* LAP+DANCE *
"I don’t want to go.”
"Doesn't matter.” Ymir, never the most subtle of individuals, even at the best of times, drapes herself over the back of Reiner’s chair, crossing her arms and resting her pointed chin on them. They’re covered with ratty, unraveling sweater sleeves at the moment, but Reiner knows that underneath the slowly dying stitches she’s covered with ink, her tattoos winding and crawling up and down both arms. Some of the work is her own, of which she’s very proud. “You’ve been cooped up here for months, it’s time for you to get out there and shake your tail feathers again.”
Reiner grimaces. “I’m not wearing that peacock outfit again.” He’d found glitter all over his house and in his ass cracks for weeks after that Pride parade.
Ymir glowers at him. “First of all, that peacock outfit is a work of art, and you better not talk shit about it again. And secondly, that was metaphorical, not literal.”
The peacock outfit is a work of art, but that really isn’t the point here. Reiner glowers right back, refusing to be bullied in his own home, and shakes his head. “I’m not going to a strip club.”
“But we’re worried about you.” Historia emerges from the bathroom, where she’d been fixing a hairstyle that hadn’t needed fixing, and Reiner can feel his resistance start to wilt. He and Ymir frequently get along like oil and water, but they can both agree on one thing: they’d do anything for Historia, especially when she widens her eyes and deliberately, purposefully, makes herself look as cute and sad as she can.
Which is quite a bit.
“You haven’t gone out in such a long time.” Historia settles herself right next to Reiner, pressing up against the side of his arm, and Reiner has to bite his cheek to keep from grinning when Ymir bristles. He and Historia had tried to have something together, back in the dark and long forgotten days of high school, but it had ended in a flurry of self-discovery and teenaged drama. If Reiner was in the market for a beard, Historia would be an excellent, parent-pleasing choice, but he isn’t, and neither is she. They’re long past the point of pretending to be something they aren’t for the sake of parental approval. “You just spend all your time cooped up in here, watching ESPN.”
“Sometimes I watch HBO.” Reiner particularly likes Game of Thrones, even if he does find it rather fan-servicey for the straight male.
Ymir guffaws rudely. “Not the point, bro.”
Historia frowns, putting a line in the skin of her porcelain forehead, and leans harder against Reiner’s arm. He knows she’s trying to get him to put his arm around her, and damn if he’s not tempted. He’s always had a weakness for wanting to protect people, and Historia knows how to push all his buttons. He deliberately keeps his arm clamped tight to his side. “No, that’s not the point. We’re worried about you.”
Damn it, there it is. Reiner hates making people worry about him; there are so many other, more important things to worry over. “I’m fine. You know that. I’m fine.”
What’s there to worry over? He has a good job, a nice apartment, and he sends money home every month. His mother says she’s proud of him, and he gets to see Gabi a couple of times a month. Sure, he’d like to get a dog, but who has time for that, these days? The last living thing besides himself to reside in his apartment was a plant, and it slowly strangled to death from lack of water before he remembered it was there.
Maybe he’s better off not getting a dog.
Ymir rolls her eyes, and Historia makes a soft, questioning sound in the back of her throat.
“What? I am,” Reiner insists, and then closes his mouth; when you have to start insisting you’re fine, that’s usually an indication that you’re not.
“Look, we’re not asking for your firstborn gay ass baby here.” Ymir launches herself over the back of the chair, landing with a plop in its seat. “We just want you to come to a strip club with us.”
Historia presses ever more insistently into him, putting his shoulder to sleep, and with a sigh, Reiner gives in and puts his arm around her. He’s only doing it to keep his hand from getting all tingly, he tells himself, and completely ignores how damn good it feels to have someone snuggled against him. “I don’t have to get a lap dance, do I?”
He’s picturing a straight man’s strip club, full of glitter and booze and deafening, thumping music, all jiggling fake tits and flat, thrusting crotches. Which, hey, if that’s what Historia and Ymir want to go see, then fine, he’ll tag along if it’ll get them off his case. He just doesn’t want to make some poor stripper try to get a rise out of him and fail miserably; there’s nothing sadder than a woman working her hardest to get his attention and completely missing the mark.
