FAGE Six Pack
Title: Dance Without You
Written for: Chartwilightmom
Written By: BabyPups Whitlock
Rating: M, because of nudity, implied adult situations and fucking language
Summary/Prompt used: Bella, the vampire stripper
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What I Own: Some amazing purple bedding, as seen in Twilight, nine pairs of Chucks, a gaggle of awesome stripper shoes, far too much makeup for one person and a very uppity Siamese cat.
What I don't: Twilight. Despite a physical resembelence, I am not her. If I was I would be rolling around in money and Twilight would have been a WHOLE different situation. I just like to play in her sandbox. I am also not Skylar Grey, Glitch Mob or The White Stripes, just a fan. I'm making no money off this little ditty, just in it for fun.
Authors Note: Hey y'all! I know, its been about 578597 years since I wrote anything, I know! But the magic of FAGE and all of its amazing writers lies in its participants and the incomparable Queen of FAGE, ReadingMama , without whom none of this would be possible. This little ditty was written for CharTwilightMom and I REALLY hope she likes it! Much love, as always to my beloved beta TammyGrrrl who worked her magic on my crazy run on sentences and tense that shifts like a fucking shifty thing. The beautiful beyond compare Life_in_The_Shape_Of_A_Girl made my GORGEOUS banner. Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read and review, your words mean more than you know. As always, much love to my ficwife, SkyChaser.
P.S. ~ Jack White is a God and Skylar Grey is magical.
The air was electric, humming with anticipation and a low buzz of breathy, almost whispered words, mostly inaudible under the heavy bass that nearly shook the walls. Figures move through the inky blackness with a nearly unnatural grace, adeptly sidestepping chairs, tables and each other, Cheshire grins offered briefly in passing.
I watch the spectacle apart from it for the moment, perched unseen behind the private bar on the second level of the spacious club. My eyes dance over the raucous crowd and I bite back a throaty laugh. Cloaked in darkness that only my preferred hiding place could provide, I sip my drink, more for show than anything. The concoction reminds me of nothing more than an effervescent mixture of bubble gum and junkie piss, served over ice, because the low temperature wasn't nearly chilly enough as it was. Crunching down on an ice cube, a smile tugs at my lips as I spot a familiar mussed head of blonde hair by the entrance.
Almost on cue, the lanky man glances up toward my hiding place and gives an almost imperceptible smirk, nothing more than a twitch at the corner of his lips, as his gold hued eyes meet my own crimson ones. A brief nod of my head and I duck back behind the fake velvet curtain. Downing the rest of my foul beverage in one swallow, I drop the glass on the bar top and head down the rather unnerving spiral staircase, thankful for its emptiness.
Ducking into a room roughly the size of a carton of take-out Chinese, I grab my bag and drop onto a rickety stool and set to work. My fingers dance lightly over the array of brushes and pots that sit on the cramped surface, the familiar tools a comfort, though their use a bit different from the usual.
Practiced strokes, perfected over several years, blend seamlessly with each other as the minutes tick by, smooth pale skin defined with a tweak of a wrist here, a dab of powder there. A canvas of sorts, a display of all the things that made girls, girls: tricks of light, drawing the eye here as opposed to there. Creating an image of perfection when perfection cannot actually be attained. Well, not by anyone human, anyway.
Narrowing my eyes, I scrutinize the image that is reflected in the slightly warped mirror in front of me: pale skin, flawless under even the unforgiving neon lights above, charcoal rimmed eyes, the shades of gray playing against each other to create depth and shadows where there aren't. Voluminous black lashes frame wide eyes, irises a deep crimson, matching the full lips almost exactly. A smile pulls at the lips and they part, revealing straight, almost preternaturally white teeth. It's more than a bit unnerving, to be honest. Looking in a mirror and seeing an image reflected there that is you and not you at the same time.
The echoes of cheers drift through the closed door to my ears, a not exactly subtle hint that I need to get my ass moving. Standing quickly, I strip out of my well-worn jeans and tee shirt, shoving them, as well as my battered and scarred Chuck Taylors into the hockey bag that sat at my feet before removing the black garment bag that hung in a warped pink locker. The garment inside is lush, custom made by Miss Esme, who never let an item leave her shop any less than flawless. That woman is amazing and more dedicated to her craft than one woman has a right to be. Her prices are exorbitant but well worth it, if you can afford them, and I can. A touch of black lace and a whole lot of black leather, it's far beyond my usual choice for an ensemble but it works. Slipping into the items, I work quickly yet reverently, knowing the care that had gone into the dress. Perching back on the stool, I wind a black satin garter twice above my ankle, carefully twisting a group of bills inside it, in a bizarre corsage, the stiff, fresh twenties and fifties standing out in sharp contrast to pale, smooth skin. I step into my shoes, a favorite pair by far, black patent leather shining in single straps around my ankle and over my toes, an almost delicate contrast to the two inch platform and six inch heel, bringing my height up to a nearly respectable five-foot-ten. Carefully arranging my hair into a knot at the back of my head and securing it with a black pin, I take a last glance in the mirror and an unnecessarily deep breath. It's Show Time.
