubishievo]

"Except to pass tips." It seemed a terrible waste, at the moment, as Kavinsky slunk his way out of his shirt and pressed himself close to Newt. Temptingly close. Teasingly. He looked at Newt through the fall of his hair again, and then offered a soft, flirty smile. "But I don't think the bouncer's looking too close."

[thebloodyglue]

"I bet you're not supposed to shucking say things like that," says Newt, intensely aware of how close Kavinsky's leaning. "Not supposed to tempt people like that."

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky rolled his hips, lazy, obscene. He opened the front of his jeans and moved, gracefully, to grind his ass back, almost against Newt's crotch. He smiled over his shoulder at him.

"I don't need to tell them the bouncer's not looking to tempt them."

[thebloodyglue]

"I bet you don't," says Newt, his fingers just grazing against the sharp jut of one of Kavinsky's hipbones.

[mitsubishievo]

The touch sent a shiver through Kavinsky. It was barely even there, and he felt it light through him like a struck match. He peeled his jeans down, bent at the waist and rudely graceful as he got down to those dark red shorts he danced in, the jock strap peeking over the waist band, under the round curve of his ass.

[thebloodyglue]

Newt takes another sip of his scotch and then touches chilled fingers to the hot skin at the small of Kavinsky's back.

"How often do you let men touch you?"