Ymir grins wickedly. “We promise we won’t make you get a lap dance from anyone you’re not interested in.”
Reiner sighs, and Historia squeaks happily, burrowing into his shoulder, recognizing the sound of acquiesce.
“All right, fine. But no lap dances.”
~*~
It isn’t until too late that Reiner realizes the flaw in his wording. Anyone you’re not interested in would work fine, under normal circumstances; it would eliminate ninety percent of the strippers in the world. Of course, Historia and Ymir know this, and found a loophole.
Reiner looks at the banner draped over the strip club’s door, loudly proclaiming LADIES NIGHT, and feels his soul die a little at a time.
“Yeah!” Ymir is undaunted by the prospect of lots of scantily clad men around her, and waves her beer stein over her head. “Let’s see some dicks!”
A bachelorette party group next to them titters, the bride’s face flushed and excited, and Reiner sinks a little lower in his chair. He’s the only man in the room.
Historia looks at him and frowns, biting her lower lip. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” This is fine. He can handle this. They’ll watch the show, Ymir will have her fun, and then he can go home. Maybe if he’s lucky, Reiner will be able to catch the end of tonight’s football match; it’s streaming from Germany, so he should be okay.
Historia glances at Ymir, who’s decided to start chatting with one of the bachelorette ladies—they all look impossibly young, almost Gabi’s age, and that breaks Reiner’s heart a little—then sidles up closer to him. “Are you really okay?”
Reiner gives her a big, jaw-splitting grin and sits up straighter. Fake it till you make it, and he’s not faking it very well right now. “Fine. Great. This’ll be fun!”
Historia looks like she wants to say more, but then the lights go down, the music gets louder, and whatever she had in mind is lost in a cacophony of hooting and squealing. Reiner pats Historia’s shoulder, still grinning, and points towards the stage as the first of the performers come out.
The show isn’t… it isn’t bad, exactly; the ladies in the audience certainly enjoy it, especially the young bride-to-be, who gets pulled up on the stage at one point for a lap dance from two guys at once. The performers are handsome enough, and their moves are choreographed and engaging to watch. That’s all it is, though: a modern, vaguely skeezy version of ballet with minimal costuming, and Reiner finds his attention wandering. He even gets up and excuses himself at one point, when a performer who’s long and lean, with a narrow face and a shock of brightly dyed blond hair, gets his own moment on the stage; there’s a lot Reiner can tolerate, but he doesn’t want to watch that.
He comes back just as the first show is ending and the lights are slowly brightening, and the club smells like sweat and alcohol and fun that other people are having as Reiner slides into his seat next to Historia. He’s about to ask if they can leave when Ymir slides a cheaply printed paper menu in front of him. “Which one do you want?”
Reiner takes one look at the menu and tries to shove it back to her. “You said I didn’t have to get a lap dance.”
“I said you didn’t have to get a lap dance from anyone you’re not interested in.” Ymir looks smug, knowing she has him in her crosshairs. “You’re going to tell me you’re not interested in any of these guys?”
“No.” Reiner keeps trying to push the menu back to her. “I don’t want one.”
“Ymir, maybe we should…” Historia starts, but Ymir shakes her head, glaring fiercely at her girlfriend.
“He’s getting a lap dance tonight, and if he won’t pick one, then I’ll do it for him.” Ymir scoops up the menu and starts perusing it. “What was the one guy’s name, the one that looked like Je…”
“No!” Reiner snatches the menu out of her hands so quickly that she hisses and draws her fingers to her chest, nursing a fresh paper cut. Reiner isn’t sorry; he’ll suffer a lot of indignities, but he won’t, absolutely will not, accept a lap dance from the stripper who looks like his ex. “If I choose one and get the damn lap dance, can we go?”
“Of course.” Ymir smiles sunnily and hands him a little golf pencil. “Pick your poison.”