Quickly descending the spiral staircase, I catch a quick glimpse at the audience through the parted curtains. The tip rail crowded and then some, standing room only beyond that with the exception of the curtained off alcoves for private dances. A glance up at the VIP level reveals more of the same, flashes of skin and a nearly hallucinogenic combination of platinum blond hair and electric pink stands out in the dark of the club, the potent combination of skin and alcohol seeming to cause money to flow even more freely than usual. I carefully scan the crowd, searching for the familiar head of disheveled hair amongst the crowd, a small pang of regret in my stomach as I fail in my task.
The closing strains of Evol Intent's remix of 'Hipster Girl' blast through the speakers over the hoots and hollers of a very appreciative crowd. Alice, a tiny slip of a girl, her thin to the extreme frame tattooed and pierced to perfection, hops down off the pole like a naked and inked version of Mary Lou Retton, gathers up both tips and scattered articles of clothing, giving me a quick wink as she dashes by, goose bumps evident on her milky skin despite the heat from the lights on the stage. It's only slightly warmer than a meat locker in the club, supposedly the cold contributes to an increase in alcohol sales, but it also encourages closeness, the exchange of body heat creating a false sense of intimacy in a world veiled with illusions and fake promises. In reality, that's all this place is, it's what we do: we fulfill dreams and fantasies, the ultimate plaything, a real life doll who would do nearly anything if the price is right. We make our livings, such as they are, leveraging a wife or a girlfriends 'no', with our 'maybe'. It's a classic feint, and one I learned very early on, still young, and relatively pure and new to this life: never say no.
I'm pulled out of my reverie by the Deejay's incredibly unctuous voice introducing me, just seconds before The Glitch Mob remix of 'Seven Nation Army' roars through the speakers and I step out onto the stage. My body moves instinctively to the music, each step perfectly rehearsed and executed. It's easy to lose myself in the music, the comfort of the stage offering a strange bliss as I move, the cool steel pole serving as both a partner and a stabilizer. One song quickly bleeds into another, the cheers from the crowd increasing in volume as the amount of clothing I'm wearing decreases, the green bills springing forth from the black G-string like a haphazard ruffle.
It what seems like a blink, the music and the blinding spotlight dims as I gather the tips that have fallen to the stage before striding purposefully off of it, the usual high from preforming dimmed slightly by the overly drunk and rowdy crowd and, more to the point, the fact that I have yet to see that familiar face in the crowd.
Nearly running up the stairs, I quickly redress and sort my tips as best I can. My mind's racing and I want nothing more than to get back out on the floor. My needis almost feral as I wind my cash into my garter, and head for the VIP area, where I had last spotted my target. The strobe lights are on and my preternaturally white skin sparkles in the darkness. Narrowing my eyes, I clench my fists lightly in frustration as I weave through the crowd, the mingling of perfume, alcohol and stale cigarette smoke nearly overwhelming as the crowd thickens. Growling low in frustration, I make my way out of the throng of people and stop next to a seldom used exit not far from my hiding place earlier in the evening. I narrow my eyes and scan the floor as best as I can to no avail, frowning as I descend the stairs yet again into the velvety darkness of the perimeter of the main floor.
The music shifts once again and I fight the smile that forms on my lips as the familiar woman's voice weaves expertly with the heavy bass. 'So serious, all the time, I feel restrained, I feel confined, I can not take your whispering, your whispering…' The words are familiar and my hips shift in time to the beat as the hairs on my neck stand up. I can feel him, I just can't see him. He's here, and close, but where? My unspoken question is quickly answered as a strong, cold hand closes around my wrist, giving a sharp pull. The nearby door gives way and the heavy air inside the club is quickly replaced with the cold of a late October night. A muscled forearm presses me against the jagged brick of the building and I fight to quell the spark of excitement that races through me as my eyes search for his, the ones I had been searching for all evening. For an instant, it's utterly silent, the music cut off as the door clicked shut, as our gazes lock, his golden eyes dancing in the dim light as they lock with my own crimson ones, the slightest cock of an eyebrow the only movement for one, two, three seconds before my gaze drops and I lean forward, nipping at the exposed skin of his neck teasingly, my teeth scraping across the cool skin, the gesture rewarded with a low growl and a voice that's equal parts honey and gravel in my ear.
"A vampire, darlin'? That's new. I fully approve. A far cry from the usual cutesy costumes." The arm across my chest drops, hand resting on my hip as I grin.
"I had a feeling you might Jasper, just a bit of one. Besides, I wanted to lose myself for once." My tone is teasing as I drop my hand to the waistband of his jeans and give a gentle tug.
"Isabella, you're gonna get yourself in trouble if you keep that up." Jasper's warning is issued with a soft chuckle, his warm breath brushing over my ear.
Arching a brow, I meet his eyes again, wiggling out of the small space between his warm body and the cold wall, twining my fingers with his as I head around the corner toward the darkness around the back of the building. "That is kind of my plan, Sugar." My smile sweet as I push my husband firmly against the cold wall, dropping to my knees on the cracked asphalt as the faint lyrics drift from a window above.
"I wanna dance without you, for once just let me lose myself…"
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