Reiner takes the menu and barely glances at it before checking off one of the strippers and handing it back. It doesn’t matter who he chooses, as long as it’s not the one who looks like Jean, and as long as the dancer’s little gimmick that’s supposed to be sexy isn’t dressing like a cop. The one he chose was bare-chested, with slicked back hair, and he figures that’s good enough.
“All right!” Ymir waves down a waitress, who comes and takes the menu with a smile. “One champagne room special for my guy here!”
Reiner sinks into his chair again and throws back the rest of his drink, wishing it wasn’t so watered down. He ignores Historia’s attempts to engage him in nervous conversation as they wait, and even goes so far as to swipe her drink and down it, even as the sugary syrup in it makes him want to gag. It’s not her fault, he knows—this has the stamp of Ymir all over it—but she’s been complicit, and needs to know it.
Reiner doesn’t look up until he hears a new voice, one throaty and masculine, from the side of their table.
“Good evening, ladies.” The bachelorette group giggles beside them, and Reiner feels like he’s descended into the sixth level of hell. “Which one of you beauties wants to party?”
Historia starts to speak, but Ymir butts in in front of her. “This guy, actually,” she tells the stripper, dropping a stingingly hard slap on Reiner’s shoulder, and Reiner dares to look up for the first time.
The performer doesn’t immediately stand out as anything spectacular, in Reiner’s opinion. He’s of average height and build—maybe a little more cut than normal, but not overwhelmingly so—with broad cheekbones and a slightly turned up nose that might have been cute when he was younger but now looks kind of silly. The only things that stand out about him are his hair—a reddish blond, too subtle with its highlights to be anything but natural—and his costume: a simple pair of black, boy-cut shorts that offer far more coverage than the other performers’ g-strings and assless chaps, making him look almost modest by comparison. He also has, Reiner notices, a slight reddish fuzz on his chest and growing in a line that disappears into his shorts, noticeably different from the other performers’ waxed and buffed hairlessness, and the tiniest spark of curiosity fires in Reiner’s chest.
The performer is looking at him quizzically, but when Reiner meets his eyes, he breaks into a wide, slightly devilish grin. “All right, then. What’s your name, big guy?” And he offers his hand to Reiner.
Reiner takes it, and the performer hoists him to his feet with a tug that’s a lot stronger than Reiner expected. He stumbles a little as he stands up, and the performer catches him, putting a hand on his chest to steady him.
It’s the first time anyone has touched him there since Jean left.
“His name is Reiner,” Historia supplies helpfully, as Reiner tries to answer and finds his vocal cords frozen.
“All right, Reiner.” The performer thumps him on the chest, hard enough to startle Reiner out of his daze, and then lets him go. “My name is Jaws, and…” He pointedly looks Reiner up and down, one red-gold eyebrow rising suggestively, and Reiner’s mouth is suddenly dry. “And I think I’m going to need a bigger load.”
It is, objectively, a terrible line. It’s cheesy, and not even remotely sexy, and it even has Ymir raising her eyebrows and making a gagging noise to Historia. So Reiner has no idea why it makes him suddenly bark laughter, to the surprise of everyone around them, or why it makes him thaw out a little and nod at the performer. “Do you bite, Jaws?”
Jaws’ grin widens, and he beckons to Reiner with one finger. “Sure, but it costs extra.”
Ymir’s arm snakes past Reiner’s shoulder and shoves a fifty dollar bill in Jaws’ face. He takes it without a word, makes it disappear in his briefs—which suddenly seem a lot shorter and more risqué than Reiner had first appreciated—and then turns and walks away, expecting Reiner to follow.
It’s Historia who pushes on the small of Reiner’s back, her hands tiny but insistent. “Go!” She giggles softly. “He’s cute, I like him.”
As Reiner gets his feet moving, he hears Ymir comment, “Yeah, but he’s a ginger. That means he doesn’t have a soul.”
“Ymir!”
“What? That’s science!”
“It is not!”
The sound of their bickering fades as Reiner follows Jaws through the club; Jaws is shorter than he is, but that hair is like a beacon, leading Reiner on as Jaws weaves deftly and swiftly through the crowd. They go to the back of the club, where tatty, fake velvet curtains separate the champagne rooms from prying, curious eyes, and Jaws stops there, waiting for Reiner to catch up.
“Now,” he says, once Reiner joins him, “you don’t really seem like the kind of guest that wants a cowboy or policeman or firefighter theme, do you?”
Reiner shakes his head; he’s definitely not interested in any of those, especially not the policeman.
“Didn’t think so.” Jaws’ eyes move up Reiner’s chest to settle on his face, and Reiner realizes they’re a bright, grayish shade of hazel. “You’re too classy for shit like that, huh?”
That sounds almost accusatory, and Reiner shakes his head again. “I’m not classy.”
“The hell you’re not.” Jaws’ hand strikes out, catching the tip of Reiner’s tie and flipping it up over his shoulder. “You wore a tie? Here? What’re you trying to prove?”
Reiner gestures back behind himself, in the general direction of his vacated table. “They didn’t give me time to change.”
Jaws studies him for a moment more, then shrugs. “Sure, whatever. Don’t know why you’re here if you can afford anything better, but that’s not my problem.” That flash of a grin again, the sudden return of cockiness. “Besides, I’m the best money can buy.”
Reiner only has a moment to ponder that statement before Jaws is pulling back a dove gray curtain and gesturing to the room behind it. “Go on. Go have a seat.”
The room is done up simply, but relatively tastefully. It’s all muted, neutral colors, nothing bright or showy, and the chair in the middle of it is simple, black cane work. Reiner goes and sits down, spreading his knees a little and watching Jaws.
The performer closes the curtain, securing it in place with some velcro, then flips a little switch on the wall. No lights come on, so Reiner assumes it’s to let everyone outside know that this room is occupied. Then the performer hangs his head for a moment, his back to Reiner, and Reiner watches as tension creeps up Jaws’ back, the muscles going temporarily rigid. He has a sudden, hideous premonition: what if Jaws is straight? Most male strippers are, he knows, and the absolute last thing he needs to deal with tonight is straight panic. He opens his mouth, about to call the whole thing off, but then Jaws turns around.
The tension is gone; Jaws’ whole demeanor has changed, and it’s like Reiner is seeing a different person. His posture is cocky, almost arrogant with the way he’s got one hip jutted to the side, and that grin on his face can only be described as shit-eating. “Now, we’ve got a few rules here, big guy, so listen up.”
Reiner is listening, and Jaws starts slowly shimmying closer. “Number one: don’t touch the merchandise. You’re going to be tempted, because I’m just that good, but don’t do it. In fact, hands on your knees where I can see them, right now.”
There is no question of not obeying; Reiner’s hands clench in loose fists on his knees, and Jaws nods approvingly. “Number two: it’s over when I say it’s over. If you want to pay for more time, we can do that, but if you start being creepy, I walk. Understood?”
“Understood.” Reiner’s voice is breathy and soft, and he wonders when he started feeling coiling knots of tension in his gut.
“All right. And number three…” And suddenly Jaws is up in Reiner’s space, hands on his shoulders and arms straight out, leaning in and over Reiner’s face, forcing him to tilt his neck back. “Number three is to have fun.”
Reiner barely has time to register how close Jaws has gotten before he’s spinning away, and the lap dance begins in earnest.
Jaws moves with a sinuous, natural grace, the kind that can’t be taught by even the most diligent ballet instructor, and he’s a lot more flexible than he looks. He proves that again and again, with his ankles ending up propped on Reiner’s shoulders more often than Reiner’d have thought possible, and his hips moving in ways that would make Reiner’s pop and groan. There’s a little of the typical lap dance bump and grind, but it’s mostly Jaws’ graceful, energetic dancing, and Reiner is transfixed. He’s never seen anyone move like this, feral and refined at the same time, and his throat goes dry, his heart starts hammering in his chest, and it gets harder and harder to keep his hands on his knees. Jaws, the little shit, seems all too aware of the effect he’s having on Reiner, and the grin keeps stretching wider, the confidence growing, and the dance starts changing, starts becoming more deliberately provocative, until he’s practically in Reiner’s lap, his hands on Reiner’s shoulders and his fuzzy chest just scant inches from Reiner’s face, and Reiner realizes dully that he has an erection for the first time he can remember.
The music ends abruptly, and so does the dance, with Jaws very nearly pressed against Reiner’s chest, his muscular thighs pressing in on either side of Reiner’s hips, and his lips so close that Reiner can feel him panting on his cheek. They freeze like that, with Reiner’s hands still on his knees like a good boy, and Jaws flashes him a bright, prideful grin, like he knows exactly what he's done to Reiner, before abruptly clamoring off.
“You’ve been a blast, big guy,” he says cheerfully, walking back to the curtain and pulling the velcro loose with the loud ripping sound of rendered fantasies, “but this is where you get off.” He looks over his shoulder and drops a wink that somehow manages to be both lewd and endearing at the same time. “Just not in here, though, because then I’d have to clean it up.”
Reiner blinks a couple of times, and the world slowly starts spinning on its axis again. “Right,” he says, and flexes his hands on his knees a couple of times. “Right.”
He gets up, and walks stiffly towards the curtained door. Jaws stops him by holding up a hand, and Reiner jerks to a halt, surprised and somehow wondering, somehow hopeful… until Jaws simply reaches out and untucks Reiner’s shirt, pulling it out and over his crotch, hiding the noticeable bulge there.
“Don’t want to offend the ladies.” And with a pat to Reiner’s ass, Jaws shoos him out and closes the curtain behind him.
Reiner wanders through the club, which seems much more crowded and noisy than it had been before, and would have walked right past their table if Historia hadn’t reached out and caught his wrist.
“Reiner!” She stands up, barely reaching the level of Reiner’s chest, and tugs on his shirt, getting him to bend down so she can look him in the eye. “Are you okay? You look all… drifty.”
“He’s fiiiiine!” Ymir pops up beside her, slinging an arm around Historia’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t check his underwear if I were you, but he’s fine!”
Reiner nods. “I’m fine. It’s okay.” It’s easier to agree than to try and describe what he doesn’t think he can even explain to himself.
Historia is unconvinced. “You didn’t drink anything in there, did you? He didn’t roofie you, did he?”
“Roofie… oh god, Historia, this isn’t that kind of place! Reiner didn’t get roofied, he’s just turned on! Right?” And suddenly Ymir is plucking at the hem of Reiner’s shirt, her brows drawn down over her eyes. “Right, Reiner?”
It’s Ymir’s concern, more than anything, that snaps Reiner out of it, and he nods. With the motion, the world starts to bleed back in. “That’s it exactly.” He tries on a smile, and finds it fits his face. “I’m fine, just… that was intense, that’s all. Jaws is a good dancer.”
Ymir guffaws, and Reiner is touched by the relief he hears in it. “I bet he is!”
Historia takes one of Reiner’s hands in both of hers, and he realizes too late that his palms are slick with sweat. “Do you still want to go home?”
“You know, I think I do.” Reiner needs time to process what just happened, and he can’t do it here, with all the glitz and music and flesh on display. “I’m a little tired. It’s been a long week.”
Which is true, it has been, but really, he wants to go home and relive that lap dance in his head, and remember the feeling of Jaws pressed up in his lap. It means nothing, and he knows that; Reiner isn’t a fool, and he’s not about to assume that a stripper made a connection with a client. But he can’t pretend that that hadn’t gotten him hard for the first time in ages, and he has an urge to rub one out for the first time in months.
And he’s not going to do it in a strip club restroom. That would just be too sad for words, and a level he’s not willing to sink to.
Still, as they leave the club, Reiner looks over his shoulder, scanning the crowd for a swatch of reddish-gold hair. But Jaws is nowhere to be seen.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
{A/N}:
Hello po everyone sana nagustuhan nyu ang first chapter abang abang nalang po